“If I don’t see you again, boy, good-bye, and I’m sorry I’ve been so rough to you sometimes.”
“Mass’ Morgan go walking out in wood? Take Pomp.”
Morgan heaved a deep sigh. “Ah, you don’t bear any malice,” he said.
Pomp shook his head, and looked at me, for it was Greek to him.
“Not so bad as that,” I said. “Come, cheer up.”
“Can’t any more, my lad,” said Morgan. “No one can’t say, look you, that I haven’t cheered up through thick and thin. But, look here, Master George, speaking fair now, what is the good of Injuns?”
“Injum no good,” said Pomp, sharply.
“Right, boy; no good at all. Phew!” he whistled; “how them logs do burn!”
“Ah! No duck, no fis’, no turkey roace on ’tick!” said Pomp, regretfully. “Shoot, shoot, shoot, lot time, an’ no shoot nuffum to eat. Pomp dreffle hungly.”
“There’s plenty of bread,” I said, smiling at the boy’s utter unconcern about our position of peril.