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Whether I aimed badly, or the refraction of the water was not allowed for, I cannot say, but there was no result. I only saw a quivering of the surface and the fish was off into the river. The same result for a dozen more tries, and then Pomp said protestingly "I nebber tink dat ob any good." "But it is good if I could strike one," I said, testily. "Um on'y tummle off 'gain, Mass' George."
"Mass' George shoot um duck, Pomp cook um; same Pomp cook and make de cake at home. Pomp fader nebber cook. Pomp cook de fis, and de yam, and make um hominy. Pomp berry clebber 'deed, Mass' George. Ah, you try burn you 'tick an' tummle in de fire, would you, sah? No, you don't! You 'top dah an' get rock nice for Mass' George."
Pomp darted at the wooden spit, and drawing it out replaced it in a better position. "Dat duck lil rarksle," he said, showing his teeth. "Dat free time try to burn um 'tick and tummle in de fire, rock umself. Dah, you 'tan 'till, will you? Oh, I say, Mass' George, done um 'mell good?" "Yes; they begin to smell nice." "Dat de one hab green head. He berry juicy 'deed; dat one for Mass' George.
"Well, suppose it is about the same. You'll have to fight some day, perhaps." "Mass' George fight dreffle," put in Pomp. "Shoot lot of Injum." "Nonsense, Pomp!" I said, hurriedly. "Not nonsense. Pomp see um tummle down when. Mass' George shoot um." "Why, you didn't fire on the Indians, did you, squire?" said the man. "Lot o' times," said Pomp, quickly.
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