"Not so the devil! You can't shoo me away any longer. You ain't paid me for the last bunch a chicken I brung heah; and now you want t' shoo me away on this last stuff we done stole togedder." "Will you hush. We'll talk this matter over outside." "We's go'n talk it over heah, 'n' you go'n hand me ove fo' dollah's, ah I'm go'in' t' take it outta yo' stinkin' hide!" He looked at Moore now with an evil eye, and that worthy backed up and picked up a pair of scissors, that he had brought in late one night from one of the mysterious directions. "Oh, you go'n push them things through me, eh! All right, ole nigga. This is wha you 'n' me mixes it. I gi'n fix you ah you gi'n fix me," and with that he started in the other's direction. "Now, Sha'p Head. Ain' I done always treated you right?" Moore whimpered. "Naw, naw! 'n that's what I'm gi'n land on you cause!" "Now just name a time when I ain'," Moore temporized, nervously. "Naw, I say. Git out that winda 'f you don't wanta be killed. Git out wi' out awgument, cause I g'in to make you run some. Don't you b'lieve I'm go'n run yu?" "'C'ose I b'lieve you. I b'lieve you go'n come in heah 'n' run me outta ma house, outta ma house," cried Moore, piteously. "Come pickin' up a pair a-scissors two feet long to push in me," roared the other. "I got a notion t' run yu ontell yo' ankles gits hot. I'll run yu six blocks, you lop eared bull dog!" "You outta be 'shamed t' treat me that way, Sha'p head, 'n' you know you outta!" went on Moore, soothingly. "Come outside, John Moore, 'n' leave yo' coat inside. I'm go'n' run y' six blocks, so help me Gawd!" "All right, Sha'p Head. 'F you jes' gotta run me outta ma house, then go on outside. I'm a-comin." The other came through the room where Wyeth and Legs were trying to play a game of checkers. He was puffing so hard, that he appeared to be afraid of himself. "That low down skunk! I'm go'n run that nigga ontell 'is ankle's done be so hot that the streets go'n melt behind him! Doggone 'im!" "Are you outside, Sha'p Head?" called Moore, nervously. "I'm out heah, you liver eater. Come out wi' yo ankle's greased, 'cause you go'n run six blocks faster yu ebber did in yo' life; 'n' when you gits to d' end of it, I' gi'n kill yu!" "Bang!" went the door, and the key turned. To describe the indignation of Moore for the next few minutes; what he would do; what he ought to have done, would be beyond the possibilities of our pen. He was positively so bad that he had much effort to keep from doing injury to himself. Legs winked at Wyeth, and then, rising, unlocked the door and slipped out quietly. A moment later, a terrible banging was instituted upon the door. Wyeth held it closed, with a great feigned effort.