“Stop, sir.”
“You call, Mass’ George?”
“Come here, you young rascal!”
“Come dah, Mass’ George? No fess um here?” he said, coming slowly cringing up.
“No, sir. Now then, no nonsense; take hold of that head.”
Pomp stuck the handle of the axe into the band of his short cotton drawers, wiped a tear out of each eye, and took the hideous great head off the stump, looking at me reproachfully, as he bent with its weight.
“Is it very heavy?” I said.
“Kill poor boy carry um all dat way, Mass’ George.”
I stood the gun up against the nearest tree, and went to him and lifted the head, to find that it really was a pretty good weight.
“Yes,” I said, replacing it on the stump; “it is heavy, Pomp.”