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Updated: May 22, 2025
Finish your breakfast and come out here. I want to talk to you." "Well," answered Groundhog, wiping his mouth, "I'm through. The feller that runs this shebang ain't made nothin' offen me, I kin tell you. It's the first square meal I've had for a week, and I've et until there ain't a crack left inside o' me that a skeeter could git his bill in. I laid out to git the wuth o' my money, and I done it.
"He says," interposed the ever-ready Skeeter, as his companion made queer noises in his throat, "that he never knowed it was you. He never went to trip you up. Honest to goodness! You ain't mad, are you?" "No, I ain't mad." Myrtella still smiled as she brushed the dust from her skirt. "Here's a orange I brought you, Chick. You ain't been sick, have you?" "Naw!
In the midst of an unusually fierce altercation, in which four boys contended for the same cap, Skeeter Sheeley's voice rose above the clamor. "It's our turn! Umpire says so, didn't you, Chick? Aw, you did, too! I kin understand you better 'n you kin understand yourself. 'Course it's ours. Stop shovin' me, Gussie McGlory, I'll swat yer in the jaw in a minute! Look out, Chick!
An' I kin tell yuh the time yore horse made when he run agin Dave's Boise. He's three seconds yes, by Christmas, he's four seconds slower t'day 'n what he's ever run before! What fer sport d' you call that?" His voice went up and cracked at the question mark like a boy in his early teens. Jeff stalked forward to Skeeter's side. "Jake, did you pull Skeeter?" he demanded sternly.
"Just a tongue-slip, Skeeter," Vandeman apologized. "I hope the boy'll come through all right same as you do." "You don't do anything about it the same as I do!" Skeet came back. "I'd be ashamed to 'hope' for a friend to be cleared of a charge like that. If I couldn't know he was clear clear all the time I'd try to forget about it."
Don't move!" There was a rush against the door and then a voice growled: "Aw, cut dat out! Wot do youse want to do scare him away by bustin' it! Pick de lock, an' we'll lay for him inside till he shows up." It was the Skeeter's voice. The Skeeter and his gang the worst apaches in the city of New York! Professional assassins, death contractors, he had called them and the lowest bidders!
I walk along humming a bar of villainous music, the "skeeter scale" that the orchestra used to turn turn turn taaaa-tum in the old Alhambra as the two dockwallopers and the leering Chinaman were climbing in through little Mabel's hall bedroom window to abduct her.
I made as good an imitation as I could of a gnat's hum, and kept up the tickling till he made two or three vicious lounges out at where I stood in the darkness, and this time he got hold of the twig. "Eh?" he exclaimed. "Dat not skeeter fly. Dat you, fader? You let lil nigger go sleep. Keep a 'tick 'till." "Eh? Who dat? Ah, yah! It you, Mass' George. I know all de time."
Jeff had been running to win, that day, and he had taken odds on Skeeter that had seemed to him perfectly safe. "I'll run yuh horse for horse!" he bellowed and spat out an epithet that sent Bud at him white-lipped. "Damn yuh, ride down to the quarter post and I'll show you some running!" Bud yelled back.
"There, be off below, and don't let the men all see what a setting-down you have had." I gave each of them a piteous look, turned as they had suggested, and hurried down to our cabin to have a good laugh all to myself. To my surprise, though, they followed me, Barkins to seat himself on the table, and Smith to lean up against the door. "Well, Skeeter," said the latter, "you've had it pretty hot.
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