Saint Harvey reached for the cigar.
“I 'll go you, dod-baste the dod-basted luck!” he exclaimed, and with the other hand he reached for the money.
From the shed at the rear of the yard came the sharp, angry yelps of two of Saint Harvey's stray dogs beginning hostilities. Saint Harvey eased himself carefully out of his chair.
“You wait,” he said to Shuder.
Three minutes later three stray dogs, their tails trailing their legs, their eyes looking backward, dashed through the gate of the junkyard and down the street. Three pieces of old iron hurtled through the air after them.
“There!” puffed the Little Brother to Stray Dogs; “that's what I think of you, you worthless curs!”—and then he added, “Dod-baste you!”
The next morning, which was the morning of the anniversary of the day of our glorious independence, Lem, finishing the task of the breakfast dishes, had the final and crowning indignity thrust upon him. He was sore, anyway, because Miss Sue had forbidden firecrackers and other noise-makers, and now she told him to go upstairs and make his own bed.
“You're old enough, and you know enough, to make it,” she said, “and if you ain't it's time you was.”
“I won't! I won't do that! Boys don't make beds. That's girls' work.”
“Lem!”