“No, no; you’re not hurt much, Pomp. There, get up, we can’t get the hut back; and you know father said a new and better one was to be built. We’ll set this one up here and make a summer-house of it, to come to when I’m shooting.”
“Eh! What a summer-house?”
“That will be.”
“No; dat hut; massa say dat hut.”
“But we’ll make it into a summer-house.”
Pomp shook his head and looked puzzled.
“Pomp find de hut, and Massa George say um summer-house. ’Pose um find de boat ’ticking in tree, dat be summer-house too?”
“No, no, you old stupid,” I cried. “But, I say, Pomp,” I continued, as the thought occurred to me that this might be possible, and that the boat had not gone down the stream to the river, and from thence out to sea.
“What Mass’ George say?” cried the boy, for I had stopped to think.
“Wait a minute,” I cried. Then, after a few moments’ thought—