The gun was leaned up against the tree-roots; we each sat astride facing each other, the bigness of the tree making it rather an uneasy seat; I slung the wallet round and placed it between us, and had just thrust in my hand, while Pomp wrenched himself round to hang the ammunition pouches close to the gun on a ragged root behind him, when, all at once, the boy’s left leg flew over and kicked the wallet out of my hands, and he bounded a couple of yards away to stand grinning angrily and rubbing himself.
“Too bad, Mass’ George. What do dat for?”
“Do what?” I cried, roaring with laughter, as I stooped down and picked up the wallet, out of which fortunately nothing had fallen.
“’Tick um pin in poor lil nigger.”
“I didn’t,” I said; “and see what you’ve done.”
“Yes, Mass’ George did. Pomp felt um. You wait bit, I serb you out.”
“But I tell you I did not, Pomp,” I cried, as I wiped my eyes. “Oh, you ridiculous-looking little chap! Come and sit down.”
“No, won’t. You ’tick um pin in poor lil nigger behind leg ’gain.”
“I will not, ’pon my honour,” I cried. “Oh, you did look comic.”
“Made um feel comic dicklus,” cried Pomp, catching up the two words I had used. “Did hurt.”