“Oh, yes,” I said; “I understand. Where’s Pomp?”
“Sleep. Dah! I call um.”
“No, no; let me,” I said, laughing.
I went into the hut, and there on the blanket in a corner, with his mouth wide open, lay the boy fast asleep.
It was so dark inside that I should not have been able to make him out but for the gleam of light from the window, which made his teeth just visible.
I stood looking down at him and listening to his breathing for a few moments, before slipping out of the hut, taking my knife from my pocket, and cutting a long twig which I stripped, all but a few leaves at the end. As I came back, Hannibal rose.
“Don’t whip, Mass’ George,” he said in a pleading whisper, as he laid his hand upon my arm.
“I was not going to,” I said, laughing, “only to tickle him.”
I saw the big African’s teeth gleam, and I stole back into the hut on tip-toe, thinking the while how marvellous it was that a great fellow like the black, who could have almost crushed me with one hand, should be so patiently submissive, and give up to me as he did.
But that thought passed away as I stood over Pomp and gently tickled him on one cheek. He moved restlessly, and I tickled the other with the leaves. He turned back again, and the end of the twig began to play about his neck. There was a quick rustle, one hand struck at the twig and Pomp rolled over upon his face. This gave me a good opportunity to titillate both sides of his neck, and he sprang round again.