“Saku bona, Umlungu,” came the guttural response, while the wavering rifle barrel slowly descended and the shriveled, stringy old throat worked convulsively. “Allemachtig—but I thort you wos that verdomde schelm—Short an’ Dirty—come a-nosin’ arahnd agin.”
Born and bred in the East End of London, thirty years on the South African veldt and ten in Canada, had not depreciated Tucker’s accent much, and his speech was a curious jargon of Afrikander, Cockney, and Western vernacular.
“H—l!” said the policeman irritably. “Is this th’ way yu’ greet yore friends these days? Been gettin’ yore Dutch up, eh?—an’ early, at that. What’s th’ matter with Shorty? He’s all right! Wen wos ’e arahnd?”
“Yestiddy mornin’,” piped Tucker. “I tell yer I cawn’t abide that feller. I dahn’t like th’ looks of ’im an’ I ain’t a-goin’ to ’ave ’im come a-messin’ abaht ’ere ... ’e ain’t up ter no good. Whau!—I’ll skiet die verdomde schepsel,” he finished with a screech, and raising the rifle again.
“Here! Yu’ come across with that gun!” snapped the Sergeant. “Yu’ make me nervous. Come on now, Bob—let’s have it. D’yu’ hear?”
Alternately threatening and cajoling, he at length obtained the weapon and, jerking open the lever, pumped the magazine empty of shells. These he gathered up and put in his pocket.
“Got any more?” he inquired, ledging the rifle on some pegs.
The old man glowered at him silently, and pointed with a shaking finger to a cupboard, where a minute search produced two more packets of cartridges, which speedily joined the others.
“A man that’s dronk ain’t got no business monkey’n’ around with a gun,” remarked the policeman judicially.
“You’re a leugenaar” hiccuped Tucker indignantly. “I ain’t dronk.”