“No, Mass’ George; not till you tell um. I tought you cut de big ’tick to whop poor nigger all black and blue.”
“Why, how could I?” and I roared with laughter as I looked at his shiny, ebony skin.
“Dunno, Mass’ George. Hit berry hard, make um bruisum all ober de body, same as you say when you tumble down—you say make um all black and blue.”
“There, come along,” I said; “let’s get the thing home. Phew! Look at the flies already.”
“Whish—whoosh—whoosh!” cried Pomp, breaking off a bough and sweeping it round. “Nebber mind, Mass’ George; fly keep on eat lit bit all de way home; not hab so much a carry.”
“But how are we to manage? Here, you must find some tough cane to lay the head on.”
“I know now,” cried Pomp, taking the pole.
“What are you going to do?” I said.
“Put um down um troat. So.”
As he spoke, he ran the pole through the open jaws and out at the neck, so that the head was safely swinging in the middle.