“Den what for cut um tree?”
“To see whether the water is rising or going down.”
“Not do nuffum,” said the boy, eagerly. “’Top so.”
“Yes, he is right,” said my father, who had been higher up the tree, trying to get a glimpse in the direction of the settlement, in the hope of help in the shape of a boat being on the way. “The flood seems to have reached its highest point, and we may begin to hope that it will go down now.”
But the hours glided by and there was no help, and no sign of the flood sinking. Pomp was quite right; it did “’top so,” and we began to suffer keenly from hunger.
We had long got well warm in the sunshine, and the thirst we felt was easily assuaged, though there was very little temptation to partake of the turbid water; but our sensations of hunger grew apace, and I saw that while we white people sat there about the fork of the tree, trying to bear our sufferings stoically, both the blacks were in constant movement, and they had always something to say, Hannibal confining his remarks however to his son.
“Look, look!” cried Pomp, excitedly; “dah um fis. No got hookum line, no got net.”
He shook his head despondently, evidently quite oblivious of the fact that even with hook and line he had no bait, and that it was impossible to use a net.
Then he was off up the tree, first ascending one great bough and then another, to lean out, staring away between the twigs in search of something, but he always came down again looking quite disconsolate.
“What have you been looking for?” I said on one of these occasions.