In the moment of his downfall John attained his object.
"Now I've got you," he said, white with passion, "and I'm going to teach you a lesson." Clinging to Pomp with one hand, he drew a stout string from his pocket with the other, and secured the hands of the little contraband, notwithstanding his efforts to escape.
"Le' me go, you debble," he said, using a word which had grown familiar to him on the plantation.
There was a cruel light in John's eyes which augured little good to poor Pomp.

Suddenly, as if a new idea had struck him, he loosened the cord, and taking the boy carried him, in spite of his kicking and screaming, to a small tree, around which he clasped his hands, which he again confined with cords.
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.