“No; not this time.”
“What?” I said sharply.
“Indians. That was a nice row we had that day, though, Master George.”
“Mass’ George going have fishum-line?” said Pomp, suddenly, as the dark line of forest began to look green, and higher up there was a tiny point of orange mist.
“No,” I said; “we’ll get right on home.”
Pomp seemed so disappointed that I added, “Perhaps we will fish later on.”
Vague as the promise was it sufficed to raise Pomp’s spirits, and he tugged well at his oar, while I watched the splashing of fish in the river, heard the low, floundering noise made by the alligators, and listened to the fresh, clear song of the birds which were welcoming the coming of another day.
Then slowly the sun rose to glorify the dripping reeds and canes, and fringe them as if with precious stones; the different kinds of ducks and cranes disturbed by our boat fled at our approach with much flapping of wings and many a discordant cry. And before I could fully realise it, and think of anything else, it was bright, beautiful morning; all glorious, free, fresh, and delicious, with the moss draping the sunlit trees, the water sparkling, and the sensation growing upon me that I had just escaped from prison, and was going home.
“Not sorry you got up so soon, are you, sir?” said Morgan, smiling, as he saw how eager and excited I had grown.
“Sorry? No,” I cried. “Here, you two, are you tired? Morgan and I will row.”