“Poor lil nigger! Oh dear, dear, poor lil black nigger slave! Nobody care dump poor ole Pomp!”
Then there was a long pause.
“You want Pomp go drown self, Mass’ George?”
“Yes,” I said. “Mind you don’t get wet.”
“Eh?”
“I say, go and have a good dry drown.”
“How you do dat all?”
“I don’t know. Be off.”
“Poor ole Pomp! De ’gators eat um all up like lil yam.”
“Ha—ha—ha—ha—ha!” I burst out, for I could contain myself no longer. The comparison to the “lil yam” was too much for me, and as I faced round, good-humoured once more, and ready to go and bathe or do anything with the boy who was my only companion, he showed his teeth at me fiercely, made a run, jumped over the fence into the garden, and I saw him dash down the middle path toward the forest as hard as he could go.