"Look here, old fellow," said Sir Harry, "why shouldn't we give up civilisation, and go in for the mud—I mean blood—baths in South Africa?"
I fairly jumped at his words.
"Nothing I should like better. And you, Bong?"
Bong is so overpoweringly frivolous.
"I'll go, because I am getting fat."
"Shut up, Bong," said Sir Harry, and then we screamed at the witticism for three hours. After that we started for Africa, in search of the land of the White-eyed Kaffirs, which we believed to be somewhere south of the Westminster Aquarium, the Alhambra, and other Music-Halls in which a specimen of the race had occasionally been seen.
On our arrival in Africa we found our old friend, Umbugsoapygas, with his huge battle-axe (playfully called Kosikutums or "the brain-pricker," from a habit he had of chipping life out of a man's cranium), awaiting us. He was a huge savage, with a large piece of loose skin concealing the right side of his face, which was absolutely boneless. Umbugsoapygas was delighted to see us.
"O cove, O cove-dat-am-cool!"—(Oh individual, oh individual without the influence of passion!)—"brave one, great one! Let me come with thee to swim in gore!"
I let him say this, as I saw his enthusiasm was producing a marked effect upon the minds of some niggers that were listening to him. But after he had said it, I thought it better to stop his vapouring; for there is nothing I hate so much, as this Zulu system of extravagant praising—"zwaggering," as they call it.