Burying in dirt is the onliest thing
that'll take off the smell. We comed to ask you to watch Shoofly while
he's buried, cause Mis' Poteet will be mad at him when she comes home
if Shoofly smells. We're all a-going to stay right by him until he's
dug up, 'cause we all sicked him on that polecat and we ought in
honor!"
Stonie looked at the Swarm for confirmation of this worthy sentiment,
and it arose in a murmur. The Swarm was a choice congregation of small
fry that trailed perpetually at the heels of Stonewall Jackson, and at
the moment was in a state of seething excitement. Jennie Rucker's
little freckled face was pale under its usual sunburn, as a result of
being too near the disastrous encounter, and her little nose, turned
up by nature in the outset, looked as if it were in danger of never
again assuming its normal tilt. She held small Pete by one chubby
hand, and with a wry face he was licking out an absurd little red
tongue at least twice each moment, as if uncertain as to whether his
olfactory or gustatory nerves had been offended. Billy was standing
with the nonchalant unconcern of one strong of stomach, and the four
other little Poteets, ranging in size from Shoofly, on the floor, to
Tobe, the buried, were shuffling their bare feet in the dust with
evident impatience to be off to gloat over the prostrated but
important member of the family. They rolled their wide eyes at almost
impossible angles, and small Peggy sniffed audibly into a corner of
her patched gingham apron.
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