“Why, what has Pomp been doing now?” I said.
“I was talking about his father, sir.”
“Hannibal? Well, what of him? I haven’t seen him to-day—no; now I come to think of it, nor yesterday neither.”
“No; he hasn’t been up.”
“Why, Morgan,” I said, “I was out round the plantations yesterday with Colonel Preston, and I’ve been with my father and Sarah all to-day; is poor old Hannibal ill?”
“Very bad, I think, sir. I asked the doctor to go and see him.”
I ran off to the rough tent he and Pomp had contrived for themselves, and to my horror I found the doctor inside, and that my father had contrived to get there by the help of a couple of sticks.
“I didn’t know Han was ill,” I exclaimed.
“Hush! Don’t speak loud,” said the doctor. “The poor fellow is in a serious condition.”
I crept into the hut to find Pomp on his knees by his father’s head, and with his face buried in his hands, while a startled feeling came over me as I saw how still and helpless the great broad-shouldered giant lay, his brow wrinkled up, and his cheeks hollow; but his countenance changed as he caught sight of me.