“Fader knock um down an’ kick um.”
“I tell you he would not. Try all you can to get loose and creep away when they are not looking.”
“Always looking,” said Pomp, shortly; and it was quite true, for some one or other of the Indians always seemed to be on the watch, and after trying to wrench myself clear, I stood resting my aching legs by hanging a little on the rope, for the hours were slowly gliding by, and afternoon came without relief.
At last a couple of the men brought us some water and a piece each of badly-roasted and burned deer-flesh, setting our hands at liberty so that we could eat and drink, but leaving the hide ropes holding us tightly to the trees, and sitting down to watch us, listening intently as we spoke, but evidently not understanding a word.
“Well,” I said, after a few minutes, during which I had been eating with very poor appetite, “why don’t you eat, Pomp?”
“Done like um. ’Mell nasty.”
“It’s only burnt,” I said.
“How Mass’ George know what um eat?”
“What?” I said, looking curiously at the meat.
“Pomp fink it poor lil nigger been kill and cook um.”