Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Twelve.After a time, with the boy seeming to watch defiantly beside the great fellow, the black revived sufficiently to swallow some bread soaked in wine-and-water; the dull, filmy look left his eyes; and at last he dropped off into a heavy sleep.“Shall we try and carry him up to one of the sheds, sir?” said Morgan.“No; the poor fellow has had a very narrow escape from death,” replied my father; “and I do not know even now that he will recover. Fetch a few boards to lay against that bough, and tie the boat-mast up there, and fasten the sail against it, so as to act as a bit of shelter to keep off the sun. George, put some dry grass in a sack, and it will do for a pillow.”We set about our task at once.“Lor’ ha’ mussy!” grumbled Morgan, “what a fuss we are making about a nigger. Pillows for him! Why don’t master say, ‘Get the best bedroom ready, and put on clean sheets’? I say, Master George, think he’d come off black?”But all the same Morgan worked hard, with the great drops of perspiration running off his face, till he had rigged up the shelter, the black sleeping heavily the while, but the boy watching every act of ours in a suspicious way, his eyes rolling about, and his lips twitching as if he were ready to fly at us and bite.“I know,” said Morgan, all at once with a broad grin, as he was sloping some boards lately cut from a tree over the sleeping negro.“Know what?” I said.“What young sooty’s a thinking. He’s a young canny ball, and he believes we’re going to make a fire and roast ’em for a feast.”Whatever the boy thought, he had ceased to struggle to get away, but lay quite still with his arm stretched-out, so that he could touch the big negro, and he was in this attitude when my father came back from the house.“Yes, that will do,” he said, approvingly.“Yes, sir, there won’t be no sun get at him now. Think he’ll come right?”“Yes, I hope so. Poor fellow!—if he has managed to live through the horrors of that slaver’s hold, now that he has taken a turn for the better he may recover. He must have been a splendidly healthy fellow, and—”“Well, he arn’t now, sir, anyhow,” said Morgan. “What’ll I do with young coal-box, sir? Better chain him up in the shed, hadn’t I, or he’ll be off?”My father did not reply for some moments, but stood watching the boy, as he lay with his bright eyes fixed on first one and then the other, like a wild creature ready to act on its defence.“He must have known a good deal of this negro,” said my father, thoughtfully. “Go and slacken that rope.”“If I do, sir, he’ll go off like a ’coon, and we shall never see him again,” said Morgan.“Did you hear my orders?” said my father, in the sharp military way in which he spoke sometimes.Morgan went to the ring-bolt, and began to unfasten the rope, when at the first quiver the boy half started up and remained crouching, ready to spring away.“Shall I go on, sir?” said Morgan.“Yes; slacken the rope sufficiently to let him reach the man.”“He’ll make a dash for it, Master George,” grumbled Morgan.He was right, for the boy did make a dash as soon as he saw that the rope which tethered him to the tree was loosened, but only to creep close up to the negro, thrust his arm under his neck, and press close to his side.“I thought so,” said my father. “Draw that rope from the shackles.”“What, undo him altogether, sir?”“Yes.”“Oh, all right, Master George,” grumbled Morgan to me. “I could have leathered the young imp into shape, and made a labourer of him in time; but if your father likes to waste his money it is no business of mine.”My father’s back was towards us, and he was standing at some little distance so as not to startle the boy, who rose again, crouched, and looked wildly at us, as the rope which had been simply passed through the iron shackles began to run through a link till the end was drawn out, and run over the ground to where Morgan stood grumbling and coiling up the rope.“No, he will not,” said my father, gravely. “There is something stronger than hempen rope to hold him, George, evidently. Unless I am much mistaken, he will not leave the poor fellow’s side.”“Ah, well, sir,” said Morgan, as he hung the rope on the stump of a branch, “they’re your niggers, and niggersisniggers. I shouldn’t trust ’em, and they’ll cut and run.”“If they do, my man, I shall be sorry,” said my father, gravely, “for they may fall into worse hands than ours. We have no key to those shackles; could you turn them with a file?”“Little screwdriver may do it, sir?” said Morgan, thoughtfully.“Fetch it from the tool-chest,” said my father, shortly; and Morgan went off grumbling something about waste of money.He was back in a short time, during which the black still slept, and the boy crouched by him watching us eagerly.“Now,” said my father, “see if you can open those ankle-rings. No, no; I mean the man’s.”“But s’pose he’s only shamming, sir, and jumps up, half kills me, and runs?”“I’ll forgive him if he does,” said my father, dryly, “for you are getting to be a very dictatorial, meddling, insolent servant, Morgan.”“Well!” exclaimed Morgan. “Hear that, Master George, and after me following faithful all the way to these here wild shores. Ah, master, I didn’t think you’d ha’ said— Hi! Keep back, you young warmint!”For at the first movement of Morgan toward the sleeping black’s feet, the boy sprang up and showed his teeth like a dog.“Stop! Keep back,” said my father, and Morgan drew away, muttering something about a savage young tom wolf.“It is quite natural,” said my father, “and strengthens my ideas. He thought his companion was going to be hurt.” As my father spoke, he moved toward the boy.“Don’t go anigh him without a stick, sir,” said Morgan, hastily.My father did not notice the remark, but turned to me.“Be on your guard, George,” he said; “but be firm, and I think the poor fellow will understand what you are going to do. Take the screwdriver, and try if you can unfasten the boy’s anklets first.”I obeyed, and advanced to the boy, whose aspect was rather startling; but I went down on my knees, and before he could fly at me I caught quickly hold of the chain which connected his legs.That made him pause for a moment, and look down sharply to see what I was going to do. He seemed to have some idea directly; and as luck would have it, the little square hole that was used to turn the screw was toward me, the screwdriver went in, and it turned so easily that I was able to open the filthy, rusty shackle, and set one leg free.The boy’s head moved like that of a bird, as he looked first at his foot and then at me, and he stood quite still now, as I unscrewed the second anklet and took it off.“Throw the chains into the river,” said my father.“No, no,” cried Morgan; “they may come in handy.”“For you?” said my father, with a curious smile.Splash! Went the iron rings and links, and the boy looked puzzled, but made no opposition as I knelt down hard by the sleeping negro’s feet, and using the screwdriver as a key, opened both the anklets in turn, and pointed to them as they lay on the grass, looking hard at the lad the while.He stared at me stupidly for a few moments, and then in a curiously sullen manner stooped down, knelt down, and began to replace them on the sleeping man’s legs.“No, no,” I shouted; and the boy started away, flinching as if expecting a blow; but as I stood pointing down at the irons, he stooped once more and picked them up, looking at me wonderingly again, but as I pointed to the river a flash of intelligence came from his eyes, and he whisked the irons over his head, and cast them right out into the stream.“Now fetch him something to eat,” said my father, as the boy crouched down by the man’s head again under the shelter.I went for some bread, and after a long time managed to make the boy take it; but he only snatched it up after the fashion of a wild animal, and ate it voraciously.“There,” said my father at last; “leave them now. I dare say the poor fellow will sleep for hours, and it will be the best thing for him. Don’t go far away, George; and if you find that he wakes, try and give him some bread soaked in that thin French wine.”“Well,” said Morgan, as soon as my father had gone back into the house, “you don’t catch me saying any more about it; but your father gave a lot o’ money for them two, and they might ha’ been useful on the plantation; but you mark my word, Master George, that there big nigger ’ll begin to open first one eye and then the other when we aren’t looking; then him and the boy ’ll slip into the boat, and a’most afore we know it, look you, they’ll be gone.”“Nonsense, Morgan!” I said.“Nonsense! Why, no, my boy, I reckon it’s madness. If master didn’t mean to have slaves why did he buy them?”“To save them from being ill-treated.”“Ill-treated?” said Morgan, scornfully; “why, they’re only niggers.”“Well, they’re men, Morgan.”“Dunno so much about that, Master George. They’re blacks, that’s what they are, and everybody but master buys ’em to work on the plantations. I did think master was going to be sensible at last. Only slaves!”“How would you like to be a slave, Morgan?”“Me, Master George? Well, you see I couldn’t be. I aren’t a black. There, I’ve got lots to do, and can’t stand talking here. These weeds ’ll be all over my garden again directly. You’re going to stop, I s’pose?”“Yes.”“Well, call me if they seize the boat. We can’t let ’em have that. When they do go, they’ll have to swim.”So Morgan went off to his hoeing, and I stopped under the shade of the big magnolia to keep my long watch.

After a time, with the boy seeming to watch defiantly beside the great fellow, the black revived sufficiently to swallow some bread soaked in wine-and-water; the dull, filmy look left his eyes; and at last he dropped off into a heavy sleep.

“Shall we try and carry him up to one of the sheds, sir?” said Morgan.

“No; the poor fellow has had a very narrow escape from death,” replied my father; “and I do not know even now that he will recover. Fetch a few boards to lay against that bough, and tie the boat-mast up there, and fasten the sail against it, so as to act as a bit of shelter to keep off the sun. George, put some dry grass in a sack, and it will do for a pillow.”

We set about our task at once.

“Lor’ ha’ mussy!” grumbled Morgan, “what a fuss we are making about a nigger. Pillows for him! Why don’t master say, ‘Get the best bedroom ready, and put on clean sheets’? I say, Master George, think he’d come off black?”

But all the same Morgan worked hard, with the great drops of perspiration running off his face, till he had rigged up the shelter, the black sleeping heavily the while, but the boy watching every act of ours in a suspicious way, his eyes rolling about, and his lips twitching as if he were ready to fly at us and bite.

“I know,” said Morgan, all at once with a broad grin, as he was sloping some boards lately cut from a tree over the sleeping negro.

“Know what?” I said.

“What young sooty’s a thinking. He’s a young canny ball, and he believes we’re going to make a fire and roast ’em for a feast.”

Whatever the boy thought, he had ceased to struggle to get away, but lay quite still with his arm stretched-out, so that he could touch the big negro, and he was in this attitude when my father came back from the house.

“Yes, that will do,” he said, approvingly.

“Yes, sir, there won’t be no sun get at him now. Think he’ll come right?”

“Yes, I hope so. Poor fellow!—if he has managed to live through the horrors of that slaver’s hold, now that he has taken a turn for the better he may recover. He must have been a splendidly healthy fellow, and—”

“Well, he arn’t now, sir, anyhow,” said Morgan. “What’ll I do with young coal-box, sir? Better chain him up in the shed, hadn’t I, or he’ll be off?”

My father did not reply for some moments, but stood watching the boy, as he lay with his bright eyes fixed on first one and then the other, like a wild creature ready to act on its defence.

“He must have known a good deal of this negro,” said my father, thoughtfully. “Go and slacken that rope.”

“If I do, sir, he’ll go off like a ’coon, and we shall never see him again,” said Morgan.

“Did you hear my orders?” said my father, in the sharp military way in which he spoke sometimes.

Morgan went to the ring-bolt, and began to unfasten the rope, when at the first quiver the boy half started up and remained crouching, ready to spring away.

“Shall I go on, sir?” said Morgan.

“Yes; slacken the rope sufficiently to let him reach the man.”

“He’ll make a dash for it, Master George,” grumbled Morgan.

He was right, for the boy did make a dash as soon as he saw that the rope which tethered him to the tree was loosened, but only to creep close up to the negro, thrust his arm under his neck, and press close to his side.

“I thought so,” said my father. “Draw that rope from the shackles.”

“What, undo him altogether, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, all right, Master George,” grumbled Morgan to me. “I could have leathered the young imp into shape, and made a labourer of him in time; but if your father likes to waste his money it is no business of mine.”

My father’s back was towards us, and he was standing at some little distance so as not to startle the boy, who rose again, crouched, and looked wildly at us, as the rope which had been simply passed through the iron shackles began to run through a link till the end was drawn out, and run over the ground to where Morgan stood grumbling and coiling up the rope.

“No, he will not,” said my father, gravely. “There is something stronger than hempen rope to hold him, George, evidently. Unless I am much mistaken, he will not leave the poor fellow’s side.”

“Ah, well, sir,” said Morgan, as he hung the rope on the stump of a branch, “they’re your niggers, and niggersisniggers. I shouldn’t trust ’em, and they’ll cut and run.”

