The parrots and the dog seemed very friendly, the birds walking over him and making queer, low, croaking sounds, the dog lazily watching them walk over him and now and then wagging his tail.
One peculiarity about their talk, the pidgin English, was something like that of the Chinese coolies I had met in the West. They substitute the letter “l” for the letter “r” and the letter “b” for the letter “v.” They say “belly good” instead of “very good.”
“So,” finished the captain to the head man, the grandfather, “you go hunt some game and shoot some fish for us.”
“Uh huh, me go hunt um. Shoot paccu, shoot maam, anything. Bring ’long to you bime by.” And the Indians then paddled off and were lost to view around the curve of the river.
“Will they do it? Will they come and find us?” I asked.
“They certainly will, sir. They want the sugar and kerosene and other things we shall trade with them for the game.”