"Come in and git me!" screamed Joe, defiant.
Bill, if not too large, was far too dignified for such an enterprise. So
he got the broom, and began to stir Joe with the handle,--not observing,
in his wrath, that, the more he worried Joe, the more he was damaging
his own precious broadcloth.
"I'm the lion to the show!" cried Joe, rolling and tumbling under the
bed to avoid the broom. "The keeper's a punchin' on me, to make me
roar!"
And the lion roared.
"He's a gunter come into the cage by-'m-by, and put his head into my
mouth. Then I'm a gunter swaller him! Ki! hoo! hoo! oo!"
He roared in earnest this time. Bill, grown desperate, had knocked his
shins. As long as he hit him only on the head, the king of beasts didn't
care; but he couldn't stand an attack on the more sensitive part.
"Jest look here, now!" exclaimed the old negress, with unusual spirit;
"gi' me that broom!"
She wrenched it from Bill's hand.
"Perty notion, you can't come home a minute without pesterin' that boy's
life out of him!"
You see, color makes no difference with grandmothers. Black or white,
they are universally unjust, when they come to decide the quarrels of
their favorites.
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