“You—(bang!)—have taken—(bang!)—those clothes away. Where are they, sir?”
“Oh, don’t whip lil nigger, missie. No got no clothes on’y lil cotton drawers, an’ lil shirtums,” howled Pomp, as he was dragged into sight now, Sarah holding on tightly by one of his ears.
“And I say you have got them, sir. Nobody else could have taken them,” cried Sarah. “You wicked black magpie, you! Show me this instant where you have put them, or I don’t know what I won’t do.”
I knew what was coming; it was all plain enough. But no, not quite all; but I did see the dénouement to some extent, for, as Sarah dragged the boy forward, I could contain myself no longer.
“Oh don’t, missie!” howled the young dog.
“Oh, but I will,” cried Sarah. “I put poor master’s uniform on that rail to air, and—Well!”
“Ha—ha—ha—ha—ha!”
I never laughed louder in my life, as I burst forth into quite a yell, for there stood poor Sarah, with her mouth wide open, staring at the uniform hanging on the rail, and then at Pomp, who looked up at her with his face screwed up in mock agony, but his eyes twinkling with delight.
“Was dem a clothes you gone lose, missie?” he said, innocently; and Sarah panted and looked is my direction. “Dat Massa George brass out alarfin for you whip poor lil nigger nuffin tall.”
“Oh—oh—oh!” burst forth Sarah at last, hysterically; “it’s a shame—a cruel shame, Master George, to play me such a good-for-nothing trick.”