"Zack, do you understand that?" Spottiswoode turned and asked.
"Yas suh, Cunnel, yas suh. Side specify a lot o' stuff like dat; but Lordee, Cunnel, I never pays no 'tention to nigger news."
"The Sultan is going to give you a present."
"Who? You mean dat kinky-headed nigger over yonder, wid dem short panties on? Huh!"
"Yes. He's a Big Ike."
"I don't care how big he is, he ain't got nothin' what fits me." But Old Reliable began to take notice, "What you reckin he gwine to gimme?"
"Can't tell yet. Your present hasn't come off the Christmas tree. Maybe it'll be a red-faced monkey, or a giraffe."
Zack turned away in disgust. "Cunnel, you-all oughter be 'shamed, makin' pleasure wid me."
The stolid McDonald had already gone to his cabin for the official raiment. Lyttleton paused a moment, laughed at Zack's blank face, and added, "Maybe, he'll send you a nice fat slave."
"Mister, what you reckin' I could do wid a lazy nigger hangin' on to me, eatin' his head off?"
Lyttleton raised his hand, "Sh-sh! Hear the music? Ambassadors are mustering on the Sultan's barge! Hurry up, Zack! Put on your dry clothes—quick."
They were none too quick. Lyttleton Bey of the Anglo-Egyptian service wheeled into a com-
