"What's er possum doin' under dat rock when dar's plenty trees fur him ter climb!" Alf asked.
"That's none uv yo' lookout," said Juckels. "He's under this rock, an' I'm goin' ter crawl up under thar arter him."
Alf looked at the ground, examined a number of tracks, and then remarked: "Co'se you ken do what you please 'bout dis yere matter, but ef you wuz er frien' o' mine I'd t'ar yo' coat mightily er holdin' ter you fo' I'd let you go up under dar."
"Yas, I reckon you would t'ar er feller's coat, an' take it erway frum him too, ef you could."
"Oh, go on up under de rock ef you wants to," Alf exclaimed; "but I tell you now dat ef you wuz er frien' o' mine I'd beg you might'ly not ter go under dar."
"You air er old thief, an' want me ter leave this possum so you ken git him."
"Come," said Potter, "there is no occasion for such language."
"This ain't none uv yo' er'fair, nuther," Juckels responded. "I'm goin' under thar, an' that's all thar is erbout it."
He threw his hat aside, kicked the whisky bottle into the river, got down on his hands and knees, and crawled under the rock. The men had turned to go away, when there issued from under the rock the most frightful noises—the yells of Juckels and the fierce shrieking of furious animals. Juckels rolled out from under the cliff. He was literally covered with wildcats. The men ran to his assistance. The animals ran back into their den. Juckels was unable to speak. He was bleeding from many wounds, and when he breathed, blood bubbled from a hole in his throat. Some time elapsed before a word was spoken.
"We must take him home," Potter said. "Cut down some saplings and we will make a stretcher."