“Eh? Who said go fis?” cried Pomp, sharply. “Mass’ George go fish? Catch terrapum, and take de gun?”
“Morgan says he can’t spare you.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Pomp; but Morgan smiled one of his curious dry smiles, as he took off his hat and pointed with the corner.
“Just you go to the far end of the shed, Pomp, and you’ll find in the damp place an old pot with a lot of bait in it as I put ready. On’y mind this, it’s not to be all games.”
“What do you mean?” I said, for Pomp had rushed off to get the bait.
“Bring us a bit o’ fish. Be quite a treat.”
Half an hour after Pomp and I were pulling up the river close in beneath the over-spreading boughs, ready to shout for joy as the golden sunbeams came down through the leaves and formed a lace-work of glory on the smooth deep water. Every now and then there was a familiar rustle and a splash, a flapping of wings, and a harsh cry as a heron or stork rose from his fishing-ground; then some great hawk hovered over the stream, or we caught sight of the yellow and orange of the orioles.
Pomp was for rowing on and up to a favourite spot where there was a special haunt of the fish, where the stream curved round and formed a deep pool. But I felt as if I must stop again and again to let the boat drift, and watch humming-birds, or brightly-painted butterflies and beetles, flitting here and there, so that it was quite a couple of hours before we reached the spot, and suddenly turned the curve of the river into the eddy.
As we did so silently I turned to look, and sat there petrified for a few moments, before I softly laid my hand on Pomp’s arm. He turned round sharply and saw what I did—a party of six Indians on the opposite bank.
Before either of us could dip oar again we were seen; there was a deep, low exclamation, and the party turned and plunged into the forest and were gone.