It was a long time before I was satisfied with gazing at the grinning head, with its great teeth and holes in the upper jaw into which they seemed to fit as into a sheath. At last though I turned to the boy.
“We must take it home, Pomp,” I said.
“No,” he said, with a look of disgust. “Um quite dead now. Frow um into de ribber.”
“Oh no! I want my father to see it, and Morgan.”
“We go an’ fess um den.”
“No, no. You must carry it home.”
“No, too heaby, Mass’ George, and um begin to ’tink.”
I laughed, for Pomp was beginning to show his natural disinclination for work, though certainly the hideous head did send forth an unpleasant, musky odour. So long as an exciting task was on hand which interested him, Pomp would work most industriously; but over anything plodding and approaching drudgery he was laziness itself.
“I frow um in de ribber, or you frow um in, Mass’ George.”
“Neither,” I said. “It must be carried home.”