"Not if I can stomp on you," declared Mrs. Tutts as the back fulness of Mrs. Jackson's skirt slipped through her fingers.
"What's the use of this? I don't want to fight, Mis' Tutts." Mrs. Jackson was galloping and slightly dizzy.
"You will onct you git into it," encouraged Mrs. Tutts, grimly measuring the distance between them with her eye.
"You ought to have your brains beat out for this!" On the thirteenth lap around the table Mrs. Jackson was panting audibly.
"Couldn't reach yours th'out cuttin' your feet off!" responded Mrs. Tutts, in whose eyes gleamed what sporting writers describe as "the joy of battle."
The strength of the hunted hostess was waning visibly.
"I've got heart trouble, Mis' Tutts," she gasped in desperation, "and I'm liable to drop dead any jump!"
"No such luck." Mrs. Tutts made a pass at her across the table.
"This is perfeckly ridic'lous; do you at all realize what you're doin'?"
"I won't," Mrs. Tutts spoke with full knowledge of the deadly insult; "I won't until I git a few handfuls of your red hair!"