The men gradually talked themselves out and went away. Skeeter turned to his one friend and sympathizer, Figger Bush.
“Figger,” he said, “I’s gwine git even wid dat pair of crooks or die. Is you willin’ to he’p me?”
“Suttinly,” Figger agreed eagerly. “I think dem show folks done you powerful bad.”
“We begins right now,” Skeeter announced, as he got up and went back to a rear room and came out with Tella’s Spitz dog.
“Come out in front wid me, Figger,” Skeeter said, as he led the dog out of the door and stopped in the middle of the cinder sidewalk. “I want you to hold dis dawg for me.”
“Whut you gwine do?” Figger inquired.
“I’s gwine git back about fawty feet, take a little run, an’ kick dis dang dawg so fur dat de nex’ time he spits it’ll be in Arkansas!” Skeeter announced viciously.
“I’s wid you!” Figger chuckled, as he spraddled his legs and grasped the Pomeranian by his bushy, silky tail. “Kick de goal!”
Skeeter made a little run and almost kicked a hole in the sky. His right foot went up like he had hitched it to a star. For the little dog squatted and Skeeter missed him!
Then the dog got busy.