“Ow! Ow!” yelled Pomp at every touch, and the more he shouted the more I laughed and stirred him up, till he suddenly sat up, drew his knees to his chest, put his arms round them, and wrinkling his forehead into lines, he looked up at me pitifully.
“Arn’t done nuff yet, Mass’ George?” he whimpered.
“Enough?” I cried. “Did you think I cut this great pole to whop you?”
“Yes, Mass’ George.”
“Why, it was to carry the head on, one at each end.”
“Oh!” cried Pomp, jumping up as if made of springs, and showing his teeth; “I knew dat a hall de time.”
“You wicked young story-teller,” I cried, raising the pole quarter-staff fashion, and making an offer at him, when Pomp dropped on his knees again, and raised his hands for mercy.
“Ah, you deserve it,” I said; “telling a fib like that.”
“Was dat a fib, Mass’ George?”
“Yes; you didn’t know it all the time.”