“If they do, my man, I shall be sorry,” said my father, gravely, “for they may fall into worse hands than ours. We have no key to those shackles; could you turn them with a file?”

“Little screwdriver may do it, sir?” said Morgan, thoughtfully.

“Fetch it from the tool-chest,” said my father, shortly; and Morgan went off grumbling something about waste of money.

He was back in a short time, during which the black still slept, and the boy crouched by him watching us eagerly.

“Now,” said my father, “see if you can open those ankle-rings. No, no; I mean the man’s.”

“But s’pose he’s only shamming, sir, and jumps up, half kills me, and runs?”

“I’ll forgive him if he does,” said my father, dryly, “for you are getting to be a very dictatorial, meddling, insolent servant, Morgan.”

“Well!” exclaimed Morgan. “Hear that, Master George, and after me following faithful all the way to these here wild shores. Ah, master, I didn’t think you’d ha’ said— Hi! Keep back, you young warmint!”

For at the first movement of Morgan toward the sleeping black’s feet, the boy sprang up and showed his teeth like a dog.

“Stop! Keep back,” said my father, and Morgan drew away, muttering something about a savage young tom wolf.

“It is quite natural,” said my father, “and strengthens my ideas. He thought his companion was going to be hurt.” As my father spoke, he moved toward the boy.

“Don’t go anigh him without a stick, sir,” said Morgan, hastily.

My father did not notice the remark, but turned to me.

“Be on your guard, George,” he said; “but be firm, and I think the poor fellow will understand what you are going to do. Take the screwdriver, and try if you can unfasten the boy’s anklets first.”

I obeyed, and advanced to the boy, whose aspect was rather startling; but I went down on my knees, and before he could fly at me I caught quickly hold of the chain which connected his legs.

That made him pause for a moment, and look down sharply to see what I was going to do. He seemed to have some idea directly; and as luck would have it, the little square hole that was used to turn the screw was toward me, the screwdriver went in, and it turned so easily that I was able to open the filthy, rusty shackle, and set one leg free.

The boy’s head moved like that of a bird, as he looked first at his foot and then at me, and he stood quite still now, as I unscrewed the second anklet and took it off.

“Throw the chains into the river,” said my father.

“No, no,” cried Morgan; “they may come in handy.”

“For you?” said my father, with a curious smile.

Splash! Went the iron rings and links, and the boy looked puzzled, but made no opposition as I knelt down hard by the sleeping negro’s feet, and using the screwdriver as a key, opened both the anklets in turn, and pointed to them as they lay on the grass, looking hard at the lad the while.

He stared at me stupidly for a few moments, and then in a curiously sullen manner stooped down, knelt down, and began to replace them on the sleeping man’s legs.

“No, no,” I shouted; and the boy started away, flinching as if expecting a blow; but as I stood pointing down at the irons, he stooped once more and picked them up, looking at me wonderingly again, but as I pointed to the river a flash of intelligence came from his eyes, and he whisked the irons over his head, and cast them right out into the stream.

“Now fetch him something to eat,” said my father, as the boy crouched down by the man’s head again under the shelter.

I went for some bread, and after a long time managed to make the boy take it; but he only snatched it up after the fashion of a wild animal, and ate it voraciously.

“There,” said my father at last; “leave them now. I dare say the poor fellow will sleep for hours, and it will be the best thing for him. Don’t go far away, George; and if you find that he wakes, try and give him some bread soaked in that thin French wine.”

“Well,” said Morgan, as soon as my father had gone back into the house, “you don’t catch me saying any more about it; but your father gave a lot o’ money for them two, and they might ha’ been useful on the plantation; but you mark my word, Master George, that there big nigger ’ll begin to open first one eye and then the other when we aren’t looking; then him and the boy ’ll slip into the boat, and a’most afore we know it, look you, they’ll be gone.”

“Nonsense, Morgan!” I said.

“Nonsense! Why, no, my boy, I reckon it’s madness. If master didn’t mean to have slaves why did he buy them?”

“To save them from being ill-treated.”

“Ill-treated?” said Morgan, scornfully; “why, they’re only niggers.”

“Well, they’re men, Morgan.”

“Dunno so much about that, Master George. They’re blacks, that’s what they are, and everybody but master buys ’em to work on the plantations. I did think master was going to be sensible at last. Only slaves!”

“How would you like to be a slave, Morgan?”

“Me, Master George? Well, you see I couldn’t be. I aren’t a black. There, I’ve got lots to do, and can’t stand talking here. These weeds ’ll be all over my garden again directly. You’re going to stop, I s’pose?”

“Yes.”

“Well, call me if they seize the boat. We can’t let ’em have that. When they do go, they’ll have to swim.”

So Morgan went off to his hoeing, and I stopped under the shade of the big magnolia to keep my long watch.

Chapter Thirteen.I kept about near the rough shelter rigged up for the two blacks, wondering how my father would set about giving them their freedom, for I seemed fully to understand that this was what he intended to do. Every now and then I glanced toward the place, where everything was wonderfully still, and at such times I found myself thinking about Morgan’s words; and it appeared only natural that the poor fellows should try to escape, being quite in ignorance of the hands into which they had fallen; but if they did, I was fully determined to put a stop to their taking our boat, for I did not mean to lose that, and have my fishing expeditions spoiled.After a time my task began to grow tedious, and I wanted to go and peep in to see if they were asleep; but somehow I shrank from doing this, and I began to wander about, now up to the house, and now back to the river, thinking, as I stood there gazing down into the clear water, that it would not be safe for the two blacks to lie there after dark, when the great alligators came crawling out of the pools in search of food. For there were plenty of accounts current among the settlers of how people had been attacked by the great reptiles, and I meant to suggest to my father that the two should be sheltered in the great shed, which had a strong door.I glanced toward the canvas which hung from the spar, and suddenly awoke to the fact that there was something black at one end; seeing directly after that a bright eye was watching me, but only to be carefully withdrawn as soon as its owner realised that he was seen.I smiled to myself at this, and went off into the garden, where I could hear Morgan’s great hoe with its regular chop-chop, as he battled away with the weeds which refused to acknowledge the difference between wild waste and cultivated ground.“Hullo!” cried Morgan, as soon as he saw me. “What, have they slipped off?”“Slipped off? No,” I said, indignantly. “I want a peach.”“Right, my lad,” said Morgan; “and, look you, get one off the further tree; they’re not the best to look at, but they’re the sweetest and the best to taste, I can tell you.”Peaches grew easily and plentifully in the hot sunshine of our garden, and securing a sample of the best, I went back toward the landing-place, where I saw the boy’s head pop back out of sight as soon as I appeared. Then laying down the fruit just within reach of the corner from which I had seen the boy watching me, I was in the act of turning away, when I saw that I was being watched from the other side.“Hullo, Morgan!” I said. “You there?”“Yes, Master George, I’m here, and it’s time I was,” he cried, sourly. “Do you think your father and me grafted them peach trees, and coaxed ’em on into bearing, for you to feed niggers with them?”“I’ve a right to do what I like with the fruit, if I don’t eat it,” I said, angrily.“Oh, very well; I’ve done. Seems to me that if master’s to be always bullying me on one side, and you on the other, the sooner I make up my bundle and go home to Carnarvon, the better.”“That’s what you always say, Morgan,” I replied, laughing; “but you never do go.”“Ah, but you’ll see some day; and then you’ll be sorry,” he grumbled, and away he went.“I don’t want to hurt his feelings,” I thought; “but he needn’t be so disagreeable about the poor black fellows.”After a time I went to the shelter and looked in, to see that the man was lying with his eyes opened; and, recalling what my father had said, I gave him some bread and wine, which he ate as it was put to his lips, in a dull, forbidding way which took all the pleasure out of what I had thought was an act of kindness.The peaches had disappeared, and I was saying to myself, “You might have given him one!” when I found that both of them were lying close to the black’s head untouched.About sunset my father came and looked at his purchase in a very grave way, and then apparently satisfied he drew back.“The man is recovering,” he said. “We saved his life, my boy, but they must not stay there to-night. I hardly believe that an alligator would attack them; but one great fellow has been travelling through the garden in the night, and if he came near them, there would be a terrible scare if nothing worse.”“Where are they to go then, father?”“In the large shed. There are plenty of bundles of corn straw, and they must make shift with that until we can build them a hut.”“Build them a hut?” I said, in wondering tones. “Are they going to stop?”“Stop? Where else can they go, my lad?”“I did not think of that, father,” I said.“No, poor fellows, when they have been sold into slavery, there is no going back. Even if we could put them ashore in Africa, it would only be for them to be slain or sold again.”“Then—” I stopped short, afraid to finish my speech.“Well, what were you going to say?”“I was going to ask you if—if—”“I was going to keep slaves like my neighbours, eh?”“Yes, father,” I said, bluntly.“Yes, my boy. It is forced upon me to do so; but it will be an easy slavery, George. We have thrown their chains away, and they are free to go wherever they like. Now call Morgan, and let’s have them up here.”I called our man, and the sail was dragged aside, for the boy to crouch menacingly by the man, who lay gazing at us in a dull, heavy way.“How are we to make them understand?” said my father, who advanced, bent down, and took hold of the negro’s wrist and felt his pulse.The boy bared his teeth, but the man said a word or two in his own language, and the boy drew back.“Stronger, decidedly,” said my father; and he stood watching his patient, while I fetched some more bread and soaked it in wine.He ate it slowly and mechanically, like some beast of burden, and when it was finished my father signed to him to get up, saying the words at the same time.He evidently understood, and tried to raise himself, nearly reaching to a sitting position, but falling back from sheer weakness, and gazing shrinkingly at us as if expecting a blow.But as no blow came he spoke to the boy, who at once took his hands and pulled him into a sitting position, but the man could do no more, and uttered a low groan in his abject weakness as he gazed up in his eyes.My father thought for a moment and then turned to Morgan.“Get the sail,” he said; and the triangular piece of canvas was spread beside the man on the ground.“Now,” said my father, “creep on to that, and we’ll carry you.”The man looked up at him with his brow puckered over with lines, but he did not comprehend.“Show him what I mean,” said my father; and I lay down on the canvas, and then rose up, and my father pointed.The negro understood him, spoke to the boy, and with his help and Morgan’s half rolled, half dragged himself on to the sail.“Now,” said my father; “he’s big and heavy; Morgan and I will take the top, you take the bottom, George. If you could get that boy to understand, it would be easy.”I took hold of the bottom of the sail and made signs to the boy, but he could not or would not understand, till the black uttered a guttural word or two, when he came shrinkingly to my side, and took hold, watching me the while as if to be aware of danger.“Now then,” said my father, “I don’t suppose you two can lift; but if you ease the load up a little from the ground, that will be all that is necessary. Now together, Morgan.”They turned their backs on us as they took a good hold of the sail, and began to drag our load toward the great barn-like shed at the end of the house, reaching it without much difficulty, and drawing the sail right over a quantity of dry corn-stalks.Here, after giving them some food to eat if they desired it, we left them and closed the door.“There, Morgan,” said my father, with a smile, as we crossed the garden, “I am a slave-owner now like my neighbours, and as soon as that man is well and strong, you will have no excuse for grumbling about the want of help.”

I kept about near the rough shelter rigged up for the two blacks, wondering how my father would set about giving them their freedom, for I seemed fully to understand that this was what he intended to do. Every now and then I glanced toward the place, where everything was wonderfully still, and at such times I found myself thinking about Morgan’s words; and it appeared only natural that the poor fellows should try to escape, being quite in ignorance of the hands into which they had fallen; but if they did, I was fully determined to put a stop to their taking our boat, for I did not mean to lose that, and have my fishing expeditions spoiled.

After a time my task began to grow tedious, and I wanted to go and peep in to see if they were asleep; but somehow I shrank from doing this, and I began to wander about, now up to the house, and now back to the river, thinking, as I stood there gazing down into the clear water, that it would not be safe for the two blacks to lie there after dark, when the great alligators came crawling out of the pools in search of food. For there were plenty of accounts current among the settlers of how people had been attacked by the great reptiles, and I meant to suggest to my father that the two should be sheltered in the great shed, which had a strong door.

