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Updated: May 24, 2025
"Den I know; it was um big forn." "It wasn't, Pomp. Come and sit down and have some lunch." "No. Won't come. Don't want no lunchum. Hurt poor Pomp dreffle. You alway play um trick." "I tell you I didn't do anything, Pomp. There, come along." He caught sight of the food I brought now from the wallet, and it was irresistible. "You no 'tick pin in nigger 'gain?" "No." "Nor yet um forn?" "No.
"Look, look, Mass' George, make hase; dey eat all de lunchum." The mystery was out. We had seated ourselves upon the home of a vicious kind of ant, whose nest was under the rotten bark of the tree, and as soon as Pomp realised the truth he danced about with delight. "I fought you 'tick pin in lil nigger. You fought I 'tick um knife in Mass' George! You catch um, too."
Come along, you little unbeliever. Come along." "I serb you out fo dat, Mass' George, you see," he said, sidling back to the tree, watching me cautiously the while. "Oh, very well, I'll forgive you," I said, as he retook his place. "I say, Pomp, I am thirsty." "So 'm I, Mass' George. Dat lunchum?"
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