Chapter Twenty Two.
“Oh—ho—ho—ho—ho! What a lubbly bit fun!” cried Pomp, as soon as the danger had passed away.
“Why, Pomp!” I cried at last, fiercely, for I was too much astonished to speak at first.
But he was off along the bank, to stop opposite the smaller batch of reeds, where he stood with both his fists doubled, stamping his bare feet, and shouting a perfect torrent of abuse at the invisible enemy.
I caught a word here and there, words full of threats of what he would do to the “ugly ’gator, nex’ time.” But I was too much upset to shout till I had scrambled into my clothes, when I went sharply along the edge of the pool to where the boy was still shaking his fists, and abusing the reptile which had nearly scared him to death.
But there was another scare ready for Pomp. Indignation was hot within me, and I made my presence known by a smart kick with my bare foot which nearly sent him into the pool again, and a cuff on the side of the head which knocked him back.
“Oh—oh—oh! Don’t, Mass’ George,” he bellowed, as he dropped on his knees and held up his hands; “don’t flog um, Mass’ George. I nebber, nebber do so no more.”
“You rascal!” I cried, catching him by the ear. “How came you to play me that trick?”
“On’y for bit ob fun, Mass’ George; on’y for bit ob fun.”
“You dog!” I cried, shaking him.