“You give’s holt o’ that whip, and I’ll flick him down like I would a fly.”
“No, no; don’t hurt him, Ike,” I said, laughing. “What were you making that noise for, Shock?”
“He calls that singing,” cried Ike, spitting on the ground in his disgust. “He calls that singing. He’s been lying on his back, howling up at the sky like a sick dog, and he calls that singing. Here, give us that whip.”
“No, no, Ike; let him be.”
“Yes; he’d better,” cried Shock defiantly.
“Yes; I had better,” cried Ike, snatching the whip from me, and giving it a crack like the report of a gun, with the result that Basket started off, and would not stop any more.
“Come down,” roared Ike.
“Sha’n’t!” cried Shock. “You ’it me, and I’ll cut the rope and let the baskets down.”
“Come down then.”
“Sha’n’t! I ain’t doing nothing to you.”