“Lean against ’er.”
“You think you’re smart,” fatty danced. “But just wait! My father’s going over to Garrison this afternoon to get the sheriff. And you’ll hear from him before night—you and that other trashy pair out in the country. We’ll show you who owns that house.”
“Eggbert!” a woman called from the porch of the big house. “EGGbert!”
Fatty turned.
“Now we know what it is,” I laughed. “It’s an egg.”
“Yah,” says Poppy, “a donkey egg.”
“Another crack like that,” frothed fatty, “and I’ll punch your face.”
“EGGbert!” came the impatient call. “Do you hear me? Papa wants you to get under the buggy and tighten a nut. Come now, for he’s hurrying to go over to Sandy Ridge on business.”
“Yah,” hooted Poppy, “go roll under the family carryall, EGGbert, and tighten some of the nuts in your head.”
“Is there a county sheriff in Sandy Ridge?” I inquired of Poppy, when the kid had gone.