I ain't much 'count mebby. But ef yo' dare lay one finger on mah mule Boomerang, only jest one finger, mind you', why I'll—I'll jest natchally drown yo'—all in whitewash, dat's what I'll do!"
Eradicate drew himself up proudly, and boldly faced Andy. The bully shrank back. He knew better than to arouse the colored man further.
"You'll suffer for this," predicted the bully. "I'm not going to forget it. Tom Swift put you up to this, and I'll take it out of him the next time I see him. He's to blame."
"Now looky heah, honey!" said Eradicate quickly. "Doan't yo' all git no sich notion laik dat in yo' head. Massa Tom didn't tell me to do nothin' an I ain't. He ain't eben 'round yeh. An' annudder thing. Yo'se t' blame fo' this yo' own se'f. Ef yo' hadn't gone fo' t' kick de bucket it nebber would 'a happened. It's yo' own fault, honey, an' doan't yo' forgit dat! No, yo' better go home an' git some dry clothes on."
It was good advice, for Andy was soaking wet. He glared angrily at Eradicate, and then swung off down the road, the whitewash dripping from his garments at every step.
"Land a massy! But he suah did use up all mah lime," complained Eradicate, as he picked up the overturned pail. "I's got t' make mo'. But I doan't mind," he added cheerfully, and then, as
