He then sought out a stout stick, and divested it of twigs.

Pomp watched his preparations with terror. Too well he knew what
they meant. More than once he had seen those of his own color
whipped on the plantation. Unconsciously, he glided into the
language which he would have used there.

"Don't whip me, Massa John," he whimpered in terror. "For the lub
of Heaven, lef me be. I ain't done noffin' to you."

"You'd better have thought of that before," said John, his eyes
blazing anew with vengeful light. "If I whip you, you little
black rascal, it's only because you richly deserve it."

"I'll nebber do so again," pleaded Pomp, rolling his eyes in
terror. Though what it was he promised not to do the poor little
fellow would have found it hard to tell.

It would have been as easy to soften the heart of a nether
millstone as that of John Haynes.

By the time he had completed his preparations, and whirled his
stick in the air preparatory to bringing it down with full force
on Pomp's back, rapid steps were heard, and a voice asked, "What
are you doing there, John Haynes?"

John looked round, and saw standing near him Frank Frost, whose
attention had been excited by what he had heard of Pomp's cries.