I glanced toward the canvas which hung from the spar, and suddenly awoke to the fact that there was something black at one end; seeing directly after that a bright eye was watching me, but only to be carefully withdrawn as soon as its owner realised that he was seen.

I smiled to myself at this, and went off into the garden, where I could hear Morgan’s great hoe with its regular chop-chop, as he battled away with the weeds which refused to acknowledge the difference between wild waste and cultivated ground.

“Hullo!” cried Morgan, as soon as he saw me. “What, have they slipped off?”

“Slipped off? No,” I said, indignantly. “I want a peach.”

“Right, my lad,” said Morgan; “and, look you, get one off the further tree; they’re not the best to look at, but they’re the sweetest and the best to taste, I can tell you.”

Peaches grew easily and plentifully in the hot sunshine of our garden, and securing a sample of the best, I went back toward the landing-place, where I saw the boy’s head pop back out of sight as soon as I appeared. Then laying down the fruit just within reach of the corner from which I had seen the boy watching me, I was in the act of turning away, when I saw that I was being watched from the other side.

“Hullo, Morgan!” I said. “You there?”

“Yes, Master George, I’m here, and it’s time I was,” he cried, sourly. “Do you think your father and me grafted them peach trees, and coaxed ’em on into bearing, for you to feed niggers with them?”

“I’ve a right to do what I like with the fruit, if I don’t eat it,” I said, angrily.

“Oh, very well; I’ve done. Seems to me that if master’s to be always bullying me on one side, and you on the other, the sooner I make up my bundle and go home to Carnarvon, the better.”

“That’s what you always say, Morgan,” I replied, laughing; “but you never do go.”

“Ah, but you’ll see some day; and then you’ll be sorry,” he grumbled, and away he went.

“I don’t want to hurt his feelings,” I thought; “but he needn’t be so disagreeable about the poor black fellows.”

After a time I went to the shelter and looked in, to see that the man was lying with his eyes opened; and, recalling what my father had said, I gave him some bread and wine, which he ate as it was put to his lips, in a dull, forbidding way which took all the pleasure out of what I had thought was an act of kindness.

The peaches had disappeared, and I was saying to myself, “You might have given him one!” when I found that both of them were lying close to the black’s head untouched.

About sunset my father came and looked at his purchase in a very grave way, and then apparently satisfied he drew back.

“The man is recovering,” he said. “We saved his life, my boy, but they must not stay there to-night. I hardly believe that an alligator would attack them; but one great fellow has been travelling through the garden in the night, and if he came near them, there would be a terrible scare if nothing worse.”

“Where are they to go then, father?”

“In the large shed. There are plenty of bundles of corn straw, and they must make shift with that until we can build them a hut.”

“Build them a hut?” I said, in wondering tones. “Are they going to stop?”

“Stop? Where else can they go, my lad?”

“I did not think of that, father,” I said.

“No, poor fellows, when they have been sold into slavery, there is no going back. Even if we could put them ashore in Africa, it would only be for them to be slain or sold again.”

“Then—” I stopped short, afraid to finish my speech.

“Well, what were you going to say?”

“I was going to ask you if—if—”

“I was going to keep slaves like my neighbours, eh?”

“Yes, father,” I said, bluntly.

“Yes, my boy. It is forced upon me to do so; but it will be an easy slavery, George. We have thrown their chains away, and they are free to go wherever they like. Now call Morgan, and let’s have them up here.”

I called our man, and the sail was dragged aside, for the boy to crouch menacingly by the man, who lay gazing at us in a dull, heavy way.

“How are we to make them understand?” said my father, who advanced, bent down, and took hold of the negro’s wrist and felt his pulse.

The boy bared his teeth, but the man said a word or two in his own language, and the boy drew back.

“Stronger, decidedly,” said my father; and he stood watching his patient, while I fetched some more bread and soaked it in wine.

He ate it slowly and mechanically, like some beast of burden, and when it was finished my father signed to him to get up, saying the words at the same time.

He evidently understood, and tried to raise himself, nearly reaching to a sitting position, but falling back from sheer weakness, and gazing shrinkingly at us as if expecting a blow.

But as no blow came he spoke to the boy, who at once took his hands and pulled him into a sitting position, but the man could do no more, and uttered a low groan in his abject weakness as he gazed up in his eyes.

My father thought for a moment and then turned to Morgan.

“Get the sail,” he said; and the triangular piece of canvas was spread beside the man on the ground.

“Now,” said my father, “creep on to that, and we’ll carry you.”

The man looked up at him with his brow puckered over with lines, but he did not comprehend.

“Show him what I mean,” said my father; and I lay down on the canvas, and then rose up, and my father pointed.

The negro understood him, spoke to the boy, and with his help and Morgan’s half rolled, half dragged himself on to the sail.

“Now,” said my father; “he’s big and heavy; Morgan and I will take the top, you take the bottom, George. If you could get that boy to understand, it would be easy.”

I took hold of the bottom of the sail and made signs to the boy, but he could not or would not understand, till the black uttered a guttural word or two, when he came shrinkingly to my side, and took hold, watching me the while as if to be aware of danger.

“Now then,” said my father, “I don’t suppose you two can lift; but if you ease the load up a little from the ground, that will be all that is necessary. Now together, Morgan.”

They turned their backs on us as they took a good hold of the sail, and began to drag our load toward the great barn-like shed at the end of the house, reaching it without much difficulty, and drawing the sail right over a quantity of dry corn-stalks.

Here, after giving them some food to eat if they desired it, we left them and closed the door.

“There, Morgan,” said my father, with a smile, as we crossed the garden, “I am a slave-owner now like my neighbours, and as soon as that man is well and strong, you will have no excuse for grumbling about the want of help.”

Chapter Fourteen.I was so curious the next morning to see whether the slaves had run away, that I crept down soon after daybreak, and a curious feeling of vexation came over me as I saw that the door of the big shed was open.“They’re gone,” I said, and ran back and down to the landing-place, to see if they had taken to the boat.But there it was, all safe, and I drew back and stood watching as I caught sight of a droll-looking object, so busy that he had not noticed me; for about forty yards away there was the boy, coating himself all over with the soft yellow mud he scooped up from the stream, where he stood about up to his knees, rubbing it well, and not forgetting his woolly head, just as I might have used soap.The appearance of the boy was so comical that I could hardly keep back a laugh. But I refrained, and watched him earnestly at work for a few minutes, before throwing himself down, and sluicing off the thin mud, his black skin appearing once more, and ending by diving out into deep water, and beginning to swim with an ease that I envied.This went on for about ten minutes, when he came out dripping, gave himself a shake, and then catching sight of me, ran up the bank and as hard as he could go for the shed.I followed, and on reaching it found that the boy was not visible, having probably hidden himself among the corn-stalks, while his companion lay sleeping heavily—a great savage-looking black.I came away without closing the door, thinking of my father’s words; and I’m afraid with something of the same thoughts as I should have had about some of the wild creatures I had before tried to tame, I began to long for the coming down of Mrs Morgan to prepare breakfast, meaning to get from her a good bowl of the Indian corn porridge that she regularly prepared.As it happened she was extra early that morning; and as soon as I had proffered my request, she informed me rather tartly that she knew all about it, for the master had given her orders the night before.By the time it was ready and cooling, my father was down.“That for the blacks?” he said, as he saw the bowl I was taking to the shed.“Yes,” I said; and I told him about what I had seen.“Poor fellow! I am not surprised,” he said. “What can be more horrible than the way in which they were confined?”The man was awake, and on our entering the dim shed he made an effort to rise, but fell back helplessly, and lay gazing at us in a half fierce, half sullen way, not changing his aspect as my father felt his pulse, and laid his hand upon his head.“Hah! That’s better,” said my father; “less fever. If he can eat, it is only a question of time. Where is the boy?”We looked round, but he was invisible.“Call the boy,” said my father, looking hard at the man, and pointing to the food; but there was no sign of being understood, and my father turned to me. “Set the bowl down,” he said. “They will get used to us in time.”I followed him out, and we went in to our breakfast, where the position was pretty well discussed.“Let them be, poor wretches,” said my father at last. “By and by, perhaps, they will find out that all white people do not mean evil by them. It is very unfortunate, and I had made a vow that I would never have a slave, and here I am with two of my own purchasing.”As soon as I could get away, I hurried off to the shed to hear a quick rustling sound as I neared the door, and I got to the opening time enough to see some of the corn-stalks in motion, betraying where the boy had rushed off to on hearing my steps.I did not make a rush after him, for fear of making him more wild, but took up the bowl to find it empty, and I looked at our invalid and laughed. But he made no sign, only gazed at me with the same weary sullen look, and I went away feeling a little disheartened.“Hullo, Master George, been to see my deppyties?” said Morgan. “I was just going to look at ’em. That big black isn’t going to die, is he?”I turned back with him to the door of the shed, and he stood gazing in.“No; he won’t die this time. But I don’t much like his looks, Master George. Seems the sort of fellow to turn ugly and knock me down with the big hoe, and I shan’t like that, nor my wife neither. Where’s young smutty?”“Under the corn-stalks in the corner.”“What, hiding?”“Yes.”“Here, stop a minute till I get the pitchfork; I’ll soon turn him out.”“No, no,” I cried; “they’re to be treated gently.”“And as if they were human beings,” said my father’s stern voice, for he had come silently behind us. “Have the goodness to remember that, Morgan. If I am to be a slave-owner, my people shall meet with consideration, and not be treated as if they were the beasts of the field. Do you understand?”“Oh yes, sir, I understand,” said Morgan, good-humouredly; “you can count on me doing what’s right by them. They can’t help the colour of their skins.”“I am satisfied,” said my father, quietly, and he left us staring in that heavy, sombre face before us—a face full of despair, but one to which we could not address words of sympathy.The change that took place in the man day by day was wonderful, as far as health was concerned. In three days he was walking slowly about; in a week he was ready to take the tool in hand which Morgan gave him, and he went on clumsily with the work he was set to do, but displaying strength that was the admiration of us all. But he was moody, shrinking, and suspicious, and the boy was precisely the same. For it always seemed to me that the boy was constantly on the look-out to avoid a blow or some ill-usage on my part, and his companion to be expecting it from my father. The treatment they had been receiving for months had utterly cowed them, but when they began to realise that they had fallen among friends, the change was rapid indeed.Of course they could not understand us, and when they spoke, which was very seldom, their language was utterly beyond our comprehension; but we got on pretty well by signs, after a few weeks when the change came.It was one glorious afternoon, when, after worrying Morgan into getting me some bait, I prepared my rough lines for fishing, and while I was disentangling the hooks which had been thrown carelessly together, the boy who was passing nodded and looked on.“Going fishing,” I said. “Come with me?”He looked at me without comprehension, and when I took hold of him by the arm, he shrank away.“Oh, I say,” I said, “I wish you wouldn’t. Who’s going to hit you? Carry this basket.”I placed one in his hand, and gave him the pot containing the bait in the other, signed to him to follow, and in a dull, sad way he came behind to where the boat was moored; but as soon as he saw me step in, he began to look wildly out into the stream, and to shrink away.“It’s all right,” I said, “there’s no slaver out there. Come along.”But he shrank away more and more, with his eyes dilating, and he said a few words quite fiercely in his own tongue.“Don’t be so stupid,” I said, jumping out and securing him just in time to stop him from running off with my bait and lines.He struggled for a moment, but ceased, and in a drooping, dejected way allowed me to lead him to the boat, into which he stepped sadly, and dropped down in a sitting position, with his legs under him, and his head bent upon his breast.“Oh, I say,” I cried, “don’t do that. Look here; we are going fishing. Here, take an oar and row.”I had cast off the boat, and we were floating down the stream as I placed the oar in his hands, took the other, and in a sad, depressed, obedient way, he clumsily imitated my actions, rowing steadily if not ably on.“There,” I said, when we were as far out as I wished to be; “that will do. Lay your oar in like that,” and I laid down my own.He obeyed me, and then sat looking at me as mournfully as if I were going to drown him.“Oh, I do wish you’d try and take it differently,” I said, looking pleasantly at him the while. “Now, look here, I’m going to catch a fish.”As I spoke, I put a large bait on the strong hook I had ready, threw it over the side, and twisted the stout cord round my hand, while the boy sat watching me.“Well, you have got a bit better,” I said to him; “the other day you always wanted to bite. Do try and come round, because you’re not a slave, after all. Oh!”I uttered a yell, as I started up to pay out line, for, as we floated gently down stream, there was a tremendous tug which cut my hand, and seemed ready to jerk my arm from out its socket.But I had so twisted the line that I could not pay it out, and as I stood, there came another so fierce a tug that I lost my balance, caught at the boy to save myself, and the light boat careened over, and seemed to shoot us both out into the river.For a few moments the water thundered in my ears; the great fish, which must have been a gar pike, tugged at my hand, broke away, and I was swimming with the black head of the boy close by me, as we struggled as quickly as we could to the bank, reached it together, climbed out, and I dropped down into a sitting position, with my companion staring wonderingly at me.His aspect was so comical, and his eyes sought mine in such a wondering way, as if asking me whether this was the way I went fishing, that I burst out into an uncontrollable roar of laughter, when, to my utter astonishment, the sad black face before me began to expand, the eyes to twinkle, the white teeth to show, and for the first time perhaps for months the boy laughed as merrily as I did.Then, all at once, I remembered the boat, which was floating steadily away down stream toward the big river, and pointing to it, I ran as far as I could along the bank, and plunged in to swim out and secure it.There was another plunge and the boy was by my side, and we swam on, he being ready to leave me behind, being far more active in the water than I. But he kept waiting for me, till I pointed on at the boat, and he seemed to understand, and went on.The boat had gone into a swift current, and it was a long way from where I swam, and by degrees I began to find that I had rather miscalculated my strength. I was only lightly clad, but my clothes began to feel heavy, the banks to look a long way off, and the boat as far; while all at once the thought struck me, after I had been swimming some time, that I should never be able to reach the boat or the shore.I tried to get rid of the fancy, but it would not go, and one effect of that thought was to make me swim more quickly than I should have done, or, as I should express it, use my limbs more rapidly than I ought, so that I was quickly growing tired, and at last so utterly worn out that a cold chill came over me. I looked despairingly to right and left at the beautiful tree-hung river-side, and then forward to where the boy had just reached the boat, and saw him climb in, the sun shining upon his wet back.“Hi! Boy!” I shouted, “take the oars, and row.”I might as well have held my tongue, for he could not understand a word; and as I shouted again and again I looked at him despairingly, for he was sitting on the thwart laughing, with the boat gliding downstream faster than I seemed to be able to swim, while I knew that I should never be able to overtake it, and that I was getting deeper in the water.“Oh, if I could only make him understand!—if I could only make him understand!” I kept thinking, as I shouted again hoarsely; and this time he did seem to comprehend that something was wrong, for I saw him jump up and begin making signs to me. Then he shouted something, and I saw that he was about to jump in again as if to come to me.But he stopped, and took up one of the oars, to begin rowing, but of course only to send the boat round. Then, as if puzzled, he put the oar over the other side, and rowed hard like that, to send the boat’s head in the other direction, repeating this again and again, and now standing up to shout to me.I could not shout in return, only stare at him wildly, as he kept on making ineffective efforts to row to me, till all seemed to be over; the bright water and the beautiful green banks began to grow misty; and I knew that though I might keep struggling on for a few minutes, I should never reach the boat, and that he would never be able to row it to me.I did not feel in much trouble nor get in any great alarm, for I suppose the severe exertion dulled everything, and robbed my sufferings of their poignancy as I still swam on more and more slowly, with my starting eyes fixed upon the boat still many yards away from me, and growing more and more dim as the water began to bubble about my lips.All at once in front of me I saw the boy’s black figure rise up in the boat like a shadow. Then there was a splash and the water flashed up, and I knew he must be swimming toward me to help me; but I could not see that he had taken the rope in his teeth, after finding himself unable to row in my direction, and had essayed to swim to me and tug the boat in his wake.This in so swift a stream was impossible, but his brave act saved my life, for he was able to hold his own by swimming hard till the current bore me down to him just as I was sinking; and my next recollection is of feeling myself clutched and my hand being raised to the edge of the boat, while one arm was about my waist.The feeling of comparative security brought back my fleeting senses, and I made a convulsive clutch with the other hand at the gunwale; while the next thing I remember is feeling myself helped over the side by the boy, who had climbed in, and lying in the bottom with the sun beating down upon me—sick almost to death.

