There was not a gill of cold water in the wagon. Pomp grew sober with this dampening reflection.
“I jes’ fink if I had a bit of watah I would be a’ right,” he muttered; “but how ebber am dis niggah gwine fo’ to get it, dat’s what I’d like to know.”
Pomp went to the steel screen and tried to penetrate the darkness.
He knew that not ten yards distant were the waters of a small creek. He could hear them rippling now.
It was directly at variance with his orders to open the cage door. Yet it seemed to Pomp as if he must do so.
The risk did not seem great.
There seemed little likelihood of the proximity of a foe.
Pomp felt certain that he could reach the creek, get his drink, and get back safely to the wagon.
He was sorely tempted. The desire was most powerful.
“Golly!” he muttered, with a wry face. “What am I gwine fo’ to do? I don’ beliebe dar’s any danger ob going out dar, but if Marse Frank knew it he’d fix me putty quick. Sakes alibe! but what am a chile gwine fo’ to do? I am mos’ dyin’ fo’ a drink ob watah.”