“Yes. Let’s cook them.”
“But is Mass’ George quite sure?”
“Yes—yes—yes!”
“Oh! Den Mass’ George hab dis bewfler one wid um green head. Dat’s biggess and bess.”
“Here, what are you going to do?” I cried, as Pomp suddenly seized the three ducks and threw them into the fire. “That’s not the way to roast ducks.”
“Pomp know dat, Mass’ George,” cried the boy, poking the birds about with a long, sharp-pointed stick, one of several which he had cut ready. “Pomp fader show um how to do ober dah.”
“Ober dah” evidently meant Africa.
“Dat a way to get all de fedder off fuss. Dah, see dat?” he cried, as he turned one out scorched brown. “Now Mass’ George see.”
As I watched him, he cleverly ran his sharp-pointed stick through this first duck, stuck the point down into the sand, so that the bird was close in to the glowing embers, and then deftly served the others the same.
“Mass’ George shoot um duck, Pomp cook um; same Pomp cook and make de cake at home. Pomp fader nebber cook. Pomp cook de fis, and de yam, and make um hominy. Pomp berry clebber ’deed, Mass’ George. Ah, you try burn you ’tick an’ tummle in de fire, would you, sah? No, you don’t! You ’top dah an’ get rock nice for Mass’ George.”