“Hitch kin put his hands on yo’ head an’ mash yo’ face plum’ down in yo’ stomick--jes’ like you wus a mud-turkle!” Skeeter said. “He won’t git no chance to mash,” Conko assured him. “I’ll make him think he’s got bofe hands tied behime him an’ bofe behime foots kotch in a bear-trap.” “Hitch won’t take but two licks at you,” Skeeter continued. “One’ll be a up-cut whut’ll punch you in de air like a balloom; den he’ll take a side-swipe at you when you is comin’ down, an’ phish!--you’ll be over on de yuther side of Jordan!” “Huh!” Conko grunted. “Whut you reckin I’ll be doin’ to him when I’s comin’ down?” “De las’ time Hitch had a prize-fight,” Skeeter remarked, as he tried to roll a cigarette with fingers which trembled and spilled all the tobacco, “he specify dat he didn’t need but one glove, an’ he made em tie it on his _elbow_. He fiddled aroun’ an’ dodged dat big stiff till de nigger got in reach of dat elbow; den Hitch gib him a little jab in his soul-complexion, an’ dat nigger went to heaben fer a week!” “Huh!” Conko grunted. “Hitch’ll need gloves on his elbows to-day, too. But he’ll want ’em to keep him from hurtin’ his crazy-bones when I knocks him down.” “Hitch Diamond challenged Jack Johnsing,” Skeeter declared. “An’ you know whut dat nigger champeen of de worl’ went an’ done? He got on a big ferry-boat an’ went to Framce an’ specify dat he wustn’t never comin’ back to dis country no mo’!” “Jack Johnsing got skeared too soon,” Conko replied easily. “I always said he had a yeller streak.” “I seed Hitch fight a bear once,” Skeeter informed him. “He kotch dat bear by de tail, an’ dat bear gib one loud squall an’ drug Hitch plum’ to Arkansas befo’ Hitch could let loose his handholt!” “Huh,” Conko grunted, undismayed. “I ain’t got no tail.” Skeeter stopped. His thought could go no higher. His imagination could reach no further. Conko lighted a big cigar and puffed smoke like a steam-engine. He laid two monstrous hands, palm upward, upon the table between them and remarked: “Dese here hands needs exoncise, Skeeter. Hitch Diamond is shore gwine make a good punchin’ bag.” “I hopes you gits yo’ punch in fust,” Skeeter sighed, wishing that he had not bet so heavily. “Whut’s de matter wid you?” Conko Mukes bawled. “Is you gittin’ cold foots?” “Naw. Nothin’ like dat,” Skeeter hastened to assure him, “but----” “’Tain’t no need to git anxious,” Conko declared as he rose to go. “You go out an’ bet my money, an’ remember dat de Georgia Cyclome is a real twister.” “Hitch is a stem-winder, too,” Skeeter declared. As Conko Mukes tramped out of the saloon, Skeeter Butts wiped the clammy sweat from his face and sighed. “My Lawd!” he moaned. “I tried to skeer dat nigger up so he’d be keerful, but Conko don’t take no skeer. Leastwise, he don’t talk dat way. I got de hunch dat he ain’t nothin’ but beef an’ wind an’ a loud noise. I bet I’s gwine lose eve’y bet whut I done bet. Dat’s de bes’ bet I could bet!”