"Past waking! I tell you he's asleep, and every thing depends on his waking up right. But you set up a howl that would disturb the dead!"
"Howl! dat's what ye call singin'; me singin', Pomp."
"Well, keep your singing to yourself till he is able to stand it, you unfeeling, ungrateful fellow!"
"What dat ye call dis nigger?" cried the singer, jumping up in a passion, with his blood-stained knife in his hand. "Ongrateful! Say dat ar agin, will ye?"
"Yes, Cudjo, as often as you please," said Pomp, calmly placing his gun in the artificial chamber. "You are an unfeeling, ungrateful fellow."
He turned, and stood regarding him with a proud, lofty, compassionating smile. Cudjo's anger cooled at once. Penn had already recognized in them the twin Tobys of his dreams. And what a contrast between the two! There was Toby the Good, otherwise called Pomp, dignified, erect, of noble features; while before him cringed and grimaced Toby the Malign, alias Cudjo, ugly, deformed, with immensely long arms, short bow legs resembling a parenthesis, a body like a frog's, and the countenance of an ape.
"You know," said Pomp, "you would have left this man to die there on the rocks, if it hadn't been for me."
"Gorry! why not?" said Cudjo. "What's use ob all dis trouble on his 'count?"
"He has had trouble enough on our account," said Pomp.
"On our 'count? Hiyah-yah!" laughed Cudjo, getting down on his knees over the opossum; "how ye make dat out, by?"