“Bodder!” I heard him mutter; but I persevered, making the twig play well about him.
“Bodder de fly!” he cried, viciously; but the twig tickled away, and Pomp’s eyes were so tightly closed that he contented himself with twisting and rubbing himself.
“Wait I get up, I mash all de ole fly eberywhere,” he muttered.
Tickle—tickle—tickle.
Slip slap. Pomp’s hands delivered a couple of blows on his bare skin.
Tickle—tickle—tickle.
“You no like me come mash you, eh?”
Tickle—tickle—tickle.
“Yah! You great ugly skeeter, you leave lil nigger go sleep.”
“Buzz—buzz—hum.” Tickle—tickle—tickle. I made as good an imitation as I could of a gnat’s hum, and kept up the tickling till he made two or three vicious lounges out at where I stood in the darkness, and this time he got hold of the twig.