“Dey crisscrossed my head wid a rabbit foot.”
“My Gawd!” Hitch howled, and his eyes looked scared. “Why ain’t you stood pigeontoed when you pitched, Figger? Dat’d bust de sign.”
“Shut up, Hitch!” Pap Curtain snarled as he came into the crowd. “You stop lowratin’ dat Figger Bush. I done made inquirements, an’ I foun’ out dat all dem Sawtown coons is got a buzzard’s feather in deir hat an’ snake-dust in deir shoes, an’ a raw pertater in deir pocket. Dey done sot deir triggers fer luck, and dey got all de rabbit foots in Sawtown hung roun’ deir necks!”
“My Lawd!” mourned Skeeter Butts, “dem niggers hadn’t oughter did us dataway.”
“Of co’se, I couldn’t do nothin’!” Figger Bush declared defensively. “Eve’y time I picked up dat ball it begun to claw at de inside of my hand jes’ like I wus holdin’ a live Jume bug!”
“Dat’s right!” Prince Total agreed. “Ef dem fust three balls I pitched hadn’t fotch dem niggers out, I never could ’a’ tossed anodder over dat plate. Dat ball’s got de slickments, an’ wiggles like a live snake!”
“Shore!” the fielders agreed with awed voices. “Somepin shore ails dat ball—dey muss hab rubbed it wid eel-juice!”
Skeeter Butts listened to this with ever decreasing hopes of victory for the team.
“Lawdymussy, niggers!” he sighed helplessly. “Think of all de dollars we is losin’. Ain’t dar no way to cross dem Sawtown hoodoo signs?”
“Us might try it,” Hitch Diamond said as he dived his hand into his pocket for his lucky charms. “Less dec’rate de fust batter wid all our luck pieces!”