“How we ’wim ober dah wid de ’gator all awaiting to hab us for breakfass, Mass’ George?”
I shuddered as I thought of the task, but it seemed as if that was the only thing to do, and then tramp along the opposite bank downward.
“What are you doing?” I said, as the boy began to step about, cautiously penetrating once more into the forest, and stopping at last beside a moderate-sized pine, whose trunk was dotted with the stumps of dead branches, till about fifty feet from the ground, where it formed a pretty dense tuft, whose top was well in the sunlight.
“Now we go up dah and hide, and rest a bit.”
“But why not try that tree, or that, or that?” I said; and I pointed rapidly to three or four more, all far more thickly clothed with branch and foliage.
“If Injum come he fink p’raps we hide in dah, an’ look. No fink we get up dat oder tree. Injum berry ’tupid.”
“But hadn’t we better try and get across or down the stream?”
Pomp shook his head.
“See Injum, and dey dreffle cross dat we run ’way. Wait a bit, Mass’ George.”
“But my father—yours—and Morgan?”