“Can’t go no fasser, Mass’ George,” he said; “so dark. But done you be ’fraid. Dem on’y ’tupid savage. Pomp too clebber let um cotch him ’gain.”
In spite of my anxiety I could not help smiling at my companion’s conceit, and his reference to “’tupid” savages. Pomp’s connection with civilisation was making its mark upon him in other ways beside the rapid manner in which he had acquired our tongue.
And so we tramped on hour after hour, going, as I knew by the stars whenever we got a glimpse of them, nearly due west, and trying to avoid breaking branch or trampling down thick patches of growth by making a detour.
Of course this hindered us a good deal, but still it was the surest way of avoiding recapture; and at last, after our long, weary walk, whose monotony I had relieved by softly chafing my arms and wrists to get rid of the remains of the numbness produced by the bonds, there came a familiar note or two from the trees overhead, and I knew that in a very short time it would be light.
“Tired, Pomp?” I said.
“No, Mass’ George, but I dreffle hungly ’gain. Oh! Dem ugly tief ’teal de gun. No get duck for breakfass, eh?”
“Let’s think about escaping and getting back to the house before these savages.—Ah, it’s getting light.”
I remember how eagerly I said this, as I saw the pale grey appearing through the leaves, and making the tall, gloomy-looking trunks stand up like great columns in all directions.
“Now,” I said, “where do you think the river is?”
“Ober dah,” said Pomp, without a moment’s hesitation; and he pointed to the left.