"
"A regular old brick, and no mistake! We'll drink his health."
It was drunk with full honours, after which Hyde, finding the party
inclined to be rather too noisy, got up to go.
"Here!" he cried out, "some of you. What have I got to pay? Hurry up,
my dusky duchess; I want to be off. Come, don't keep me waiting all
day," and he struck the table impatiently with his riding-whip.
Mother Charcoal's assistant, "the imp," ran up.
"How much?"
"One dollar: four shilling," said the lad, in broken English.
"There's your money!" cried Hyde, throwing it down, "and a 'bob' for
yourself. Stop!" he added. "Who and what are you? I have seen you
before."
The lad, a mere boy, frail-looking and slightly built, but with a
handsome, rather effeminate-looking face, tried to slink away.
"What's your name?" went on Hyde.
"Pongo," replied the boy.
"That's no real name. Smacks of the West Coast of Africa. Who gave it
you?"
"Mother Charcoal."
"What's your country? What language do you talk?"
"English."
"Monstrous little of that, my boy. What's your native lingo, I mean?
Greek, Turkish, Italian, Coptic--what?"
"Spanish," the boy confessed, in a low voice.
Hyde looked at him very intently for a few seconds; then, without
further remark, walked out with his French friend.
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