I ceased laughing directly, and my mouth opened now with astonishment at the turn things had taken.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, sir,” cried Sarah; “and here have I been ill-using this poor boy because— Oh, Pompey, Pompey, Pompey!”
She caught him in her arms and gave him a motherly hug, while I stood amongst the trees speechless.
“Missie cry her eyes cos she whip Pompey?”
“Yes, my poor boy,” cried Sarah. “But his father shall know. Ah, you may well stop in hiding, sir; it’s a shame.” Then, ever so much louder, “It’s a shame!”
“Don’t ’cold Massa George, missie,” said Pompey. “Him nebber do nuffin.”
“Do nothing, indeed!” cried Sarah. “You come along in with me, and I’m very, very sorry I whipped you.”
“Pompey done mind, missie,” said the boy, showing his teeth.
“There, you’re a very good, forgiving boy,” said Sarah, as she caught up the uniform to take it in; “and I wish I could forgive myself.”
Then, catching Pomp by the arm, she led him into the house, from which he soon after returned with a corn-cake and half a pot of prime jam of Sarah’s own make.