ill me. He took me, and was kind to me, fed me and
shared his fire with me, and we were 'messimuts.' Yet all day, all
night, moon and no-moon, I have talked in myself with you, and run
looking for you in my dreams, while I slept in the hairless Oomgar's
hut. The Nameless is gone for a little while. The Oomgar is wise with
his hands and in little things. Now I may go. He kills only for meat,
Mulla-mulgars. He will do no harm to Ummanodda's brothers. Come over
with me!"

Thumb and Thimble, with toes a little turned in, and heads bent forward,
stood listening in the snow.

"Why, then," said Thumb, muttering, "if he kills only for food, and
relishes not his own flavour in the pot, let him hobble out here to us
now and greet us, like with like--Oomgar-mulgar with Mulla-mulgar--and
leave his spit-fire and his magic behind him. But into his hut, nor
stumbling among his Munza bones, we will _not_ go. And if he will not
come, brother to brother, then it is 'Gar Mulgar dusangee' between us
three, O youngest son of Seelem. Go back to your cooking-pots. I and
Thimble will journey on alone. All day would the Harp-strings be
twangling over Mulgars smelling of blood."

So Nod, cold with misery, went back to Battle, who sat yawning, gun on
knee, beside his fire.

"Oomgar!" he said, leaning a little on one small hand, and standing a
few paces distant from the sailor, "my brothers, the Mulla-mulgars, sons
of Seelem, brother of Assasimmon, Prince of the Valleys of Tishnar, are
here. They say Nod is not true, speaks lies, eater-of-flesh, no child of
Tishnar." He stared forlornly into Battle's face. "Tired of his living
is Nod now. Shoot straight with Oomgar Zbaffle's gun. Nod will be
still."

The Englishman crinkled up his eyelids, opened his mouth, and burst out
laughing.

"To tell ye sober truth, my son," he said, "bullets and powder Battle
haven't much left to waste. And what's lark-pie to a hungry sailor! As
for them hunched-up hobbagoblins over yonder, don't 'ee heed what envy
has to say. Battle is hands down on your side, my son, and let 'em
meddle if they dare! But mercy on us," he added under his breath, "what
wouldn't my old mother have said to hear these Pongoes chatter? 'Shoot
straight!' says he. 'Tired of his living!' says he. Button up your
sheep's-jacket, my son. We'll home to England yet. And, what's more"--he
waved his hand towards the lonely figures still standing motionless in
the silvery dusk--"Andy Battle's best