"But as for Andy Battle," went on the sailor, "he never were much struck at a foreign lingo. So, says I, Andy shall learn Master Pongo his'n. And here goes! That," said he, holding up a great piece of meat on his knife—"that's meat."
"'Zmeat—ugh!" said Nod, with a shudder.
"And this here's nuts," said Battle.
"'Znuts!" repeated Nod, rubbing his stomach.
Battle rapped on his log. "Excellentissimo!" he said. "He's a scholard born. Now, monkeys like you," he went on, looking into Nod's face, "if I make no mistake, the blackamoors calls 'Pongoes.'"
Nod shook his head.
"No? 'Njekkoes, then," said the sailor.
Nod shook his head again. "Me Mulla-mulgar, Pongo—Jecco"—he shook Ins head vehemently—"me Mulla-mulgar Ummanodda Nizza-neela."
The Oomgar laughed aloud. "Axing your pardon, then, Master Noddle Ebenezer, mine's Battle—Andrew, as which is Andy, Battle."
"Whizzizandy—Baffle," said Nod, with a jerk.