“Oh, Mass’ George, pull um out; got big forn in um back.”
It was quite true, and after I had relieved him of the spine, he ran to the biggest tree near, climbed up into the fork, and descended directly with his clothes, into which he slipped—not a long job, for he was by this time dry, and his garments consisted only of a short-sleeved shirt and a pair of cotton drawers, which came down to mid thigh.
“Now, look here, Mass’ George,” he cried, excitedly; “you’n me got to kill dat ’gator.”
“Yes,” I said, “I must lie in wait and shoot him.”
“I tink so. What did he come in young mass’ bath for? I go fetch um gun now.”
“No, no,” I said. “It would be no use.”
“No,” said Pomp, thoughtfully, and then showing his teeth; “too busy fryin’ um dinner. Oh, Mass’ George, what a bit ob fun!”
Pompey threw himself down, and laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks.
“I ten times—hund times more frightum than you, Mass’ George. I tought um catch dis nigger for sartum, an’ I felt so sorry for you, Mass’ George, dat I holler out loud.”
“Sorry for me?”