“Nas’ lil fing!” cried Pomp, stamping on something in the grass. “Look, look, Mass’ George, make hase; dey eat all de lunchum.”
The mystery was out. We had seated ourselves upon the home of a vicious kind of ant, whose nest was under the rotten bark of the tree, and as soon as Pomp realised the truth he danced about with delight.
“I fought you ’tick pin in lil nigger. You fought I ’tick um knife in Mass’ George! You catch um, too.”
“Yes,” I said, wriggling under my clothes, and rubbing myself. “Oh! Quick! Back of my neck, Pomp, look. Biting.”
Pomp sprang to me in an instant.
“I got um, Mass’ George. Dah!” he cried, as he placed the vicious little insect between his teeth, and bit it in two. “You no bite young massa ’gain. How you like be bite, sah? Make you feel dicklus, eh? Oh! Ugh! Tiff! Tiff! Tiff! Oh, um do tase nasty.”
Pomp spat and shuddered and ended by washing out his mouth by running a little way, lying flat with his head over the bank, and scooping up some water with his hand.
Meanwhile I cautiously picked up the provisions, the napkin and wallet, and carefully shook them clear of the vicious little things—no easy job, by the way; after which, stinging and smarting still, I sought another place where we could eat our meal in peace.