He was red-haired, ferret-eyed, and an excellent scout, but scrappier and more inarticulate in his manner of speech than any human being I had ever encountered.
His conversation was a series of rapid interjections, jerked out at intervals, and made comprehensible by a running play of gesture and attitude.
"Well, yes," he said, when I tried to draw him out on the Matabele mode of fighting.

"Not on the open.

Never! Grass, if you like.

Or bushes.

The eyes of them! The eyes!..." He leaned eagerly forward, as if looking for something.