I was so curious the next morning to see whether the slaves had run away, that I crept down soon after daybreak, and a curious feeling of vexation came over me as I saw that the door of the big shed was open.

“They’re gone,” I said, and ran back and down to the landing-place, to see if they had taken to the boat.

But there it was, all safe, and I drew back and stood watching as I caught sight of a droll-looking object, so busy that he had not noticed me; for about forty yards away there was the boy, coating himself all over with the soft yellow mud he scooped up from the stream, where he stood about up to his knees, rubbing it well, and not forgetting his woolly head, just as I might have used soap.

The appearance of the boy was so comical that I could hardly keep back a laugh. But I refrained, and watched him earnestly at work for a few minutes, before throwing himself down, and sluicing off the thin mud, his black skin appearing once more, and ending by diving out into deep water, and beginning to swim with an ease that I envied.

This went on for about ten minutes, when he came out dripping, gave himself a shake, and then catching sight of me, ran up the bank and as hard as he could go for the shed.

I followed, and on reaching it found that the boy was not visible, having probably hidden himself among the corn-stalks, while his companion lay sleeping heavily—a great savage-looking black.

I came away without closing the door, thinking of my father’s words; and I’m afraid with something of the same thoughts as I should have had about some of the wild creatures I had before tried to tame, I began to long for the coming down of Mrs Morgan to prepare breakfast, meaning to get from her a good bowl of the Indian corn porridge that she regularly prepared.

As it happened she was extra early that morning; and as soon as I had proffered my request, she informed me rather tartly that she knew all about it, for the master had given her orders the night before.

By the time it was ready and cooling, my father was down.

“That for the blacks?” he said, as he saw the bowl I was taking to the shed.

“Yes,” I said; and I told him about what I had seen.

“Poor fellow! I am not surprised,” he said. “What can be more horrible than the way in which they were confined?”

The man was awake, and on our entering the dim shed he made an effort to rise, but fell back helplessly, and lay gazing at us in a half fierce, half sullen way, not changing his aspect as my father felt his pulse, and laid his hand upon his head.

“Hah! That’s better,” said my father; “less fever. If he can eat, it is only a question of time. Where is the boy?”

We looked round, but he was invisible.

“Call the boy,” said my father, looking hard at the man, and pointing to the food; but there was no sign of being understood, and my father turned to me. “Set the bowl down,” he said. “They will get used to us in time.”

I followed him out, and we went in to our breakfast, where the position was pretty well discussed.

“Let them be, poor wretches,” said my father at last. “By and by, perhaps, they will find out that all white people do not mean evil by them. It is very unfortunate, and I had made a vow that I would never have a slave, and here I am with two of my own purchasing.”

As soon as I could get away, I hurried off to the shed to hear a quick rustling sound as I neared the door, and I got to the opening time enough to see some of the corn-stalks in motion, betraying where the boy had rushed off to on hearing my steps.

I did not make a rush after him, for fear of making him more wild, but took up the bowl to find it empty, and I looked at our invalid and laughed. But he made no sign, only gazed at me with the same weary sullen look, and I went away feeling a little disheartened.

“Hullo, Master George, been to see my deppyties?” said Morgan. “I was just going to look at ’em. That big black isn’t going to die, is he?”

I turned back with him to the door of the shed, and he stood gazing in.

“No; he won’t die this time. But I don’t much like his looks, Master George. Seems the sort of fellow to turn ugly and knock me down with the big hoe, and I shan’t like that, nor my wife neither. Where’s young smutty?”

“Under the corn-stalks in the corner.”

“What, hiding?”

“Yes.”

“Here, stop a minute till I get the pitchfork; I’ll soon turn him out.”

“No, no,” I cried; “they’re to be treated gently.”

“And as if they were human beings,” said my father’s stern voice, for he had come silently behind us. “Have the goodness to remember that, Morgan. If I am to be a slave-owner, my people shall meet with consideration, and not be treated as if they were the beasts of the field. Do you understand?”

“Oh yes, sir, I understand,” said Morgan, good-humouredly; “you can count on me doing what’s right by them. They can’t help the colour of their skins.”

“I am satisfied,” said my father, quietly, and he left us staring in that heavy, sombre face before us—a face full of despair, but one to which we could not address words of sympathy.

The change that took place in the man day by day was wonderful, as far as health was concerned. In three days he was walking slowly about; in a week he was ready to take the tool in hand which Morgan gave him, and he went on clumsily with the work he was set to do, but displaying strength that was the admiration of us all. But he was moody, shrinking, and suspicious, and the boy was precisely the same. For it always seemed to me that the boy was constantly on the look-out to avoid a blow or some ill-usage on my part, and his companion to be expecting it from my father. The treatment they had been receiving for months had utterly cowed them, but when they began to realise that they had fallen among friends, the change was rapid indeed.

Of course they could not understand us, and when they spoke, which was very seldom, their language was utterly beyond our comprehension; but we got on pretty well by signs, after a few weeks when the change came.

It was one glorious afternoon, when, after worrying Morgan into getting me some bait, I prepared my rough lines for fishing, and while I was disentangling the hooks which had been thrown carelessly together, the boy who was passing nodded and looked on.

“Going fishing,” I said. “Come with me?”

He looked at me without comprehension, and when I took hold of him by the arm, he shrank away.

“Oh, I say,” I said, “I wish you wouldn’t. Who’s going to hit you? Carry this basket.”

I placed one in his hand, and gave him the pot containing the bait in the other, signed to him to follow, and in a dull, sad way he came behind to where the boat was moored; but as soon as he saw me step in, he began to look wildly out into the stream, and to shrink away.

“It’s all right,” I said, “there’s no slaver out there. Come along.”

But he shrank away more and more, with his eyes dilating, and he said a few words quite fiercely in his own tongue.

“Don’t be so stupid,” I said, jumping out and securing him just in time to stop him from running off with my bait and lines.

He struggled for a moment, but ceased, and in a drooping, dejected way allowed me to lead him to the boat, into which he stepped sadly, and dropped down in a sitting position, with his legs under him, and his head bent upon his breast.

“Oh, I say,” I cried, “don’t do that. Look here; we are going fishing. Here, take an oar and row.”

I had cast off the boat, and we were floating down the stream as I placed the oar in his hands, took the other, and in a sad, depressed, obedient way, he clumsily imitated my actions, rowing steadily if not ably on.

“There,” I said, when we were as far out as I wished to be; “that will do. Lay your oar in like that,” and I laid down my own.

He obeyed me, and then sat looking at me as mournfully as if I were going to drown him.

“Oh, I do wish you’d try and take it differently,” I said, looking pleasantly at him the while. “Now, look here, I’m going to catch a fish.”

As I spoke, I put a large bait on the strong hook I had ready, threw it over the side, and twisted the stout cord round my hand, while the boy sat watching me.

“Well, you have got a bit better,” I said to him; “the other day you always wanted to bite. Do try and come round, because you’re not a slave, after all. Oh!”

I uttered a yell, as I started up to pay out line, for, as we floated gently down stream, there was a tremendous tug which cut my hand, and seemed ready to jerk my arm from out its socket.

But I had so twisted the line that I could not pay it out, and as I stood, there came another so fierce a tug that I lost my balance, caught at the boy to save myself, and the light boat careened over, and seemed to shoot us both out into the river.

For a few moments the water thundered in my ears; the great fish, which must have been a gar pike, tugged at my hand, broke away, and I was swimming with the black head of the boy close by me, as we struggled as quickly as we could to the bank, reached it together, climbed out, and I dropped down into a sitting position, with my companion staring wonderingly at me.

His aspect was so comical, and his eyes sought mine in such a wondering way, as if asking me whether this was the way I went fishing, that I burst out into an uncontrollable roar of laughter, when, to my utter astonishment, the sad black face before me began to expand, the eyes to twinkle, the white teeth to show, and for the first time perhaps for months the boy laughed as merrily as I did.

