But there were bits of pig-skin
stewed in oil; bean-cakes; steaming buns of wheat-flour, stuffed with
dice of fat pork and lumps of sugar; three-cornered rice puddings,
_no-me_ boiled in plantain-leaf wrappers; with the last of the whiskey,
in green cups. While the two men ate, the shriveled outcast beamed
timidly, hovering about them, fidgeting.
"Herr Hackh," he suddenly exclaimed, in a queer, strained voice, "you do
not know how dis yong man iss goot! No! He hass to me--_immer_--" He
choked, turned away, and began fussing with the pith flowers; but not
before Rudolph had seen a line glistening down the sun-dried cheeks.
"Stuff! Cadging for chow, does one acquire merit?" retorted Heywood,
over his shoulder. "You talk like a bonze, Wutz." He winked. "I'd rather
hear the sing-song box."
"_Ach so_, I forget!" Still whimpering, Wutzler dragged something from a
corner, squatted, and jerked at a crank, with a noise of ratchets. "She
blay not so moch now," he snuffled. "Captain Kneepone he has gifen her,
when she iss all op inside for him. I haf rebaired, but she blay only
one song yet. A man does not know, Herr Hackh, what he may be.
Pages:
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80