“You is,” says Br’er Coon, “that’s who. I ain’t associating with them what lies down on the ground and plays dead when there’s a free fight going on,” says he.
Then Br’er Possum grin and laugh fit to kill hisself.
“Lor’! Br’er Coon, you don’t think I done that ’cause I was afraid, does you?” says he. “Why, I were no more afraid than you is this minute. What was there to be skeered at?” says he. “I knew you’d get away with Mr. Dog if I didn’t, and I just lay there watching you shake him, waiting to put in when the time came,” says he.
br’er possum lay as if he was dead
Br’er Coon turn up his nose.
“That’s a mighty likely tale,” says he. “When Mr. Dog no more than touched you before you keeled over and lay there stiff,” says he.
“That’s just what I was going to tell you about,” says Br’er Possum. “I weren’t no more skeered ’n you is now, and I was going to give Mr. Dog a sample of my jaw,” says he, “but I’m the most ticklish chap that ever you set eyes on, and no sooner did Mr. Dog put his nose down among my ribs than I got to laughing, and I laugh till I hadn’t no more use of my limbs,” says he; “and it’s a mercy for Mr. Dog that I was ticklish, ’cause a little more and I’d have ate him up,” says he. “I don’t mind fighting, Br’er Coon, any more than you does, but I’m blessed if I can stand tickling. Get me in a row where there ain’t no tickling allowed, and I’m your man,” says he.
And to this day Br’er Possum’s bound to surrender when you touch him in the short ribs, and he’ll laugh even if he knows he’s going to be smashed for it.