Then, all at once, I remembered the boat, which was floating steadily away down stream toward the big river, and pointing to it, I ran as far as I could along the bank, and plunged in to swim out and secure it.

There was another plunge and the boy was by my side, and we swam on, he being ready to leave me behind, being far more active in the water than I. But he kept waiting for me, till I pointed on at the boat, and he seemed to understand, and went on.

The boat had gone into a swift current, and it was a long way from where I swam, and by degrees I began to find that I had rather miscalculated my strength. I was only lightly clad, but my clothes began to feel heavy, the banks to look a long way off, and the boat as far; while all at once the thought struck me, after I had been swimming some time, that I should never be able to reach the boat or the shore.

I tried to get rid of the fancy, but it would not go, and one effect of that thought was to make me swim more quickly than I should have done, or, as I should express it, use my limbs more rapidly than I ought, so that I was quickly growing tired, and at last so utterly worn out that a cold chill came over me. I looked despairingly to right and left at the beautiful tree-hung river-side, and then forward to where the boy had just reached the boat, and saw him climb in, the sun shining upon his wet back.

“Hi! Boy!” I shouted, “take the oars, and row.”

I might as well have held my tongue, for he could not understand a word; and as I shouted again and again I looked at him despairingly, for he was sitting on the thwart laughing, with the boat gliding downstream faster than I seemed to be able to swim, while I knew that I should never be able to overtake it, and that I was getting deeper in the water.

“Oh, if I could only make him understand!—if I could only make him understand!” I kept thinking, as I shouted again hoarsely; and this time he did seem to comprehend that something was wrong, for I saw him jump up and begin making signs to me. Then he shouted something, and I saw that he was about to jump in again as if to come to me.

But he stopped, and took up one of the oars, to begin rowing, but of course only to send the boat round. Then, as if puzzled, he put the oar over the other side, and rowed hard like that, to send the boat’s head in the other direction, repeating this again and again, and now standing up to shout to me.

I could not shout in return, only stare at him wildly, as he kept on making ineffective efforts to row to me, till all seemed to be over; the bright water and the beautiful green banks began to grow misty; and I knew that though I might keep struggling on for a few minutes, I should never reach the boat, and that he would never be able to row it to me.

I did not feel in much trouble nor get in any great alarm, for I suppose the severe exertion dulled everything, and robbed my sufferings of their poignancy as I still swam on more and more slowly, with my starting eyes fixed upon the boat still many yards away from me, and growing more and more dim as the water began to bubble about my lips.

All at once in front of me I saw the boy’s black figure rise up in the boat like a shadow. Then there was a splash and the water flashed up, and I knew he must be swimming toward me to help me; but I could not see that he had taken the rope in his teeth, after finding himself unable to row in my direction, and had essayed to swim to me and tug the boat in his wake.

This in so swift a stream was impossible, but his brave act saved my life, for he was able to hold his own by swimming hard till the current bore me down to him just as I was sinking; and my next recollection is of feeling myself clutched and my hand being raised to the edge of the boat, while one arm was about my waist.

The feeling of comparative security brought back my fleeting senses, and I made a convulsive clutch with the other hand at the gunwale; while the next thing I remember is feeling myself helped over the side by the boy, who had climbed in, and lying in the bottom with the sun beating down upon me—sick almost to death.

