“Yes. Be still, or you’ll make it leap at us.”
“Why, dat lil tree.”
There was a tone of such astonishment in the boy’s voice that I bent lower and lower down, knowing how much better Pomp’s eyes were than mine; and as I looked, I saw that the object was clear, and that it was indeed a low patch of shrub getting plainer and plainer rapidly now, for it was morning once more.
Chapter Twenty Six.
“Now, Mass’ George,” said Pomp, as we stood at the foot of the tree, and stamped about to get rid of the stiffness, and cold brought on by our cramped position on the branch, “de fuss ting am breckfuss. I so dreffle hungry.”
“But we ate everything last night,” I said.
“Neb mind; plenty duck in de ribber. You go shoot four lil duck, dat two piece, while Pomp make fire to roace um.”
“But how are we to get a light?”