“I’ll break poor ole Pomp’s head if he bothers me any more,” I cried, sulkily, as I once more leaned over the fence and began kicking off some of the dry mud which still adhered, though the leafage above it was clear and green.
I heard Pomp draw in his breath hard, and he gave his bare foot a stamp on the ground.
“You want poor ole Pomp go drown self?”
“Yes,” I said, sourly.
“Pomp go jump in de ribber.”
“Go on then.”
“You nebber see poor ole Pomp, nebber no more.”
“Don’t want to.”
“Oh, Mass’ George!—oh, Mass’ George!”
These words came so piteously that all my ill-humour gave way to pity for the boy, who was as affectionate as he was passionate by nature; but his next words hardened me, and I stood fast, trying to hide my mirth as he broke out in a lachrymose way, pitying himself.