Chapter Fifteen.By a wonderfully kindly arrangement of nature we recover very rapidly when we are young; and before half an hour had passed I was seated on the thwart, using one of the oars, while the boy was using the other, but he kept leaving off rowing to gaze earnestly in my face; and when I smiled at him to show him that I was better, he showed his white teeth, and even then I could not help thinking what a bright, chubby-looking face he had, as he plunged his oar in again, and tugged at it, rowing very clumsily, of course, but helping me to get the boat along till we reached the rough logs and the stumps which formed our landing-place, where I was very glad to get ashore and make the boat fast.“Well, George, how many fish?” cried my father, as I went up to the house, to find him in the garden trying to direct the big black how to use his hoe.“None, father,” I said, half hysterically, for I was quite broken down.“Why, what’s the matter?” he said. “Hallo! Been in?”“Yes—been drowned—that boy.”“What!” cried my father, furiously.“No, no! He jumped in—saved me—I was going down.”I saw my father close his eyes, and his lips moved as he stood holding my hand in his, evidently struggling with his emotion. Then he said quietly—“Better go in and get some dry clothes, and—”He stopped and stood listening and gazing in wonder at the great negro and my companion, for the boy had gone up to him, and gesticulating rapidly and with animated face he seemed to be relating what had passed.The change that came over the big fellow’s face was wonderful. The minute before it wore its old, hard, darkening look of misery, with the eyes wild and the forehead all wrinkled and creased; but now as he stood listening, his eyes lit up, his forehead grew smooth, and his face seemed to have grown younger; his tightly-drawn-together lips parted, showing his white teeth. So that as my father took a step or two forward, seized the boy’s arm, and then laid his hand upon his head, it was a completely transformed countenance that looked in my father’s. For the man caught his hand, bent down and held it against his forehead, saying a few words in a low tone, and then drew respectfully away.“You have had a narrow escape, my boy,” said my father, huskily; “but out of evil sometimes comes good; and it looks as if your accident has broken the ice. Those two are completely transformed. It is just as if we had been doing them good, instead of their doing good to us. But there, get in. I don’t want to have you down with a fever.”My father was right; our two servants—I will not call them slaves, for they never were that to us—appeared indeed to be quite transformed, and from that day they always greeted me with a smile, and seemed to be struggling hard to pick up the words of our language, making, too, the most rapid progress. The heavy, hard look had gone from the black’s face, and the boy was always showing his white teeth, and on the look-out either to do something for me, or to go with me on my excursions.In a week it was “Mass’ George,” and in a month, in a blundering way, he could begin to express what he had to say, but only to break down and stamp, ending by bursting into a hearty laugh.It was my doing that the pair were called Pompey and Hannibal, and day after day, as I used to be out in the garden, watching the big black, who had entirely recovered his strength, display how great that strength was, I wondered how it was possible that the great happy-looking fellow could be the same dull, morose savage that we had brought dying ashore.At the end of another couple of months, I went in one day full of a new discovery.“Do you know who Pomp is, father?” I exclaimed.“Yes; an unfortunate young negro from the west coast of Africa.”“Yes, father, but more than that. Hannibal has been telling me, and I think I understand him, though it’s rather hard. They lived in a village up the country, and the enemy came in the night, and killed some, and took the rest prisoners to march them down to the coast, and sell them for slaves. Pomp’s mother was one of them, and she fell down and died on the march.”“Did Hannibal tell you this?”“Yes, father, and sat and cried as he told me; and Pompey’s his son.”“Are you sure?”“Oh, yes. He always calls Pompey ‘my boy,’ and Pomp called him ‘fader’ to-day.”“Ah, but that may merely be imitation.”“I don’t think it is,” I said, eagerly; and I proved to be right, for they certainly were father and son.The winter came and passed rapidly away, and it was never cold to signify, and with the coming spring all thoughts of the Indians and the Spaniards died away.My father would talk about the Indians’ visitation sometimes, but he considered that it was only to see if we were disposed to be enemies, and likely to attack them; but finding we did not interfere in the least, and were the most peaceable of neighbours, they were content to leave us alone.“And the Spaniards only tried to frighten us away, Morgan,” I said one day.“Well, I s’pose so, Master George; but you see we’re so shut up here we never know what’s going to take place unless a ship puts in. It’s a very beautiful place, but there isn’t a road, you see, that’s worth calling a road. Ah, there were roads in Carnarvon!”“I don’t believe you’d care to go back to them though, Morgan,” I said.“Well, I hardly know, Master George; you see this place don’t ’pear to agree with our Sarah’s temper. It gets very trying sometimes when it’s hot. It was very hot this morning, and she was so put out that when young Pomp put his black head in at the door she threw the big wooden shovel at him.”“But what for?”“That’s what I said to her, Master George. ‘Sarah,’ I says, ‘what had the poor black boy done to make you throw things at him?’“‘Done,’ she says; ‘didn’t you see him put his head round the door and grin at me?’“‘Well,’ I says, ‘Sarah, my girl, that’s only his way of showing that he likes you.’“‘Then I don’t want him to like me, and he’s more trouble than he’s worth.’ And there’s a lot of truth in that, Master George.”“Why he works hard, Morgan,” I said.“Yes, just so long as you are watching him. Then he’s off to play some prank or another. That boy always seems to me as if he must be doing something he ought not to do.”“Oh, he’s a very good boy.”“Never make such a man as his father, my lad. Humph! Here he is.”I turned, and there, sure enough, was Pomp making a large display of his white teeth, and holding something behind so that we should not see.“What have you got?” I said.He drew a basket forward and displayed four good-sized terrapins, and offered them to Morgan for a present.“No, no,” grumbled the man, “I don’t want them, and I’m sure that the missus would find fault if I took them in. She hates them; besides, I’m not going to be sugared over like that, to keep me from speaking out. Now, look here, you’ve been fishing.”“Yes, sah. Kedge de terrupum.”“And I told you to hoe down between those yams, didn’t I?”“Yes, Mass’ Morgan, I going to hoe down de yam-yam.”“But why isn’t it done?”“I d’know,” said Pomp, innocently.“You don’t know?”“No, sah, don’t know ’tall.”“But I told you to do them,” said Morgan, angrily. “Didn’t I?”“Yes, sah.”“Then why didn’t you do them?”“Wanted to go and kedge terrupum.”“Now, look here, sir, you’ve got to do what you’re told.”“What you tell me, den?”“I told you to go and hoe those yams, and you neglected the duty to go fishing.”“Yes, sir, go fishing; kedge terrupum.”“Instead of doing your work.”“Mass’ Morgan, sah,” began Pomp, in a tone of protest, but Morgan interrupted him.“Now then, how is it those yams are not hoed?”“Don’t know, sah. Tell Hannibal hoe them.”“You told Hannibal to hoe them—your father?”“Yes, tell um fader hoe um; Mass’ Morgan want um done.”“Yes, but I wanted you to do them.”“Yes, sah, and I want um fader to hoe um yam while I go kedge terrupum. You make big holler at um for not do um.”“Now then, look you, Master George, oughtn’t this fellow to be flogged?”“You say no, Mass’ George, and—”Morgan darted out a hand to catch Pomp’s arm, but the boy was too quick, and dodged behind me.“Let him be,” I said; “he doesn’t know any better.”“But I want to teach him better,” grumbled Morgan.“Hist! Mass’ George. I find great ’gator.”“Where?” I asked, eagerly, for I had long had an idea that I should like to see another of the monsters.“Down by de ribber. All lay long so, out in de hot sun.”Pomp threw himself on the ground, and wallowed along a little way. “All along so, sah, while I done kedge de terrupum, and then all along tell Mass’ George come and shoot um.”“How big was it?” I said, eagerly.“Big as ebber so much. Come on, see um, Mass’ George.”“It’s only some little one, half as big as the one we pulled out of the hole,” said Morgan. “You never want to go on them games now you’ve got that black chap.”“Oh, I’ll go with you any time, if you’ll come.”“Too busy, sir, too busy. Going to get a gun?”“Yes, I’ll go and see. It may be a big one. Colonel Preston’s man told me there are some very big ones up the river on the mud-banks.”“Yes, sir, but nobody ever sees them.”“Well, I’ll try this time, and if my father asks for me, say where I’ve gone.”I heard Morgan mutter something, but paid no heed, knowing that it was something about being careful with the gun, for I was not without my share of conceit and belief in my capacity of taking care of a gun. For my father had rather encouraged me to practise with his fowling-piece, as also with one of the heavy fire-locks we had in the house.“An emergency might come,” he said; and what with his instructions and those of Morgan, I was, if not a good marksman, as fairly expert as could be expected from a boy of my years.I soon had the gun from its slings, and, providing myself with powder and ball, rejoined Pomp, whose eyes rolled with excitement at the sight of the piece.“Me carry de powder shot bag,” he cried, eagerly; and I let him sling the pouches over his shoulder, and followed behind him, as he marched off with head erect, and a look of pride that was ludicrous. He was, as a rule, a creature apparently made up of springs, which were always setting him in motion; but when bound upon any shooting or fishing excursion the natural pride in his brain rose above everything else, and I was often turned into quite a secondary personage, and had to obey.It was so upon this occasion, for just as we reached the edge of the forest he stopped short, and in a stern whisper said—“’Top here and load um gun, or wake ole ’gator where um sleep.”I obeyed, of course, ramming home a bullet, and as I was in the act of removing the rod from the barrel, Pomp suddenly exclaimed—“Top um bit.”He ran off at full speed, and came back with his eyes flashing, and flourishing a small axe which he had fetched from the shed. This he directly after thrust into his belt, and holding up his hand, whispered—“Now, no make noise. I go first.”He went on, leading me through the drier part of the swamp, and right away from the river, to my great wonderment; but after walking silently about half an hour he stopped, again held up his hand, and then with the greatest of caution crept on through the bushes, and in and out among the swamp-trees, never making the slightest sound, and I followed as well as I could for about a quarter of an hour, when he signed to me to stop, and I knew by the bright light a little farther on that the river was pretty near.The next moment he was down flat, crawling slowly over the mossy ground, looking back to see if I was watching him, and pausing at last close to a gnarled old tree, which he tried to keep between him and the water.I had been watching him lying there for about five minutes, when I became aware of the fact that he was returning as silently as he had gone, and as he reached me he put his lips to my ear.“’Gator sleep in de mud. Mass’ George, crawl up to de big tree, look ’long gun, and shoot um.”I was skilled enough then in the huntsman’s craft to know what to do, and divesting myself of hat and boots, I went down and crawled cautiously in the trail made by the boy, trying hard to go as silently and with as little effort, but the nervous excitement set my heart beating, and by the time I reached the great gnarled tree I felt breathless, and my hands trembled exceedingly.I lay quite still for a few minutes before venturing to do more, and then inch by inch I drew myself sidewise, and peered round the rugged trunk of the tree.The next moment I was quite paralysed by the surprise I felt, for there, not twenty feet away from the spot where I lay, was a monstrous alligator, evidently fast asleep on a glistening mud-bank, his trail from the water being distinctly marked in the soft mud. There were the prints of his paws, and of his long tapering tail, and I could do nothing but gaze at his great proportions.As far as I could judge he was about fourteen feet long, but evidently of great age, from his bulk, his horny hide banded and barred and corrugated, while the strength of such a beast must be, I knew, tremendous.How long I watched the sleeping monster I cannot tell, but it was some time before I woke up to the fact that I had come on purpose to put an end to its destructive career, and that I had a gun ready charged in my hand lying close alongside.Then with my heart beating fast I slowly pushed the barrel forward, resting it upon one of the mossy buttresses at the tree-trunk, my eyes fixed all the time upon the great closed and smiling mouth, and the peculiar heavily-browed eyes.As if I were moved by something that was not myself, I gradually got the gun into position, grasping it firmly and pressing the butt home, while I carefully sighted the monster, wondering a little what the consequences would be if I missed, whether I should be attacked, and whether I should have time to get away. But directly after every sense was concentrated upon the task I had in hand, and just as I was about to draw trigger the creature quickly raised its head, as if suspecting the nearness of danger.I was well ready though now, and raised the barrel of my gun slightly, pressed it against the tree, and fired.There was the roar of the gun, a tremendous kick on the shoulder, and beyond the heavy sour-smelling smoke by which I was surrounded I heard a tremendous splashing and thrashing noise, accompanied by heavy blows, as if the monster was striking hard at something near.But I lay perfectly still, feeling that the wounded monster would on seeing me make a spring, and if it did I knew that my life was at an end.The splashings and the dull beating sound continued, but I kept behind the sheltering tree, now wondering whether the creature would have strength to get back into the river, or whether it would be there waiting for its assailant. At last, fascinated as it were by the desire to peep round the tree-trunk which sheltered me from my victim, I gently peered out, and stared in astonishment, for there was Pomp busy at work with his axe cutting off the reptile’s head, while the tail kept writhing and lashing the stream, alongside which it had nearly crawled.“Dat’s got um,” cried Pomp. “Hi! Ohey! Mass’ George.”I was already on my legs, and, gun in hand, I parted the bushes, and joined the boy just as the monster gave a tremendous heave and a writhe, and rolled off the bank with a tremendous splash in the water.“Ah, you no kedge fish and eat um no more, eh, Mass’ George?” he cried. “’Gator no good widout um head, eh?”I looked down on the mud, and there, sure enough, lay the creature’s head.“Why, Pomp!” I exclaimed; “what have you been doing?”“Cut off um head, Mass’ George. He no like dat.”Pomp broke out with one of his laughs, hooked hold of the grinning head, and dragged it out of the mud up to the side of a clear pool, a little way back in the swamp.“Stop a bit,” I said; “I want to have a good look at it.”“Wait till I wash um, Mass’ George. No; must wash umself fus. Here a mess.”Pomp was about to jump into the pool to wash the mud from his legs, when he suddenly clapped his hands.“Oh, here’s game, Mass’ George; only look. Dat’s ole ’gator’s house a water, where he keep all ’um lil pickaninny. Look at ’um.”Sure enough, there were five or six small alligators at the far end—little fellows not very long out of the shell.“Oh dear!” cried Pomp, “I very sorry for you poor fellows. Poor old fader got um head cut off. What, you no b’lieve um? Den look dah.”He threw the great head into the pool with a splash, and then jumped in to stand up to his knees, washing it about till it was free from mud, and his legs too, when he dragged it out again on to the green moss, and we proceeded to examine the horrible jaws.“Him much worse den Pomp.”“What do you mean?”“Mass’ Morgan and de capen say Pomp do lot o’ mischuff. Dat do more mischuff den Pomp.”“Yes, I should think so,” I said, as I examined the dripping head, and saw plainly that my bullet must have gone right through the monster’s brain, probably only stunning it for the time being, and enough to give the boy time to hack off its head. For these creatures have an amount of vitality that is wonderful, and after injuries that are certain in the end to prove fatal, contrive to get back into the water and swim away.It was a long time before I was satisfied with gazing at the grinning head, with its great teeth and holes in the upper jaw into which they seemed to fit as into a sheath. At last though I turned to the boy.“We must take it home, Pomp,” I said.“No,” he said, with a look of disgust. “Um quite dead now. Frow um into de ribber.”“Oh no! I want my father to see it, and Morgan.”“We go an’ fess um den.”“No, no. You must carry it home.”“No, too heaby, Mass’ George, and um begin to ’tink.”I laughed, for Pomp was beginning to show his natural disinclination for work, though certainly the hideous head did send forth an unpleasant, musky odour. So long as an exciting task was on hand which interested him, Pomp would work most industriously; but over anything plodding and approaching drudgery he was laziness itself.“I frow um in de ribber, or you frow um in, Mass’ George.”“Neither,” I said. “It must be carried home.”“What, dat great heaby head?”“Yes.”“What, all de way fro’ de tree?”“Yes.”“No, no, Mass’ George, um too heaby. Dat kill a poor nigger all dead, oh!”“Nonsense! It is not so heavy as all that.”“Oh, yes; um drefful heaby. Frow um in.”“But I want my father to see it, and Morgan would like to.”“Eh? I see.”He ducked down quickly, and lifted the head on to an old stump. Then, breaking off a bough of dead wood, he chopped a short piece off and propped open the huge jaws.“Dah!” he exclaimed, gleefully. “Dat make um laugh, and de fly come in an’ out, an’ um no snap at um no more.”“But don’t I tell you that I want them to see it at home. Sarah would like to see it too.”“Eh? Oh, no, Mass’ George,” cried Pomp, excitedly, and beginning to imitate poor Sarah’s sharp acid way so accurately that I roared with laughter. For every tone of her voice—every gesticulation—was exactly true to nature.“‘What!’” he cried; “‘what you mean, you nast’ black young rascal, bring dat ting in my clean kitchun? I get hold ob you, I box your ears. How dah you—how dah you! Take um away—take um away!’ Dat what Misses Sarah say.”“But we will not take it into her clean kitchen, Pomp. We’ll put it on that pine-stump at the bottom of the garden.”“Oh, no, Mass’ George. Sun shine on um, and de fly come on. Make um ’mell horrid.”“Oh, that will soon go off,” I said. “Come, let’s get back. Wait till I’ve loaded again though. Here, give me the powder and a bullet. We might see something else.”“Eh?”“I said give me the powder and a bullet. Halloa! Where’s the ammunition?”“Eh? Now where I put dat amnisham, Mass’ George? I dunno.”“Why, you must have laid it down on the ground when we came after the alligator.”“Sure I did, Mass’ George. Ah, you are clebber boy. Come ’long, we find um we go back.”“No, no, stop. I want that head carried home.”“But um so heaby, Mass’ George, and poor Pomp drefful hot an’ tire.”“Dreadful lazy you mean,” I cried, angrily. “Come, sir.”“Now, Mass’ George cross again, and goin’ break poor lil nigger heart,” he whimpered.“Stuff! Sham! Lay hold of that head.”“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, Mass’ 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!” ejaculated 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, Mass’ 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 massa see um, an’ Mass’ Morgan?”“Yes,” I said.“Oh!” exclaimed the boy, in a tone which suggested that he at last understood me; “for de massa and Mass’ Morgan see um. I run home fess um here.”He was off like a shot, but my voice checked him.“Stop, sir.”“You call, Mass’ George?”“Come here, you young rascal!”“Come dah, Mass’ 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, Mass’ 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 Mass’ 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, Mass’ 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 Mass’ George such coward.”“Eh? What do you mean?”“Lil bit do, Mass’ 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 Mass’ George such coward.”“I’m not, sir. Why?”“Cut great big ’tick like dat to beat poor lil nigger like Pomp.”“Lil nigger like Pomp!” I cried, mockingly; “why, you’re as big as I am. Get up, you great tar-coloured stupid.”“No, no, Mass’ 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, Mass’ George?” he whimpered.“Enough?” I cried. “Did you think I cut this great pole to whop you?”“Yes, Mass’ 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.“Ah, you deserve it,” I said; “telling a fib like that.”“Was dat a fib, Mass’ George?”“Yes; you didn’t know it all the time.”“No, Mass’ George; not till you tell um. I tought you cut de big ’tick to whop poor nigger all black and blue.”“Why, how could I?” and I roared with laughter as I looked at his shiny, ebony skin.“Dunno, Mass’ George. Hit berry hard, make um bruisum all ober de body, same as you say when you tumble down—you say make um all black and blue.”“There, come along,” I said; “let’s get the thing home. Phew! Look at the flies already.”“Whish—whoosh—whoosh!” cried Pomp, breaking off a bough and sweeping it round. “Nebber mind, Mass’ George; fly keep on eat lit bit all de way home; not hab so much a carry.”“But how are we to manage? Here, you must find some tough cane to lay the head on.”“I know now,” cried Pomp, taking the pole.“What are you going to do?” I said.“Put um down um troat. So.”As he spoke, he ran the pole through the open jaws and out at the neck, so that the head was safely swinging in the middle.“Dah,” he said, “now you carry dat end, I carry dis end. Dat end nice an’ tin for Mass’ George.”“Why, you cunning young rascal,” I said, “you want me to carry the dirty wet end, do you?”Pomp grinned, and broke off some thick leaves to carefully clean the sullied end, chuckling merrily the while.“Um was horrid nassy, Mass’ George,” he said. “Now all right.”I took up and shouldered the gun, and then seizing one end of the pole, we marched triumphantly back with our grisly trophy, accompanied by quite a cloud of flies which kept up a tremendous humming noise.I went first, and easily found the spot where the ammunition had been set down by Pomp in his excitement; and after he had thrown the pouch-straps over his shoulder and I had decided not to load again, as we were going straight home, we prepared for a fresh start.“Mass’ George like to come dis end?” said Pomp.“No,” I said; “I’ll go first;” and we went on till Pomp began to grunt and shudder.“What’s the matter?” I said, looking back.“Poor Pomp get all de ’mell ob de head dis end.”“All right,” I said; “it won’t hurt you.”“But um do ’tink horrid, Mass’ George.”“We’ll carry it the other way, side by side, as soon as we get out of the trees,” I said; and we went on a little further, when the boy uttered a shout.“What’s the matter now?” I said.“De fly, Mass’ George.”“Never mind the flies,” I said; “they will not hurt you.”“But dey do, Mass’ George. Dey keep tink Pomp am de head, and sit on um and bite lil bit out ob um arm and neck. Poor nigger hardly got a bit ob clothes on.”“And a good job too, Pomp,” I cried. “I wish I hadn’t. Phew! It is hot!”After divers changes about, in which I got my fair share of the nuisance, we reached the house, to find my father at home; and he, Morgan, and Hannibal came on to meet our triumphant procession.“Bravo, George!” said my father; “why, that’s quite a patriarch. How did you manage to kill him?”“Mass’ George shoot um, and Pomp cut um head off,” cried the boy, proudly.“Yes,” I said; “Pomp found him asleep, and fetched me. Morgan, I want it on that stump.”“No, no, sir,” said Morgan. “I’ll get the hammer and a big spike-nail, and drive it through the back of the skin into that big tree at the bottom.”“Capital!” I cried.“But it will be a nuisance,” said my father.“Oh no, sir. It’s full in the hot sun, and the flies will clean it. Before a week’s out it will be dry.”Hannibal fetched the short ladder, and held the head, while Morgan drove in the nail so that the great head with its propped open jaws hung there grinning at the bottom of the garden; the skin soon shrinking away so that the head hung as it were by a skin loop; and before a month was past it was perfectly inoffensive, and had preserved in drying its natural appearance in a wonderful way.

