“Hi! Stop!” I cried; “where are you going?”
“Pomp go jump in um ribber, and let de ole ’gator eat um.”
“Nonsense! What for?”
“Mass’ Morgan call um ’tupid lil nigger. Allus call um ’tupid lil nigger, and hurt Pomp all over.”
“No, no; come along. Morgan didn’t mean it.”
“Eh? You no mean it, Mass’ Morgan?” cried the boy, eagerly.
“No, of course not. You’re the cleverest boy I ever knew.”
“Dah, Mass’ George, hear dat. Now see Pomp wheel dat barrow, and neber spill lil bit ob ashums, and nex’ time he go over oder place, he bring um pockets full for Mass’ Morgan garden.”
“He’s a rum un, sir,” said Morgan, “but somehow I like him. Rather like to paint him white, though. Lor’, Master George, what a treat it is to be getting down the weeds again. Look at old Han, how he is giving it to ’em. I’m ’bliged to check him a bit though, sometimes; he aren’t quite strong yet. Here’s the captain.”
“Well, Morgan,” said my father, as he came up, “how soon do you think we might plant a few creepers about the house? The finishing and glazing need not interfere with them.”