“That’s what my father says,” I observed. “He thinks the Indians want a good lesson.”
“So they do, my lad, so they do. Let’s take, for instance, your place, which they burned down last night. Now what for, but out of sheer nasty mischief! There’s plenty of room for them, and there’s plenty of room for us. If they think they’re going to frighten us away they’re mistaken. They don’t know what Englishmen are, do they, little nigger?”
“How Pomp know what de Injum tink?” said the boy, promptly.
The man turned to me and gave me a nudge, as he laughingly continued, in the whisper in which the conversation was carried on—
“Ah, well, they don’t know, but if they’d come, I think we should teach them, for every one here’s fighting for his home, without thinking about those who are fighting for their wives and children as well. You don’t understand that yet, squire.”
“I think I do,” I said. “I suppose a man would fight for his wife and children in the same way as I would try and fight for my father.”
“Well, suppose it is about the same. You’ll have to fight some day, perhaps.”
“Mass’ George fight dreffle,” put in Pomp. “Shoot lot of Injum.”
“Nonsense, Pomp!” I said, hurriedly.
“Not nonsense. Pomp see um tummle down when. Mass’ George shoot um.”