He swung himself round, threw himself down on his face, and groaned.
Hannibal said a few words in a deep stern voice, and the boy moaned out—
“But poor Pomp so dreffle hungly.”
There was something so childishly absurd in his anger that I could not help laughing, the effect being that in his excitable state he turned upon me with a fierce gesture that reminded me of the day he was landed from the slaver.
But at that moment Hannibal’s deep firm voice rose in so stern a tone that the boy shrank down again in the boat.
Hannibal spoke again as he continued rowing, and as I listened to the curious sweet-sounding barbarous tongue, I felt as if I would have given anything to have been able to understand what was said.
But though I did not comprehend the words, I did their sense, for Pomp came crawling up closer to me like a beaten dog, and held up one hand deprecatingly.
“Pomp dreffle sorry,” he said. “Don’t Mass’ George flog lil nigger for get in pashum. Pomp so dreffle hungly.”
“Oh, I’m not cross,” I said, good-temperedly.
“And Mass’ George not flog poor lil nigger?”