The darky let out a yell which might have awakened the dead, and dropped upon his knees.
“Massy sakes, golly fo’ glory, sakes alibe!” he gasped. “Bress de Lor’, sabe mah haht! de ghosteses hab come fo’ Pomp fo’ suah. Please, Mr. Ghosteses, don’ harm dis chile, an’ he do anyfing yo’ say.”
Barney waved his spectral arm and let out another groan.
Pomp doubled up and cried:
“Don’ hurt dis po’ brack chile, Mistah Ghosteses, ah beg ob yo’. I do anyfing yo’ say if yo’ don’ hurt dis chile.”
“Stand on yer head,” said Barney, in a dismal voice.
In a twinkling Pomp obeyed.
“Walk on yer hands!”
This was done.
But Barney, the inexorable persecutor, was not yet satisfied.