Mass' George Part 78

"You've come back then?" she said, as I seated myself upon a box.

"Yes; and I'm as bad as Pomp now," I replied.

"Oh, I don't doubt that a bit, Master George. What new mischief has he been at now?"

"Getting himself taken by the Indians, and nearly killed."

"And you have too?"

"Not taken, but nearly killed."

"Well, it serves you both right," she cried, with her lips working. "It was bad enough to come to this terrible place without you two boys going and running into all kinds of risks, and getting yourselves nearly killed. I don't know what the captain has been about, I'm sure."

"About here," I said, good-humouredly.

"But tell me at once, sir. What do you mean about being as bad as that impudent black boy?"

"Oh, only that I'm dreffle hungry," I said, laughing.

"Hungry? Then why didn't you have some food as soon as you got back?"

"Because I had to go and tell them my news; and then I wanted to see how you were. How is your wound?"

"Oh, it don't matter about me a bit. I'm in hospital, and being attended to, so of course my husband can go on pleasure-trips, and leave his poor wife to die if so inclined."

"Curious sort of pleasure-trip, Sarah," I said. "I say, you should see how Morgan can fight."

"Fight? Did he have to fight?"

"Yes;" and I told her what he had done.

"Oh, what a foolish, foolish man! How could he go leading you into danger like that?"

"He didn't. I led him."

"Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself, Master George. But tell me; why did you go back home?"

"To see what the place was like, and whether it could be built up again."

"Built up? Why, it hasn't been blown down."

"No; burnt down."

"Burnt! What, our house?"

"Yes."

"But not my kitchen? Oh, Master George, don't say that my kitchen has been burned too."

"There's nothing left of the place but a little firewood and a few scuttles of ashes."

Sarah wrung her hands. "Oh dear--oh dear!" she cried, "why wasn't I told before?"

"Never mind; you'll soon be well again. You were not told for fear of worrying you; and as soon as we have got rid of the Indians my father will have the place all built up again, and it will be better than ever."

"Never!" said Sarah, emphatically. "But you were not hurt, my dear, were you?"

"No," I said, "only horribly frightened."

"No," said Sarah, emphatically, "you may have been startled, my dear, but I'm not going to believe that you were frightened. And you are hungry, too, and me not able to get about and cook you a bit of food."

"Oh, never mind. Now I know you are better I'll go and get something to eat."

"Yes, do, my dear, do," she cried, "and make haste. It was very kind of you to come. But do, please, do take care of yourself, my dear, and don't go running any more of these dreadful risks. Then you killed all the Indians?"

"They did," I said.

"That's a comfort," said Sarah. "I'm sorry for the poor savages, but it's their own fault. They should leave us alone. The cowards too-- shooting a poor woman like me. Well, there's an end of them now."

"Of that party," I said. "We are afraid that there will be another attack to-night."

"What? Oh dear me! Now I ask you, Master George, how can I get well with such goings-on as this?"

I did what I could to cheer her up, and went out to find Hannibal just leaving the doctor, and ready to laugh at the wounds upon his arms as being too trifling to be worthy of notice. In fact the pains he suffered did not prevent him from partaking of a hearty meal, at which Pomp stood looking on regretfully. I happened to catch his eye just as I was eating rather voraciously, the excitement and exertion having given me a tremendous appet.i.te.

"Have some, Pomp?" I said, feeling half guilty at sitting there eating, while the poor boy who had suffered so much in our service should be only looking on.

"What Ma.s.s' George say?" he replied, coming nearer.

"I say, will you have something to eat?"

Pomp sighed.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"Poor Pomp can't."

"Can't? Why not? If I like to give you some now, no one will say anything."

"Poor fellow," I added to myself, "how he remembers that he is a slave!"

All the time I was cutting him one of the solid slices of bread in which I knew from old experience he delighted so much, and then carved off a couple of good, pink-striped pieces of cold salt pork. But he drew away with a sigh.

"Why, what's the matter, Pomp?"

"Eat much, too much now," he said, quaintly. "Pomp can't eat no more."

The mournful way in which he said this was comical in the extreme, for he accompanied it with a sigh of regret, and shook his head as he turned away, unable to bear longer the sight of the good food of which he was unable to partake.