“Dis is my frein’, Mr. Deo Diddle, Skeeter,” Tella said easily. “I jes’ been tellin’ him how kind you wus to keep my dawg.”
“Glad to meet yo’ ’quaintance,” Skeeter mumbled, holding out his hand.
“Same back at you,” Deo replied. Then turning to Tella Tandy, he said: “Me an’ dis dawg is got a little bizzness wid Mr. Muskeeter Butts, Tella. You foller yo’ little nose down de street an’ see ef he don’t lead you somewhar else.”
Skeeter and Deo Diddle entered the saloon and sat down at the table with Figger Bush. The dog sniffed around the room for a minute and then passed out toward the rear.
Deo Diddle was about the size of Skeeter Butts, but it required no expert eyes to see that he was a perfect athlete. The poise of his head and body, the accuracy and decision of even the slightest move, the steady, assured gaze of his eyes indicated a man whose muscles and brain were trained in some field of endeavor which required both strength and wit.
“At de fust offstartin’, Mr. Butts,” Deo Diddle began easily, “I announces my bizzness an’ de puppus of my visit to Tickfall: I’s a Monarch of de Manacle.”
“You’s a—a—which?” Skeeter asked, his eyes sticking out like a bug’s.
“I gibs a show,” Deo Diddle explained. “I lets people handcuff me an’ I slips ’em off as easy as you kin take off a glove. I lets people nail me up in a box an’ I gits out as easy as you kin git outen dat chair. I lets people tie me in bed wid ropes an’ I gits loose as easy as a pickaninny kin fall outen a hammock. An’ on de side, I tells forchines, reads minds, finds lost treasures, an’ gives a few sleight-of-han’ tricks.”
“Huh!” Skeeter and Figger grunted in a duet.
“Yes, suh,” Deo Diddle went on. “I done hired dat hall down in de settlemint called Dirty-Six, an’ I’s gibin’ a show eve’y night fer three nights. Would you wish to come?”