Rusty, choked with earth, its butt smashed, its lock long gone, the two Mulgars stood with the gun between them.
"Oomgar's gun, Thumb?—Oomgar's?" grunted Nod at last.
Thumb opened wide his mouth, still panting and trembling.
"Noos unga unka, Portingal, Ummanodda. Seelem arggutchkin! Seelem! kara, kara! Seelem mugleer!"
And even as that last Seelem was uttered, and back to Nod's mind came that morning leagues, leagues away, and himself sitting on his father's shoulder, clutching the long cold barrel of the little Portingal's gun—even at that moment a faint halloo came echoing across the steeps, and, turning, the Mulla-mulgars saw climbing towards them between the trees Thimble and Ghibba. But not only these. For between them walked on high in a high, hairy cup, with a band of woven scarlet about his loins, and a basket of honeycombs over his shoulder, a Mulgar of a presence and a strangeness, who was without doubt of the Kingdom of Assasimmon.
... A MULGAR OF A PRESENCE AND A STRANGENESS, WHO WAS WITHOUT DOUBT OF THE KINGDOM OF ASSASIMMON.