“There, shovel it up again, boy,” said Morgan, good-temperedly; “it was an accident.”
“Iss, Mass’ Morgan, all um axden,” cried the boy, working away.
“One can’t be very cross with him, Master George; he’s such a happy young dog, and somehow, after all the trouble, I feel too happy, and so does Sarah; and to see her smile, sir, at getting a bit of a shelf put up in her new kitchen, and to hear her talk about the things the captain sent for from England—Lor’, sir, it would do you good.”
“Lubbly ’tuff!” cried Pomp, as he scraped up the fallen wood ashes.
“What’s lovely stuff?” I said.
“All dat, Mass’ George. Mass’ Morgan say make um rings grow, and wish dah twenty times as much.”
“Ah, that I do,” cried Morgan. “Wish I had—”
“Mass’ Morgan like Injum come burn down house ’gain make more?”
“No, you stupid little nigger,” cried Morgan; “of course not.”
Flop! Down went the spade, and Pomp began to stalk away sulkily, working his toes about—a way he had of showing his annoyance.