“I say, will you have something to eat?”
Pomp sighed.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Poor Pomp can’t.”
“Can’t? Why not? If I like to give you some now, no one will say anything.”
“Poor fellow,” I added to myself, “how he remembers that he is a slave!”
All the time I was cutting him one of the solid slices of bread in which I knew from old experience he delighted so much, and then carved off a couple of good, pink-striped pieces of cold salt pork. But he drew away with a sigh.
“Why, what’s the matter, Pomp?”
“Eat much, too much now,” he said, quaintly. “Pomp can’t eat no more.”
The mournful way in which he said this was comical in the extreme, for he accompanied it with a sigh of regret, and shook his head as he turned away, unable to bear longer the sight of the good food of which he was unable to partake.