The man held a pannikin in one hand, and was offering it through the bars.
"Here, old boy.

Here old fellow," murmured the intruder, in a tone one adopts in propitiating strange dogs.
He shook the pannikin, and the Missing Link detected the familiar flavour of rum, good red-rum, bush rum.

Nickie sniffed again, and backed away, growling a low, guttural growl.

The Missing Link had a great tenderness for rum, the smell of it excited profound longings, but he wanted time to deliberate.

What was the game?
"These fellows have heard Thunder describing Mahdi's fondness for liquor," thought Nickie.