“Yes, suh, elbow-grease is powerful good,” Skeeter said uneasily; “but I figgers dat us oughter hab all de he’p we kin git! Of co’se, I don’t b’lieve in no hoodoo myse’f, but——”
“Us don’t need no hoodoo,” Conko interrupted. “Let Hitch Diamond git it. He needs it. He don’t know it yit, but he needs a dorctor, a preacher, a undertaker, an’ a nice, deep grave in de cem’tery!”
“I wouldn’t be so powerful shore ’bout dat, Conko,” Skeeter suggested. “You ain’t never seed dat Hitch Diamond pufform.”
“Whut sort lookin’ coon is he?” Conko asked.
“He’s mo’ tall dan you, wider dan you, heavier dan you is. He’s got arms long enough to hug a elerphunt aroun’ de stomick.”
“I’ll break dem long arms in fo’ pieces an’ wrop ’em aroun’ Hitch’s neck like a mournin’ rag,” Conko declared.
“Hitch kin put his hands on yo’ head an’ mash yo’ face plum’ down in yo’ stomick—jes’ like you wus a mud-turkle!” Skeeter said.
“He won’t git no chance to mash,” Conko assured him. “I’ll make him think he’s got bofe hands tied behime him an’ bofe behime foots kotch in a bear-trap.”
“Hitch won’t take but two licks at you,” Skeeter continued. “One’ll be a up-cut whut’ll punch you in de air like a balloom; den he’ll take a side-swipe at you when you is comin’ down, an’ phish!—you’ll be over on de yuther side of Jordan!”
“Huh!” Conko grunted. “Whut you reckin I’ll be doin’ to him when I’s comin’ down?”