“Couldn’t lose way, Mass’ George. Ony got to keep by ribber, and he show de way back.”
“Of course,” I said; “I forgot that.”
“No walk back.”
“I hope not,” I said. “We are going to find the boat.”
Pomp made a grimace and looked round, as if to say, “Not likely.”
“No find a boat, put lot ob ’tick togedder and float down de ribber home.”
“Ah, well, we’ll see,” I said; and we continued our journey for hour after hour, always finding some fresh beauty to entice me, or living object for Pomp to stalk and beg me to shoot. But though we looked here and there as well as we could, there was no sign of the object of our search; in fact, I soon began to feel that I had embarked upon an enterprise that was almost an impossibility.
The river had now grown a little swifter, and though there was plenty of swampy land down by its banks, it seemed as if we were getting into a more elevated region, the margin being higher, and here and there quite precipitous, but it was always more beautiful, and the objects of natural history grew frequent every hour.
Now it was a squirrel, of which there seemed to be great numbers; then all at once, as we were threading our way through the low bushes, something sprang up from its lair and went bounding off among the trees, giving me just a glimpse of a pretty head with large eyes and small horns, before it was gone.
“Oh, Mass’ George, you ought shoot dat,” said Pomp, reproachfully. “Dat berry good to eat.”