"Mass' George."
I turned fiercely round to see that his black face was full of
animation, and eyes and lips bright with mischievous glee, all of which
annoyed me the more, for what business had he to be happy when I was so
disappointed, out of humour, and miserable?
"Be off! Why don't you go to work, sir?"
"Won't Mass' George come in de wood?"
"No. Be off!"
"Pomp come and have a 'wim 'long o' Mass' George?"
"No, you won't. Be off; I don't want you."
The boy looked at me aghast, and his thick lower lip worked.
"Mass' George get tire poor old Pomp?"
"Yes. Be off!"
"Mass' George send poor old Pomp 'way?"
"Yes. Don't bother. Can't you see I don't want you?"
"Wugh!" Pomp threw himself down on his face, and rested his forehead on
his crossed arms.
"Don't do that," I said. "Get up, and be off, or I shall kick you."
The boy sprang up with his eyes flashing, but they were full of tears,
and this gave me satisfaction, for I was in that absurd state of mind
when one likes to make others feel as uncomfortable as oneself.
"Mass' George want poor ole Pomp to go away?"
"Yes," I cried; "and don't be so idiotic, you miserable little nigger,
calling yourself `poor ole Pomp!'"
"Mass' George break poor ole Pomp heart."
"I'll break poor ole Pomp's head if he bothers me any more," I cried,
sulkily, as I once more leaned over the fence and began kicking off some
of the dry mud which still adhered, though the leafage above it was
clear and green.
I heard Pomp draw in his breath hard, and he gave his bare foot a stamp
on the ground.
"You want poor ole Pomp go drown self?"
"Yes," I said, sourly.
"Pomp go jump in de ribber."
"Go on then."
"You nebber see poor ole Pomp, nebber no more."
"Don't want to."
"Oh, Mass' George!--oh, Mass' George!"
These words came so piteously that all my ill-humour gave way to pity
for the boy, who was as affectionate as he was passionate by nature; but
his next words hardened me, and I stood fast, trying to hide my mirth as
he broke out in a lachrymose way, pitying himself.
"Poor lil nigger! Oh dear, dear, poor lil black nigger slave! Nobody
care dump poor ole Pomp!"
Then there was a long pause.
"You want Pomp go drown self, Mass' George?"
"Yes," I said. "Mind you don't get wet."
"Eh?"
"I say, go and have a good dry drown."
"How you do dat all?"
"I don't know. Be off."
"Poor ole Pomp! De 'gators eat um all up like lil yam."
"Ha--ha--ha--ha--ha!" I burst out, for I could contain myself no
longer. The comparison to the "lil yam" was too much for me, and as I
faced round, good-humoured once more, and ready to go and bathe or do
anything with the boy who was my only companion, he showed his teeth at
me fiercely, made a run, jumped over the fence into the garden, and I
saw him dash down the middle path toward the forest as hard as he could
go.
I stood looking in the direction he had taken for a minute or two, and
felt disposed to go after him; but I had seen him get into a temper
before, and get out of it again, and I knew that next time we met all
this would have passed away from both of us like a cloud.
"No, I won't go after him," I said to myself; "it will make him vain and
conceited, and he's bad enough as it is. Poor ole Pomp! Poor lil
nigger! What a rum fellow he can be when he likes!"
This little episode had quite carried off the sour feeling from which I
had suffered, and I began to look about me, enjoying the beauty of the
morning, forgetting all about Pomp, who had, no doubt, I thought, found
out a nice sunny spot and gone off to sleep.