“Auntie will faint if she does not get water,” said Sadie. “Oh, Mr. Stephens, is there nothing we could do?”
The Dervishes riding near were all Baggara with the exception of one negro—an uncouth fellow with a face pitted with small-pox. His expression seemed good-natured when compared with that of his Arab comrades, and Stephens ventured to touch his elbow and to point to his water-skin, and then to the exhausted lady. The negro shook his head brusquely, but at the same time he glanced significantly towards the Arabs, as if to say that, if it were not for them, he might act differently. Then he laid his black forefinger upon the breast of his jibbeh.
“Tippy Tilly,” said he.
“What’s that?” asked Colonel Cochrane.
“Tippy Tilly,” repeated the negro, sinking his voice as if he wished only the prisoners to hear him.
The Colonel shook his head.
“My Arabic won’t bear much strain. I don’t know what he is saying,” said he.
“Tippy Tilly. Hicks Pasha,” the negro repeated.
