Two boys up the street diverted his attention for a moment. They had a long, black bullwhip, and were taking turn-about trying to see who could “pop” it the loudest. The “cracker” on the whip was nearly worn off, and they decided to plait an entirely new cracker, one that would pop like a pistol. Neither had a pocket-knife, and they could find nothing with which to remove the old cracker. They tried to saw it off with a piece of sharp glass, abandoned that in favor of a piece of sharp-edged tin can, then took a sharp rock and tried to beat it off.
When they saw Skeeter Butts they swooped down on him.
“Lend us de loant of yo’ pocket-knife, Skeeter,” Little Bit asked.
Skeeter thrust his hand into his pocket, found nothing, and answered:
“I left it inside de barroom. I’m glad of it, because you’s be shore to cut yourselfs.”
Skeeter leaned his chair against the tree, sat down, and placed the heels of his shoes in the front rungs of the chair, tipped his hat down over his eyes until the bridge of his nose was invisible, and sat motionless. Except the tiny column of smoke that curled up from his cigarette, there was scarcely a sign of life.
The two boys wandered around to the front of the saloon. Then a bright idea came to Little Bit:
“Marse Org, less git a match an’ burn de cracker offen dis ole whup.”
“Where’s the match?”
Little Bit led him into the saloon and conducted him to the little room in the rear. There, upon a table, they found a box of matches, and Org struck one and applied it to the cracker, while Little Bit held the whip.