“Dah!” he exclaimed; and seizing his capture, he led the way into the forest, where, risking discovery, we soon had a fire of dead sticks and pine-needles blazing merrily over the shell of our terrapin, off which we made at last, if not a good meal, a sufficiently satisfying one to give us spirit for trying to get back home.
Chapter Twenty Nine.
“Now, Pomp,” I said, after we had each lain down and had a good hearty drink of clear water, “the way to get home is to make a raft and float down the river.”
“Don’t want raft—want um boat,” he said.
“Do you know what a raft is?” I said.
“No, Mass’ George.”
I explained to him, and he shook his head.
“’Gator come and pick Pomp and Mass’ George off.”