“Well,” Skeeter snapped, “why don’t you tell it?”
“I don’t know how to begin,” Mustard sighed.
“Begin at de fust part an’ tell dat fust,” Skeeter ranted. “Is you been hittin’ Marse Tom’s bottle?”
Under this sort of prodding, continued for some time longer, Skeeter finally got Mustard started, and got the story. It is not necessary to repeat it, although Mustard’s way of telling what happened and what he thought of Popsy would be interesting.
“An’ now, Skeeter,” Mustard concluded, “de idear is dis: Popsy stole my rabbit-foot, an’ I want you to steal it back. Rob de ole man of my foot an’ fotch it back to me, an’ I’ll gib you one hundred dollars.”
“Pay in eggsvance?” Skeeter asked eagerly.
“No,” Mustard said.
“Bestow a little money in eggsvance to keep my mind int’rusted.”
“Suttinly. Ten dollars cash down—you got to pay it back ef you don’t do no good.”
“I’ll git de foot all right,” Skeeter said confidently.