“Oh, Pomp,” I said, “how can you think of such things now!”
“Eh? Cos such boofle fire, and Pomp know where de barl ob flour. Mass’ George not glad to hab nice hot cake?”
I shook my head, but the boy was too busy fetching out his loaves, and soon had the whole six, well-cooked and of a delicate creamy-brown, beside him ready to be replaced in a little heap on the shovel.
“Dah!” he said; “now go take um home ready for tea.”
“Why, Pomp,” I said, sadly, “suppose the Indians come, what then?”
“What den? Dey ’tupid ’nuff to come, we shoot dem all, sah. Pomp don’t fink much ob Injum.”
“Do you think they’ll come to-night?”
“Pomp done know. ’Pose so.”
“You think so, then?”
“Yes, Mass’ George. Injum very ’tupid. Come be shot.”