Mass' George Part 29

"Break um back den, carry dat great heaby thing."

"It will not. You didn't think it heavy when you dragged it along with the axe."

"Head all hot den, Ma.s.s' George; got cold now."

"Why, you lazy, cunning young rascal!" I cried; "if you don't pick that head up directly, and bring it along!"

"Ugh!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Pomp, with a shudder; "um so dreffel ugly, Pomp frighten to deff."

I could not help laughing heartily at his faces, and the excuses he kept inventing, and he went on--

"Pomp wouldn't mind a bit if de head dry, but um so dreffel wet an'

nasty. An' you come close here, Ma.s.s' George, an' 'mell um. Ugh!"

He pinched his nose between his fingers, and turned his back on the monster.

"Now, no nonsense, sir," I said, severely. "I will have that carried home."

"For de ma.s.sa see um, an' Ma.s.s' Morgan?"

"Yes," I said.

"Oh!" exclaimed the boy, in a tone which suggested that he at last understood me; "for de ma.s.sa and Ma.s.s' Morgan see um. I run home fess um here."

He was off like a shot, but my voice checked him.

"Stop, sir."

"You call, Ma.s.s' George?"

"Come here, you young rascal!"

"Come dah, Ma.s.s' George? No fess um here?" he said, coming slowly cringing up.

"No, sir. Now then, no nonsense; take hold of that head."

Pomp stuck the handle of the axe into the band of his short cotton drawers, wiped a tear out of each eye, and took the hideous great head off the stump, looking at me reproachfully, as he bent with its weight.

"Is it very heavy?" I said.

"Kill poor boy carry um all dat way, Ma.s.s' George."

I stood the gun up against the nearest tree, and went to him and lifted the head, to find that it really was a pretty good weight.

"Yes," I said, replacing it on the stump; "it is heavy, Pomp."

"Den I go fess Ma.s.s' Bruton here," he cried, joyfully.

"No. Give me that axe."

He took the little chopper out of his belt, and slowly and shrinkingly gave me the handle; then dropped on his knees, crossed his hands on his breast, and lowered his head.

"Don' kill um dis time, Ma.s.s' George. Pomp berry sorry such a lazy rascal."

"Get up, and don't to stupid," I said, roughly. "Who's going to kill you?" and looking round, I had soon found and cut down a stout young sapling, which I trimmed into a pole, Pomp watching me the while with a piteous expression on his countenance.

"There," I said, when I had done, and provided myself with a stout pole about ten feet long.

"Oh! Ow!" burst forth Pomp in a terrified howl.

"What's the matter now?" I cried in astonishment.

"Nebber tink Ma.s.s' George such coward."

"Eh? What do you mean?"

"Lil bit do, Ma.s.s' George."

"No, it wouldn't."

"Off!"

"Here, what's the matter? What do you mean?" I cried, as he threw himself down on the moss, and kept on drawing up his legs as if in agony, and kicking them out again like a frog.

"Nebber tink Ma.s.s' George such coward."

"I'm not, sir. Why?"

"Cut great big 'tick like dat to beat poor lil n.i.g.g.e.r like Pomp."

"Lil n.i.g.g.e.r like Pomp!" I cried, mockingly; "why, you're as big as I am. Get up, you great tar-coloured stupid."

"No, no, Ma.s.s' George; hit um lyem down, please; not hurt so much."

"Get up!" I shouted; and I poked him in the ribs with the end of the pole.

"Ow! Ow!" yelled Pomp at every touch, and the more he shouted the more I laughed and stirred him up, till he suddenly sat up, drew his knees to his chest, put his arms round them, and wrinkling his forehead into lines, he looked up at me pitifully.

"Arn't done nuff yet, Ma.s.s' George?" he whimpered.

"Enough?" I cried. "Did you think I cut this great pole to whop you?"

"Yes, Ma.s.s' George."

"Why, it was to carry the head on, one at each end."

"Oh!" cried Pomp, jumping up as if made of springs, and showing his teeth; "I knew dat a hall de time."

"You wicked young story-teller," I cried, raising the pole quarter-staff fashion, and making an offer at him, when Pomp dropped on his knees again, and raised his hands for mercy.