'Arriet (reflectively). I wonder if that little bit of 'air stickin' up grows out of that feller's 'ed like that. Look at all them little nippers runnin' about—(with an air of discovery)—I expect they belong to some of 'em.
[The Somalis perform a war-dance, which seems to consist in squatting down opposite one another in a double row, chanting "Razza-Ho! Ho-hoâ-ho-ho!" or words to that effect, while two of the party dodge between the ranks and cluck like poultry, after which all rise, knock their wooden shields together until they lose further interest in the affair, and stroll away satiated.
Mrs. Keyveve. Is that really their war-dance? It's very much the same as the marriage dance, isn't it?
Mr. Frivell (a contented bachelor). Yes; subtle beggars, these Somalis.
"There they are, yer see—Comin' 'Ome from Southend!"
'Arry (during the Sham Fight). 'Ark at one on 'em 'owlin' "Oo-oo-oo!" he's took bad agen! Good ole Mop 'Ed got one in that time! "Olla-olla-olla!"—he's sayin' the other bloke 'it 'im on the jor.
'Arriet. There's one keeps sayin' "Pudd'n" as plain as possible. There agen—"Pudd'n!" d'jear 'im? They orter bring that young Shazarder chap to see this; he'd feel at 'ome 'ere, among all these Injians, wouldn' 'e?
'Arry. They ain't Injians—they're Afrikins, didn't you know that much?
'Arriet. Oh, you're so partickler, you are!