“Eh? Better, Mass’ George? Injum cotch Pomp, and ’tuff mouf full. Couldn’t holler. Tie um all up tightum. No move, no breve, no do nuffum.”
“Yes; don’t talk now. We found you. No; lie still. What do you want?”
“Go kill all de Injum.”
“Sit still,” I said, with another little shiver, as I recalled the scene of the struggle.
“No; Pomp won’t sit ’till.”
He rose to a sitting position and began rubbing his wrists, staring at his father the while, as the latter rowed steadily on with his arms bandaged and showing stains.
“What matter wif yo’ arm?”
Hannibal said something to the boy in his own tongue, and Pomp leaned forward, still rubbing his numbed wrists softly, and evidently listening intently till his father had done, when he clapped his hands together and uttered a harsh laugh.
“Ah,” he cried; “dat a way. Dey no come try kill Mass’ George ’gain.”
Then reverting to his own injuries, he felt all his teeth gently with thumb and finger, as if to try whether they were loose.