“De las’ time Hitch had a prize-fight,” Skeeter remarked, as he tried to roll a cigarette with fingers which trembled and spilled all the tobacco, “he specify dat he didn’t need but one glove, an’ he made em tie it on his elbow. He fiddled aroun’ an’ dodged dat big stiff till de nigger got in reach of dat elbow; den Hitch gib him a little jab in his soul-complexion, an’ dat nigger went to heaben fer a week!”
“Huh!” Conko grunted. “Hitch’ll need gloves on his elbows to-day, too. But he’ll want ’em to keep him from hurtin’ his crazy-bones when I knocks him down.”
“Hitch Diamond challenged Jack Johnsing,” Skeeter declared. “An’ you know whut dat nigger champeen of de worl’ went an’ done? He got on a big ferry-boat an’ went to Framce an’ specify dat he wustn’t never comin’ back to dis country no mo’!”
“Jack Johnsing got skeared too soon,” Conko replied easily. “I always said he had a yeller streak.”
“I seed Hitch fight a bear once,” Skeeter informed him. “He kotch dat bear by de tail, an’ dat bear gib one loud squall an’ drug Hitch plum’ to Arkansas befo’ Hitch could let loose his handholt!”
“Huh,” Conko grunted, undismayed. “I ain’t got no tail.”
Skeeter stopped. His thought could go no higher. His imagination could reach no further.
Conko lighted a big cigar and puffed smoke like a steam-engine. He laid two monstrous hands, palm upward, upon the table between them and remarked:
“Dese here hands needs exoncise, Skeeter. Hitch Diamond is shore gwine make a good punchin’ bag.”
“I hopes you gits yo’ punch in fust,” Skeeter sighed, wishing that he had not bet so heavily.