Mass' George Part 51

"What for?"

"A spark might set the powder off."

"Oh!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Pomp. Then, "What powder do if 'park send um off?"

"Blow the fire out and send the ducks into the river."

"What? An' de 'gator get um? Pomp not cook de duck for 'gator. 'Gator eat de duck raw, and no pick um fedder. Take de gun away."

I was already doing so, and standing it up behind us against a patch of low bushes, I hung the powder and shot pouches by their straps to the iron ramrod. Then going back to my place I sat watching the cooking, as the boy turned and re-turned the birds, which grew browner and more appetising every moment.

There were faults in that cooking, no doubt. There was neither plate nor dish, no bread, no salt or pepper, and no table-cloth. But there was something else--young, healthy appet.i.te, as we sat at last in the bright morning suns.h.i.+ne, drawn back now from the fire, Pomp and I, each with a roasting-stick in one hand, his knife in the other, cutting off the juicy brown bits, and eating them with the greatest of gusto, after an incision had been made, and the whole of the hardened interior had been allowed to fall out into the fire.

We hardly spoke, but went on eating, Pomp watching me and cutting the bird exactly as I did mine; then picking each bone as it was detached from the stick, and so on and on, till we had each finished his duck.

Our hands were not very clean, and we had no table napkins for our lips; but as we ate that meal, I can safely say for myself that it was the most delicious repast I ever had.

Then we sat perfectly still, after throwing our sticks into the remains of the fire, reduced now to a few glowing embers.

But there is one thing more of which I must speak, that is the third duck, which, certainly the best cooked and least burned of the three, had been served to table; that is to say, its burnt stick had been stuck in the sand between us, and there it was, nicely cooling down, and looking tempting in the extreme.

Pomp looked at me, and I looked at Pomp.

"I dreffle glad we come an' 'top out all night," he said, showing his white teeth. "Ma.s.s' George, go an' shoot more duck, an' Pomp cook um."

"We haven't finished that one," I said.

"No, Ma.s.s' George, no hab finish dat oder duck."

"Well, go on; I've had quite enough."

"Pomp had quite nuff too."

"Then we'll wrap it up in the napkin, and we'll eat it by and by for lunch."

"Yes; wrap um up an' eat um bime by."

I drew out the napkin, and Pomp shot the duck off the wooden spit on to the cloth, which, with due care to avoid the addition of sand, was folded up, and then I said--

"Now, Pomp, we must find the boat as we go back."

"Ma.s.s' George go back?" he said.

"Yes, of course; and get there as soon as we can."

"Yes, Ma.s.s' George," he said, sadly. "Pomp wouldn't mind 'top if Ma.s.s'

George say 'top here."

"We'll come again," I said, laughing. "Let's find the boat if we can, but we must make haste back."

"Hi! Ohey!" he shouted.

"What's the matter?" I said.

"Wha dat all gun?"

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

I looked sharply round at the bush, hardly comprehending my black companion's remark.

"What?" I said, in a confused way.

"Wha dat gun?"

"I stood it up against that bush," I said; and then, shaking off the dull stupid feeling which troubled me, darted to the bush, expecting to see that it had slipped down among the little branches.

The gun was gone, and I looked round at the other bushes dotted about.

"I put it here, didn't I?"

"Yes; Ma.s.s' George put um gun dah. Pomp know," he cried, running to me, and dropping on his knees as he pointed to the impression left in the dry sand by the b.u.t.t. "Gun gone down dah."

He began scratching up the sand for a few moments, and I watched him, half hoping and believing that he might be right.

But the boy ceased as quickly as he had begun.

"I know, Ma.s.s' George," he cried, starting up and gazing toward the river. "'Gator 'fraid we come shoot um, and come out of de ribber and 'teal a gun."

"Nonsense! An alligator wouldn't do that."

"Oh, I done know. 'Gator berry wicked ole rarksle."

"Where are the marks then?" I said.

"Ah, Pomp find um foots and de mark of de tail."

He looked sharply round, so did I; but as he searched the sand I examined the bushes, feeling that I must be mistaken, and that I must have laid the gun somewhere else.

It was very stupid, but I knew people did make such mistakes sometimes; and quite convinced now that this was a lapse of memory, began to cudgel my brains to try and recall the last thing I had done with the gun.

Pomp settled that, for he came back to me suddenly, and said--

"See Ma.s.s' George put de gun dah!"

"You are sure, Pomp?" I said, as he stood pointing his black finger at the bush.

"Yes, Pomp ebber so sure."