His eyes were cast down in a strange fashion, unlike
the bold, inquisitive peering of his countrymen,--the more strange, in
that he spoke harshly and abruptly, like a racer catching breath.
"I bring news." His dialect was the vilest and surliest form of the
colloquial "Clear Speech."--"One pair of ears, enough."
"You can speak and act more civilly," retorted Heywood, "or taste the
bamboo."
The man did not answer, or look up, or remove his varnished hat. Still
downcast and hang-dog, he sidled along the verge of the shadow, snatched
from the table the paper and a pencil, and choosing the darkest part of
the wall, began to write. The lamp stood between him and the company:
Heywood alone saw--and with a shock of amazement--that he did not print
vertically as with a brush, but scrawled horizontally. He tossed back
the paper, and dodged once more into the gloom.
The postscript ran in the same shaky hand:--
"Send way the others both."
"What!" cried the young master of the house; and then over his shoulder,
"Excuse us a moment--me, I should say."
He led the dwarfish coolie across the landing, to the deserted
dinner-table.
Pages:
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136