There was a cruel light in John's eyes which augured little good to poor Pomp. Suddenly, as if a new idea had struck him, he loosened the cord, and taking the boy carried him, in spite of his kicking and screaming, to a small tree, around which he clasped his hands, which he again confined with cords.
He then sought out a stout stick, and divested it of twigs.
Pomp watched his preparations with terror. Too well he knew what they meant. More than once he had seen those of his own color whipped on the plantation. Unconsciously, he glided into the language which he would have used there.
“Don't whip me, Massa John,” he whimpered in terror. “For the lub of Heaven, lef me be. I ain't done noffin' to you.”
“You'd better have thought of that before,” said John, his eyes blazing anew with vengeful light. “If I whip you, you little black rascal, it's only because you richly deserve it.”
“I'll nebber do so again,” pleaded Pomp, rolling his eyes in terror. Though what it was he promised not to do the poor little fellow would have found it hard to tell.
It would have been as easy to soften the heart of a nether millstone as that of John Haynes.
By the time he had completed his preparations, and whirled his stick in the air preparatory to bringing it down with full force on Pomp's back, rapid steps were heard, and a voice asked, “What are you doing there, John Haynes?”
John looked round, and saw standing near him Frank Frost, whose attention had been excited by what he had heard of Pomp's cries.
“Save me, save me, Mass' Frank,” pleaded poor little Pomp.