“No, no,” whimpered Pomp. “Mass’ George, ask massa not cut arm off. Cut off lil toe, Massa Capen; cut off um foot. What poor lil nigger do wif ony one arm?”
“Be quiet, you cowardly little rascal,” said my father, smiling, as with one sharp cut he took off the head of the arrow, and then easily drew the shaft back from where it had passed right through Pomp’s black hand.
As soon as he saw the arrow-head cut off, and understood what my father meant, Pomp knelt there as coolly as could be.
“Hurt much?” said my father, pressing his finger and thumb on the wound at the back and palm of the boy’s hand.
“Um tickle, sah: dat all. Pomp tought you cut um arm off. Hi! You dah,” he shouted excitedly; “you wait till Pomp get lil bit of rag round um hand, you see how I serb you. Yah! You big coward Injum tief.”
My father rapidly drew his handkerchief from his pocket, tore a piece off, divided it in two, and making the two pieces into little pads, applied one each to the back and front of the boy’s hand before binding them securely there.
As soon as this was done, Pomp looked up at him with his eyes sparkling and showing his teeth.
“Pomp not mind a bit,” he said. “Here, Mass’ George, come here an’ shoot um. Let Pomp hab de oars.”
“No,” said my father. “Sit down there in the bottom of the boat. Hah!”
He seized his gun and fired; then caught up mine, waited till the smoke had risen a little, and fired again, a shot coming almost at the same moment from the other boat.