By a wonderfully kindly arrangement of nature we recover very rapidly when we are young; and before half an hour had passed I was seated on the thwart, using one of the oars, while the boy was using the other, but he kept leaving off rowing to gaze earnestly in my face; and when I smiled at him to show him that I was better, he showed his white teeth, and even then I could not help thinking what a bright, chubby-looking face he had, as he plunged his oar in again, and tugged at it, rowing very clumsily, of course, but helping me to get the boat along till we reached the rough logs and the stumps which formed our landing-place, where I was very glad to get ashore and make the boat fast.

“Well, George, how many fish?” cried my father, as I went up to the house, to find him in the garden trying to direct the big black how to use his hoe.

“None, father,” I said, half hysterically, for I was quite broken down.

“Why, what’s the matter?” he said. “Hallo! Been in?”

“Yes—been drowned—that boy.”

“What!” cried my father, furiously.

“No, no! He jumped in—saved me—I was going down.”

I saw my father close his eyes, and his lips moved as he stood holding my hand in his, evidently struggling with his emotion. Then he said quietly—

“Better go in and get some dry clothes, and—”

He stopped and stood listening and gazing in wonder at the great negro and my companion, for the boy had gone up to him, and gesticulating rapidly and with animated face he seemed to be relating what had passed.

The change that came over the big fellow’s face was wonderful. The minute before it wore its old, hard, darkening look of misery, with the eyes wild and the forehead all wrinkled and creased; but now as he stood listening, his eyes lit up, his forehead grew smooth, and his face seemed to have grown younger; his tightly-drawn-together lips parted, showing his white teeth. So that as my father took a step or two forward, seized the boy’s arm, and then laid his hand upon his head, it was a completely transformed countenance that looked in my father’s. For the man caught his hand, bent down and held it against his forehead, saying a few words in a low tone, and then drew respectfully away.

“You have had a narrow escape, my boy,” said my father, huskily; “but out of evil sometimes comes good; and it looks as if your accident has broken the ice. Those two are completely transformed. It is just as if we had been doing them good, instead of their doing good to us. But there, get in. I don’t want to have you down with a fever.”

My father was right; our two servants—I will not call them slaves, for they never were that to us—appeared indeed to be quite transformed, and from that day they always greeted me with a smile, and seemed to be struggling hard to pick up the words of our language, making, too, the most rapid progress. The heavy, hard look had gone from the black’s face, and the boy was always showing his white teeth, and on the look-out either to do something for me, or to go with me on my excursions.

In a week it was “Mass’ George,” and in a month, in a blundering way, he could begin to express what he had to say, but only to break down and stamp, ending by bursting into a hearty laugh.

It was my doing that the pair were called Pompey and Hannibal, and day after day, as I used to be out in the garden, watching the big black, who had entirely recovered his strength, display how great that strength was, I wondered how it was possible that the great happy-looking fellow could be the same dull, morose savage that we had brought dying ashore.

At the end of another couple of months, I went in one day full of a new discovery.

“Do you know who Pomp is, father?” I exclaimed.

“Yes; an unfortunate young negro from the west coast of Africa.”

“Yes, father, but more than that. Hannibal has been telling me, and I think I understand him, though it’s rather hard. They lived in a village up the country, and the enemy came in the night, and killed some, and took the rest prisoners to march them down to the coast, and sell them for slaves. Pomp’s mother was one of them, and she fell down and died on the march.”

“Did Hannibal tell you this?”

“Yes, father, and sat and cried as he told me; and Pompey’s his son.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, yes. He always calls Pompey ‘my boy,’ and Pomp called him ‘fader’ to-day.”

“Ah, but that may merely be imitation.”

“I don’t think it is,” I said, eagerly; and I proved to be right, for they certainly were father and son.

The winter came and passed rapidly away, and it was never cold to signify, and with the coming spring all thoughts of the Indians and the Spaniards died away.

My father would talk about the Indians’ visitation sometimes, but he considered that it was only to see if we were disposed to be enemies, and likely to attack them; but finding we did not interfere in the least, and were the most peaceable of neighbours, they were content to leave us alone.

“And the Spaniards only tried to frighten us away, Morgan,” I said one day.

“Well, I s’pose so, Master George; but you see we’re so shut up here we never know what’s going to take place unless a ship puts in. It’s a very beautiful place, but there isn’t a road, you see, that’s worth calling a road. Ah, there were roads in Carnarvon!”

“I don’t believe you’d care to go back to them though, Morgan,” I said.

“Well, I hardly know, Master George; you see this place don’t ’pear to agree with our Sarah’s temper. It gets very trying sometimes when it’s hot. It was very hot this morning, and she was so put out that when young Pomp put his black head in at the door she threw the big wooden shovel at him.”

“But what for?”

“That’s what I said to her, Master George. ‘Sarah,’ I says, ‘what had the poor black boy done to make you throw things at him?’

“‘Done,’ she says; ‘didn’t you see him put his head round the door and grin at me?’

“‘Well,’ I says, ‘Sarah, my girl, that’s only his way of showing that he likes you.’

“‘Then I don’t want him to like me, and he’s more trouble than he’s worth.’ And there’s a lot of truth in that, Master George.”

“Why he works hard, Morgan,” I said.

“Yes, just so long as you are watching him. Then he’s off to play some prank or another. That boy always seems to me as if he must be doing something he ought not to do.”

“Oh, he’s a very good boy.”

“Never make such a man as his father, my lad. Humph! Here he is.”

I turned, and there, sure enough, was Pomp making a large display of his white teeth, and holding something behind so that we should not see.

“What have you got?” I said.

He drew a basket forward and displayed four good-sized terrapins, and offered them to Morgan for a present.

“No, no,” grumbled the man, “I don’t want them, and I’m sure that the missus would find fault if I took them in. She hates them; besides, I’m not going to be sugared over like that, to keep me from speaking out. Now, look here, you’ve been fishing.”

“Yes, sah. Kedge de terrupum.”

“And I told you to hoe down between those yams, didn’t I?”

“Yes, Mass’ Morgan, I going to hoe down de yam-yam.”

“But why isn’t it done?”

“I d’know,” said Pomp, innocently.

“You don’t know?”

“No, sah, don’t know ’tall.”

“But I told you to do them,” said Morgan, angrily. “Didn’t I?”

“Yes, sah.”

“Then why didn’t you do them?”

“Wanted to go and kedge terrupum.”

“Now, look here, sir, you’ve got to do what you’re told.”

“What you tell me, den?”

“I told you to go and hoe those yams, and you neglected the duty to go fishing.”

“Yes, sir, go fishing; kedge terrupum.”

“Instead of doing your work.”

“Mass’ Morgan, sah,” began Pomp, in a tone of protest, but Morgan interrupted him.

“Now then, how is it those yams are not hoed?”

“Don’t know, sah. Tell Hannibal hoe them.”

“You told Hannibal to hoe them—your father?”

“Yes, tell um fader hoe um; Mass’ Morgan want um done.”

“Yes, but I wanted you to do them.”

“Yes, sah, and I want um fader to hoe um yam while I go kedge terrupum. You make big holler at um for not do um.”

“Now then, look you, Master George, oughtn’t this fellow to be flogged?”

“You say no, Mass’ George, and—”

Morgan darted out a hand to catch Pomp’s arm, but the boy was too quick, and dodged behind me.

“Let him be,” I said; “he doesn’t know any better.”

“But I want to teach him better,” grumbled Morgan.

“Hist! Mass’ George. I find great ’gator.”

“Where?” I asked, eagerly, for I had long had an idea that I should like to see another of the monsters.

“Down by de ribber. All lay long so, out in de hot sun.”

Pomp threw himself on the ground, and wallowed along a little way. “All along so, sah, while I done kedge de terrupum, and then all along tell Mass’ George come and shoot um.”

“How big was it?” I said, eagerly.

“Big as ebber so much. Come on, see um, Mass’ George.”

“It’s only some little one, half as big as the one we pulled out of the hole,” said Morgan. “You never want to go on them games now you’ve got that black chap.”

“Oh, I’ll go with you any time, if you’ll come.”

“Too busy, sir, too busy. Going to get a gun?”

“Yes, I’ll go and see. It may be a big one. Colonel Preston’s man told me there are some very big ones up the river on the mud-banks.”

“Yes, sir, but nobody ever sees them.”

“Well, I’ll try this time, and if my father asks for me, say where I’ve gone.”

I heard Morgan mutter something, but paid no heed, knowing that it was something about being careful with the gun, for I was not without my share of conceit and belief in my capacity of taking care of a gun. For my father had rather encouraged me to practise with his fowling-piece, as also with one of the heavy fire-locks we had in the house.

“An emergency might come,” he said; and what with his instructions and those of Morgan, I was, if not a good marksman, as fairly expert as could be expected from a boy of my years.

I soon had the gun from its slings, and, providing myself with powder and ball, rejoined Pomp, whose eyes rolled with excitement at the sight of the piece.

“Me carry de powder shot bag,” he cried, eagerly; and I let him sling the pouches over his shoulder, and followed behind him, as he marched off with head erect, and a look of pride that was ludicrous. He was, as a rule, a creature apparently made up of springs, which were always setting him in motion; but when bound upon any shooting or fishing excursion the natural pride in his brain rose above everything else, and I was often turned into quite a secondary personage, and had to obey.

It was so upon this occasion, for just as we reached the edge of the forest he stopped short, and in a stern whisper said—

“’Top here and load um gun, or wake ole ’gator where um sleep.”

I obeyed, of course, ramming home a bullet, and as I was in the act of removing the rod from the barrel, Pomp suddenly exclaimed—

“Top um bit.”

He ran off at full speed, and came back with his eyes flashing, and flourishing a small axe which he had fetched from the shed. This he directly after thrust into his belt, and holding up his hand, whispered—

“Now, no make noise. I go first.”

He went on, leading me through the drier part of the swamp, and right away from the river, to my great wonderment; but after walking silently about half an hour he stopped, again held up his hand, and then with the greatest of caution crept on through the bushes, and in and out among the swamp-trees, never making the slightest sound, and I followed as well as I could for about a quarter of an hour, when he signed to me to stop, and I knew by the bright light a little farther on that the river was pretty near.

The next moment he was down flat, crawling slowly over the mossy ground, looking back to see if I was watching him, and pausing at last close to a gnarled old tree, which he tried to keep between him and the water.

I had been watching him lying there for about five minutes, when I became aware of the fact that he was returning as silently as he had gone, and as he reached me he put his lips to my ear.

“’Gator sleep in de mud. Mass’ George, crawl up to de big tree, look ’long gun, and shoot um.”

I was skilled enough then in the huntsman’s craft to know what to do, and divesting myself of hat and boots, I went down and crawled cautiously in the trail made by the boy, trying hard to go as silently and with as little effort, but the nervous excitement set my heart beating, and by the time I reached the great gnarled tree I felt breathless, and my hands trembled exceedingly.

