likes better'n a sick pusson."

Sam stopped now, rolled up his sleeves and examined both arms,
apparently without success, for he then loosed his suspenders, dropped
his pants, and proceeded to examine his legs. Of course, all boys
have more or less cuts and bruises in various stages of healing. Sam
selected his best, just below the knee, a scratch from a nail in the
fence. He had never given it a thought before, but now he "reckoned
it would do." With a lead pencil borrowed from Yan he spread a hue
of mortification all around it, a green butternut rind added the
unpleasant yellowish-brown of human decomposition, and the result
was a frightful looking plague spot. By chewing some grass he made a
yellowish-green dye and expectorated this on the handkerchief which he
bound on the sore. He then got a stick and proceeded to limp painfully
toward the witch's abode. As they drew near, the partly open door was
slammed with ominous force. Sam, quite unabashed, looked at Yan and
winked, then knocked. The bark of a small dog answered. He knocked
again. A sound now of some one moving within, but no answer. A third
time he knocked, then a shrill voice: "Get out o' that. Get aff my
place, you dirthy young riff-raff."

Sam grinned at Yan. Then drawling a little more than usual, he said:

"It's a poor boy, Granny. The doctors can't do nothin' for him," which
last, at least, was quite true.

There was no reply, so Sam made bold to open the door. There sat the
old woman glowering with angry red eyes across the stove, a cat in her
lap, a pipe in her mouth, and a dog growling toward the strangers.