"Look yhere, yo' obtuscious ol' fool. W'at yo' 'sociatin' wid a low-down possum as takes t' mus'rats' holes? W'at I done tol' yo' 'bout dis? Go 'long home! Go 'long en talk de moon up a tree." And as Uncle Jethro dropped upon his knees by the hole, Calamity slunk away through the brush.
I held up a bunch of freshly washed grass-roots.
"Uncle Jeth, this must be a new species of possum; he eats roots like any muskrat," I said innocently.
It was good for Calamity not to be there just then. Uncle Jethro loved her as he would have loved a child; but he vowed, as he picked up his gun: "De nex' time dat no-'count dog don't talk possum, yo' 'll see de buzzard 'bout, yo' will."
We tramped up the hill and on through the woods to some open fields. Here on the fence we waited for Calamity's signal.
"Here on the fence we waited."
"Did you say you wouldn't put any price on Calamity, Uncle Jethro?" I asked as we waited.
There was no reply.