“Dah!” he exclaimed, gleefully. “Dat make um laugh, and de fly come in an’ out, an’ um no snap at um no more.”
“But don’t I tell you that I want them to see it at home. Sarah would like to see it too.”
“Eh? Oh, no, Mass’ George,” cried Pomp, excitedly, and beginning to imitate poor Sarah’s sharp acid way so accurately that I roared with laughter. For every tone of her voice—every gesticulation—was exactly true to nature.
“‘What!’” he cried; “‘what you mean, you nast’ black young rascal, bring dat ting in my clean kitchun? I get hold ob you, I box your ears. How dah you—how dah you! Take um away—take um away!’ Dat what Misses Sarah say.”
“But we will not take it into her clean kitchen, Pomp. We’ll put it on that pine-stump at the bottom of the garden.”
“Oh, no, Mass’ George. Sun shine on um, and de fly come on. Make um ’mell horrid.”
“Oh, that will soon go off,” I said. “Come, let’s get back. Wait till I’ve loaded again though. Here, give me the powder and a bullet. We might see something else.”
“Eh?”
“I said give me the powder and a bullet. Halloa! Where’s the ammunition?”
“Eh? Now where I put dat amnisham, Mass’ George? I dunno.”