Drawn by E. W. Kemble.
Mustard proceeded to paint him red.
“Don’t scrouge, niggers!” Mustard bawled, as he held his chair poised for battle. “I done kilt so many coons I can’t count ’em. A feather fell from a buzzard’s wing an’ hit me on de head when I wus little, which am a sign dat my path is crossed wid dead men. Come right on an’ git your’n!”
Then for a minute Mustard and Pap were the center of a whirling wheel of legs and arms and hands and heads; holding their chairs before them they charged through the ring like two angry bears. Men doubled up before them and went down and they took a side-swipe at the rest as they passed.
They had reached the door in safety and were just about to pass through when the door was blocked by the portly form of the town constable.
The combatants came to a full stop. The battle was ended.
“Dat’s dem, Mister Rogers!” Solly Saddler squealed, as he pointed out Pap and Mustard. “Dey wus peckin’ on me an’ Smart Durret.”
“You four bucks march along in front of me,” the officer announced briefly. “Go to jail.”
At the jail door Mustard stopped to make a plea which was ably seconded by the others.