“Den I go fess Mass’ Bruton here,” he cried, joyfully.
“No. Give me that axe.”
He took the little chopper out of his belt, and slowly and shrinkingly gave me the handle; then dropped on his knees, crossed his hands on his breast, and lowered his head.
“Don’ kill um dis time, Mass’ George. Pomp berry sorry such a lazy rascal.”
“Get up, and don’t to stupid,” I said, roughly. “Who’s going to kill you?” and looking round, I had soon found and cut down a stout young sapling, which I trimmed into a pole, Pomp watching me the while with a piteous expression on his countenance.
“There,” I said, when I had done, and provided myself with a stout pole about ten feet long.
“Oh! Ow!” burst forth Pomp in a terrified howl.
“What’s the matter now?” I cried in astonishment.
“Nebber tink Mass’ George such coward.”
“Eh? What do you mean?”