As he spoke he made a snatch at one of the sticks, and turned the bird, as he stuck it afresh in the sand, closer to the glowing embers, for the flame and smoke had nearly gone now, and the ducks were sputtering, browning, and beginning to give forth a tempting odour.
As the boy was evidently, as he modestly said, so “clebber,” I did not interfere, but took off my shoes and stockings, wrung the latter well out, and laid them and the shoes in the warm glow to dry, a little rubbing about in the hot dry sand from the bluff soon drying my feet. Then I carefully reloaded the gun, in accordance with Morgan’s instructions, making the ramrod leap well on the powder charge and wad, while Pomp looked on eagerly, his fingers working, his lips moving, and his eyes seeming to devour everything that was done.
“Pomp load um gun,” he said all at once.
“You go on with your cooking,” I replied; “that one’s ‘burning um ’tick.’”
Pomp darted at the wooden spit, and drawing it out replaced it in a better position.
“Dat duck lil rarksle,” he said, showing his teeth. “Dat free time try to burn um ’tick and tummle in de fire, rock umself. Dah, you ’tan ’till, will you? Oh, I say, Mass’ George, done um ’mell good?”
“Yes; they begin to smell nice.”
“Dat de one hab green head. He berry juicy ’deed; dat one for Mass’ George. What Mass’ George going to do?”
“Put the gun and powder and shot farther away from the fire.”
“What for?”