I lay quite still for a few minutes before venturing to do more, and then inch by inch I drew myself sidewise, and peered round the rugged trunk of the tree.

The next moment I was quite paralysed by the surprise I felt, for there, not twenty feet away from the spot where I lay, was a monstrous alligator, evidently fast asleep on a glistening mud-bank, his trail from the water being distinctly marked in the soft mud. There were the prints of his paws, and of his long tapering tail, and I could do nothing but gaze at his great proportions.

As far as I could judge he was about fourteen feet long, but evidently of great age, from his bulk, his horny hide banded and barred and corrugated, while the strength of such a beast must be, I knew, tremendous.

How long I watched the sleeping monster I cannot tell, but it was some time before I woke up to the fact that I had come on purpose to put an end to its destructive career, and that I had a gun ready charged in my hand lying close alongside.

Then with my heart beating fast I slowly pushed the barrel forward, resting it upon one of the mossy buttresses at the tree-trunk, my eyes fixed all the time upon the great closed and smiling mouth, and the peculiar heavily-browed eyes.

As if I were moved by something that was not myself, I gradually got the gun into position, grasping it firmly and pressing the butt home, while I carefully sighted the monster, wondering a little what the consequences would be if I missed, whether I should be attacked, and whether I should have time to get away. But directly after every sense was concentrated upon the task I had in hand, and just as I was about to draw trigger the creature quickly raised its head, as if suspecting the nearness of danger.

I was well ready though now, and raised the barrel of my gun slightly, pressed it against the tree, and fired.

There was the roar of the gun, a tremendous kick on the shoulder, and beyond the heavy sour-smelling smoke by which I was surrounded I heard a tremendous splashing and thrashing noise, accompanied by heavy blows, as if the monster was striking hard at something near.

But I lay perfectly still, feeling that the wounded monster would on seeing me make a spring, and if it did I knew that my life was at an end.

The splashings and the dull beating sound continued, but I kept behind the sheltering tree, now wondering whether the creature would have strength to get back into the river, or whether it would be there waiting for its assailant. At last, fascinated as it were by the desire to peep round the tree-trunk which sheltered me from my victim, I gently peered out, and stared in astonishment, for there was Pomp busy at work with his axe cutting off the reptile’s head, while the tail kept writhing and lashing the stream, alongside which it had nearly crawled.

“Dat’s got um,” cried Pomp. “Hi! Ohey! Mass’ George.”

I was already on my legs, and, gun in hand, I parted the bushes, and joined the boy just as the monster gave a tremendous heave and a writhe, and rolled off the bank with a tremendous splash in the water.

“Ah, you no kedge fish and eat um no more, eh, Mass’ George?” he cried. “’Gator no good widout um head, eh?”

I looked down on the mud, and there, sure enough, lay the creature’s head.

“Why, Pomp!” I exclaimed; “what have you been doing?”

“Cut off um head, Mass’ George. He no like dat.”

Pomp broke out with one of his laughs, hooked hold of the grinning head, and dragged it out of the mud up to the side of a clear pool, a little way back in the swamp.

“Stop a bit,” I said; “I want to have a good look at it.”

“Wait till I wash um, Mass’ George. No; must wash umself fus. Here a mess.”

Pomp was about to jump into the pool to wash the mud from his legs, when he suddenly clapped his hands.

“Oh, here’s game, Mass’ George; only look. Dat’s ole ’gator’s house a water, where he keep all ’um lil pickaninny. Look at ’um.”

Sure enough, there were five or six small alligators at the far end—little fellows not very long out of the shell.

“Oh dear!” cried Pomp, “I very sorry for you poor fellows. Poor old fader got um head cut off. What, you no b’lieve um? Den look dah.”

He threw the great head into the pool with a splash, and then jumped in to stand up to his knees, washing it about till it was free from mud, and his legs too, when he dragged it out again on to the green moss, and we proceeded to examine the horrible jaws.

“Him much worse den Pomp.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mass’ Morgan and de capen say Pomp do lot o’ mischuff. Dat do more mischuff den Pomp.”

“Yes, I should think so,” I said, as I examined the dripping head, and saw plainly that my bullet must have gone right through the monster’s brain, probably only stunning it for the time being, and enough to give the boy time to hack off its head. For these creatures have an amount of vitality that is wonderful, and after injuries that are certain in the end to prove fatal, contrive to get back into the water and swim away.

It was a long time before I was satisfied with gazing at the grinning head, with its great teeth and holes in the upper jaw into which they seemed to fit as into a sheath. At last though I turned to the boy.

“We must take it home, Pomp,” I said.

“No,” he said, with a look of disgust. “Um quite dead now. Frow um into de ribber.”

“Oh no! I want my father to see it, and Morgan.”

“We go an’ fess um den.”

“No, no. You must carry it home.”

“No, too heaby, Mass’ George, and um begin to ’tink.”

I laughed, for Pomp was beginning to show his natural disinclination for work, though certainly the hideous head did send forth an unpleasant, musky odour. So long as an exciting task was on hand which interested him, Pomp would work most industriously; but over anything plodding and approaching drudgery he was laziness itself.

“I frow um in de ribber, or you frow um in, Mass’ George.”

“Neither,” I said. “It must be carried home.”

“What, dat great heaby head?”

“Yes.”

“What, all de way fro’ de tree?”

“Yes.”

“No, no, Mass’ George, um too heaby. Dat kill a poor nigger all dead, oh!”

“Nonsense! It is not so heavy as all that.”

“Oh, yes; um drefful heaby. Frow um in.”

“But I want my father to see it, and Morgan would like to.”

“Eh? I see.”

He ducked down quickly, and lifted the head on to an old stump. Then, breaking off a bough of dead wood, he chopped a short piece off and propped open the huge jaws.

“Dah!” he exclaimed, gleefully. “Dat make um laugh, and de fly come in an’ out, an’ um no snap at um no more.”

“But don’t I tell you that I want them to see it at home. Sarah would like to see it too.”

“Eh? Oh, no, Mass’ George,” cried Pomp, excitedly, and beginning to imitate poor Sarah’s sharp acid way so accurately that I roared with laughter. For every tone of her voice—every gesticulation—was exactly true to nature.

“‘What!’” he cried; “‘what you mean, you nast’ black young rascal, bring dat ting in my clean kitchun? I get hold ob you, I box your ears. How dah you—how dah you! Take um away—take um away!’ Dat what Misses Sarah say.”

“But we will not take it into her clean kitchen, Pomp. We’ll put it on that pine-stump at the bottom of the garden.”

“Oh, no, Mass’ George. Sun shine on um, and de fly come on. Make um ’mell horrid.”

“Oh, that will soon go off,” I said. “Come, let’s get back. Wait till I’ve loaded again though. Here, give me the powder and a bullet. We might see something else.”

“Eh?”

“I said give me the powder and a bullet. Halloa! Where’s the ammunition?”

“Eh? Now where I put dat amnisham, Mass’ George? I dunno.”

“Why, you must have laid it down on the ground when we came after the alligator.”

“Sure I did, Mass’ George. Ah, you are clebber boy. Come ’long, we find um we go back.”

“No, no, stop. I want that head carried home.”

“But um so heaby, Mass’ George, and poor Pomp drefful hot an’ tire.”

“Dreadful lazy you mean,” I cried, angrily. “Come, sir.”

“Now, Mass’ George cross again, and goin’ break poor lil nigger heart,” he whimpered.

“Stuff! Sham! Lay hold of that head.”

“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, Mass’ 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!” ejaculated 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, Mass’ 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 massa see um, an’ Mass’ Morgan?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Oh!” exclaimed the boy, in a tone which suggested that he at last understood me; “for de massa and Mass’ Morgan see um. I run home fess um here.”

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

“Stop, sir.”

“You call, Mass’ George?”

“Come here, you young rascal!”

“Come dah, Mass’ 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, Mass’ 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 Mass’ 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, Mass’ 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 Mass’ George such coward.”

“Eh? What do you mean?”

“Lil bit do, Mass’ 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 Mass’ George such coward.”

“I’m not, sir. Why?”

“Cut great big ’tick like dat to beat poor lil nigger like Pomp.”

“Lil nigger like Pomp!” I cried, mockingly; “why, you’re as big as I am. Get up, you great tar-coloured stupid.”

“No, no, Mass’ 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, Mass’ George?” he whimpered.

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

“Yes, Mass’ 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.

“Ah, you deserve it,” I said; “telling a fib like that.”

“Was dat a fib, Mass’ George?”

“Yes; you didn’t know it all the time.”

“No, Mass’ George; not till you tell um. I tought you cut de big ’tick to whop poor nigger all black and blue.”

“Why, how could I?” and I roared with laughter as I looked at his shiny, ebony skin.

“Dunno, Mass’ George. Hit berry hard, make um bruisum all ober de body, same as you say when you tumble down—you say make um all black and blue.”

“There, come along,” I said; “let’s get the thing home. Phew! Look at the flies already.”

“Whish—whoosh—whoosh!” cried Pomp, breaking off a bough and sweeping it round. “Nebber mind, Mass’ George; fly keep on eat lit bit all de way home; not hab so much a carry.”

“But how are we to manage? Here, you must find some tough cane to lay the head on.”

“I know now,” cried Pomp, taking the pole.

“What are you going to do?” I said.

“Put um down um troat. So.”

As he spoke, he ran the pole through the open jaws and out at the neck, so that the head was safely swinging in the middle.

“Dah,” he said, “now you carry dat end, I carry dis end. Dat end nice an’ tin for Mass’ George.”

“Why, you cunning young rascal,” I said, “you want me to carry the dirty wet end, do you?”

Pomp grinned, and broke off some thick leaves to carefully clean the sullied end, chuckling merrily the while.

“Um was horrid nassy, Mass’ George,” he said. “Now all right.”

I took up and shouldered the gun, and then seizing one end of the pole, we marched triumphantly back with our grisly trophy, accompanied by quite a cloud of flies which kept up a tremendous humming noise.

I went first, and easily found the spot where the ammunition had been set down by Pomp in his excitement; and after he had thrown the pouch-straps over his shoulder and I had decided not to load again, as we were going straight home, we prepared for a fresh start.

“Mass’ George like to come dis end?” said Pomp.

“No,” I said; “I’ll go first;” and we went on till Pomp began to grunt and shudder.

“What’s the matter?” I said, looking back.

“Poor Pomp get all de ’mell ob de head dis end.”

“All right,” I said; “it won’t hurt you.”

“But um do ’tink horrid, Mass’ George.”

“We’ll carry it the other way, side by side, as soon as we get out of the trees,” I said; and we went on a little further, when the boy uttered a shout.

“What’s the matter now?” I said.

“De fly, Mass’ George.”

“Never mind the flies,” I said; “they will not hurt you.”

“But dey do, Mass’ George. Dey keep tink Pomp am de head, and sit on um and bite lil bit out ob um arm and neck. Poor nigger hardly got a bit ob clothes on.”

“And a good job too, Pomp,” I cried. “I wish I hadn’t. Phew! It is hot!”

After divers changes about, in which I got my fair share of the nuisance, we reached the house, to find my father at home; and he, Morgan, and Hannibal came on to meet our triumphant procession.

“Bravo, George!” said my father; “why, that’s quite a patriarch. How did you manage to kill him?”

“Mass’ George shoot um, and Pomp cut um head off,” cried the boy, proudly.

“Yes,” I said; “Pomp found him asleep, and fetched me. Morgan, I want it on that stump.”

“No, no, sir,” said Morgan. “I’ll get the hammer and a big spike-nail, and drive it through the back of the skin into that big tree at the bottom.”

“Capital!” I cried.

“But it will be a nuisance,” said my father.

“Oh no, sir. It’s full in the hot sun, and the flies will clean it. Before a week’s out it will be dry.”

Hannibal fetched the short ladder, and held the head, while Morgan drove in the nail so that the great head with its propped open jaws hung there grinning at the bottom of the garden; the skin soon shrinking away so that the head hung as it were by a skin loop; and before a month was past it was perfectly inoffensive, and had preserved in drying its natural appearance in a wonderful way.

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