“Ertchsshaw—ertchsshaw!” It was right on my nose, and I start up to brush it away, and in the gloom recognise the figure of Pomp, who burst into a roar of laughter.
“Mass’ George tiddle lil nigger; now lil nigger tiddle Mass’ George.”
“Why, Pomp,” I said, sitting up and staring, “I—I thought I was at home.”
“No, Mass’ George. Home long a way. Been sleep, and Pomp been sleep.”
I shivered, got up, and stamped about.
“Yes, Mass’ George, um dreffle cole.”
“Here, get the powder and shot, and let’s go back.”
Pomp shook his head.
“No good go now. Get ’tuck in de forn, or tumble in de ribber.”
“But we must go.”