“Dah,” he said, “now you carry dat end, I carry dis end. Dat end nice an’ tin for Mass’ George.”
“Why, you cunning young rascal,” I said, “you want me to carry the dirty wet end, do you?”
Pomp grinned, and broke off some thick leaves to carefully clean the sullied end, chuckling merrily the while.
“Um was horrid nassy, Mass’ George,” he said. “Now all right.”
I took up and shouldered the gun, and then seizing one end of the pole, we marched triumphantly back with our grisly trophy, accompanied by quite a cloud of flies which kept up a tremendous humming noise.
I went first, and easily found the spot where the ammunition had been set down by Pomp in his excitement; and after he had thrown the pouch-straps over his shoulder and I had decided not to load again, as we were going straight home, we prepared for a fresh start.
“Mass’ George like to come dis end?” said Pomp.
“No,” I said; “I’ll go first;” and we went on till Pomp began to grunt and shudder.
“What’s the matter?” I said, looking back.
“Poor Pomp get all de ’mell ob de head dis end.”