“Yes; bror daylight. Able see dreckly.”
“It isn’t,” I said, opening my eyes and looking from under the boat-sail that made our tent, and seeing the stars burning brightly.
“I neb see such dreffle man,” whispered Pomp, for fear of rousing my father. “Get late. Sun get up soon ’fore we get dah. Mass’ Morgan an’ Pomp fader gone down to de boat, and carry big bag somefin to eat. Pomp got de fishum-line, and dey say you’n me bring free guns and de powder shot.”
“Eh! Gone down to the boat?” I said, rising hurriedly, for this was suggestive of being left behind; and hurrying my preparations—my dressing-room being outside the tent—I was soon ready, took the pouches and the three guns I had undertaken to have ready, and in a very few minutes we two were marching toward the gate, I carrying one firelock under my arm, and Pomp stepping out proudly with one on each shoulder.
“How long is it since Morgan and our man Hannibal went through?” I said to the guard at the gate.
“’Bout half an hour,” said the man, rather sourly. “Nice to be you, young gentleman, going out like that instead of keeping watch here.”
“Oh, that will soon be over,” I said. “Come along, Pomp.”
It was for the sake of saying something, for Pomp was already outside, waiting. But I wanted to get down to the boat, and not stop to be questioned by the guard as to what we were going to do.
As we went on down toward the wharf, the stars were still making their reflections glimmer in the smooth water of the big river, and a sculling sound and the rattle of an oar being heard, told me where the boat lay.
“That you, Master George?” said a familiar voice.