“Some junk,” says he, turning up his nose—only he couldn’t turn it up very high, for it was too fat.
Now, if anybody else had said that we would have grinned. But not this young geezer. He was too much like his old man.
“Lookit!” I nudged the tire fixer. “We’ve got company.”
“Is it human?” says Poppy, taking a sweaty squint.
“It’s got arms and legs,” says I. “Nice plump ones, too.”
The kid’s face got red.
“Don’t get rosy,” says he, showing us a cute little scowl, “or you’ll get pinned on.”
“Shall we kill it,” says I to Poppy, “and put it out of its misery?”
“Huh!” snorted little roly-poly. “You better shut up, if you know what’s good for you. And you better git that old junk-pile out of the street, too. For we don’t want trash like that in front of our house.”
Poppy promptly let out his neck.