“Mass’ George get tire poor old Pomp?”
“Yes. Be off!”
“Mass’ George send poor old Pomp ’way?”
“Yes. Don’t bother. Can’t you see I don’t want you?”
“Wugh!” Pomp threw himself down on his face, and rested his forehead on his crossed arms.
“Don’t do that,” I said. “Get up, and be off, or I shall kick you.”
The boy sprang up with his eyes flashing, but they were full of tears, and this gave me satisfaction, for I was in that absurd state of mind when one likes to make others feel as uncomfortable as oneself.
“Mass’ George want poor ole Pomp to go away?”
“Yes,” I cried; “and don’t be so idiotic, you miserable little nigger, calling yourself ‘poor ole Pomp!’”
“Mass’ George break poor ole Pomp heart.”