Instantly Pompey was on the alert. His eyes brightened, and he fixed them in rapture upon the young player.
"What's dat, young massa?" he asked.
"That's a harmonica."
"You do play beau'ful, young massa."
"Thank you, Pompey, I am glad you like it."
"Play some more," entreated Pompey.
Dean complied with the negro's request, partly because he was obliging, partly because it helped to fill up the time. He could scarcely forbear laughing to see Pompey rocking to and fro with his mouth open, drinking in the melodious strains.
Nature had given Pompey a rapt appreciation of music, and he began to croon a vocal accompaniment to the instrument.
"Who learn you to play, young massa?" he asked.