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.

The creature darted past him, blew out one candle, and thrust the other behind a bottle, so that he stood in a wedge of shadow.
"Eng-lish speak I ver' badt," he whispered; and then with something between gasp and chuckle, "but der _pak-wa_ goot, no?
When der live dependt, zo can mann--" He caught his breath, and trembled in a strong seizure.
"Good ?" whispered Heywood, staring.