“Ef you wasn’t drunk, I’d kill you!” Hitch bawled, while Conko stood looking around him like a man in a dream. “As ’tis, I’s only gwine put yo’ hoodoo eyes on de bum!”
The job was quickly, neatly done—two slight taps on each side of Conko’s nose.
“Now git!” Hitch commanded, pointing toward the door.
Conko Mukes did not linger. When the swinging doors of the Hen-Scratch saloon closed behind him, Hitch and Skeeter walked out to the street.
Far down the road a streak of flying dust marked the route Conko had chosen as he left Tickfall forever.
The Art of Enticing Labor.
“What are you doing here, nigger?”
Colonel Tom Gaitskill’s voice cracked like a whip beside the ear of Pap Curtain.
Pap had three baseballs in his hand for which he had paid a nickel, and which he intended to throw at a row of nigger babies about forty feet away. The tall baboon-faced negro, with shifty eyes, furtive manner, and lips that sneered, started like a frightened animal. The balls dropped from his nerveless hands and he turned away.