He looked up at me and laughed as merrily as if there was no danger near.
“Mass’ George see more Injum?”
“No,” I said. “They are in the forest somewhere.”
“Pomp like roace all de whole lot. Come burn fellow place down like dat. Ah, you don’t want come, sah! Hah, I pob you in dah lil soft wet dab ob dough, and now you got to come out nice cake all hot.”
He felt about in the fine embers with the shovel, and directly after thrust it under something invisible, drew it out, blew off a quantity of glowing ash, tossed his find round and brown up in the air, caught it again on the shovel, and held just under my nose a hot, well-cooked bread-cake, showing his teeth the while, as he exclaimed triumphantly—
“Dah!”
“Bread,” I said, mechanically.
“Nice hot cake, sah, for de capen, and Pomp got fibe more juss done. Dat one for capen, one for Mass’ George, one for Pomp fader, one for Pomp. How many dat make?”
“Four,” I said, in the same mechanical way.
“Four, and den dah two more for a-morrow mornin’.”