“What’s the matter?”
“Why Mass’ George no shoot?”
“Because we don’t want the birds. You don’t care to have to carry them, do you?”
“No; dis wallet um so dreffle heabby.”
We tramped on a little farther, now in the deep shade, now in the golden sunshine when we could get close to the stream, and then Pomp sighed.
“Mass’ George like to carry de walletum now?”
“No; I’m carrying the gun.”
“Pomp carry de gun.”
“Oh, no,” I said, “I’ll manage that;” and we went slowly on again. There was no track, and near the river where the light and sunshine played there was plenty of thick undergrowth, while a short distance back in the forest the walking was easy among the trees, where scarcely anything clothed the ground in the deep shadow.
Pomp kept trudging away toward the dark, shadowy forest, and I had to stop him again and again, for the boat was not likely to be in there. On the last occasion he said—