“Lil bit do, Mass’ George.”
“No, it wouldn’t.”
“Off!”
“Here, what’s the matter? What do you mean?” I cried, as he threw himself down on the moss, and kept on drawing up his legs as if in agony, and kicking them out again like a frog.
“Nebber tink Mass’ George such coward.”
“I’m not, sir. Why?”
“Cut great big ’tick like dat to beat poor lil nigger like Pomp.”
“Lil nigger like Pomp!” I cried, mockingly; “why, you’re as big as I am. Get up, you great tar-coloured stupid.”
“No, no, Mass’ George; hit um lyem down, please; not hurt so much.”
“Get up!” I shouted; and I poked him in the ribs with the end of the pole.