“No, no,” I said, pettishly, for I was out of temper, hot and disappointed at not being able to go and hunt for the boat. Then I felt annoyed at having to stop at home when my father had gone to the settlement, and somehow that place had never seemed to attract me so much before.
“Father might have taken me,” I said to myself, as I thought of how beautiful the sugar-canes must be now, after the soaking and dressing they had had with the mud. Then, too, the Indian corn must be waving gloriously, and I longed to see slaves at work in the cotton-field.
“Father will be seeing all that,” I thought, “and it’s all nonsense about stopping and taking care of the place. I couldn’t do anything if there was a flood, or if the Indians came. I should have liked to go.”
All of which was very absurd and stupid, but I have known other boys think and talk in a similar way.
I went to the fence, and stood leaning over it, feeling more out of humour than ever, and I hit viciously at a fly or two which settled upon me.
Pomp was watching me all the time in a half puzzled way, and at last he broke out with—
“Mass’ George.”
“Don’t bother!”
Pomp drew back, took out the knife I had given him, picked up a piece of wood and began to cut it, while I stood kicking at the fence, and watching Morgan and old Vanity, as I mentally called him, busy at work cutting down the former’s deadly enemies, the weeds.
“Say, Mass’ George.”