“Wait till I wash um, Mass’ George. No; must wash umself fus. Here a mess.”
Pomp was about to jump into the pool to wash the mud from his legs, when he suddenly clapped his hands.
“Oh, here’s game, Mass’ George; only look. Dat’s ole ’gator’s house a water, where he keep all ’um lil pickaninny. Look at ’um.”
Sure enough, there were five or six small alligators at the far end—little fellows not very long out of the shell.
“Oh dear!” cried Pomp, “I very sorry for you poor fellows. Poor old fader got um head cut off. What, you no b’lieve um? Den look dah.”
He threw the great head into the pool with a splash, and then jumped in to stand up to his knees, washing it about till it was free from mud, and his legs too, when he dragged it out again on to the green moss, and we proceeded to examine the horrible jaws.
“Him much worse den Pomp.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mass’ Morgan and de capen say Pomp do lot o’ mischuff. Dat do more mischuff den Pomp.”
“Yes, I should think so,” I said, as I examined the dripping head, and saw plainly that my bullet must have gone right through the monster’s brain, probably only stunning it for the time being, and enough to give the boy time to hack off its head. For these creatures have an amount of vitality that is wonderful, and after injuries that are certain in the end to prove fatal, contrive to get back into the water and swim away.