But Archie B. did not wait. Slowly he slid down the tree, while Bonaparte, thunder-struck with joy, waited at the foot, his eyes glaring, his mouth wide open, anticipating the feast on fresh boy meat. Can he be—dare he be—coming down? Right into my jaws, too? The very thought of it stopped his snarls.
Jud's curses filled the air.
Down—down, slid Archie B., both legs locked around the tree, until some ten feet above the dog, and, then tantalizingly, just out of reach, he suddenly tightened his brown brakes of legs, and thrusting his hand in his pocket, pulled out a small rubber ball. Reaching over, he squirted half of its contents over the dog, which still sat snarling, half in fury and half in wonder.
Then something happened. Jud could not see, being down on his knees in the little stream, washing his eyes, but he first heard demoniacal barks proceed from Bonaparte, ending in wailful snorts, howls and whines, beginning at the foot of the tree and echoing in a fast vanishing wail toward home.
Jud got one eye in working order soon enough to see a cloud of sand and dust rolling down the road, from the rear of which only the stub of a tail could be seen, curled spasmodically downward toward the earth.
Jud could scarcely believe his eyes—Bonaparte—the champion dog—running—running like that?
“Whut—whut—whut,”—he stammered, “Whut did he do to Bonaparte?”
Then he saw Archie B. up the road toward home, rolling in the sand with shouts of laughter.
“If I git my hands on you,” yelled Jud, shaking his fist at the boy, “I'll swaller you alive.”
“That's what the fly-ketcher said to the butterfly,” shouted back Archie B.