"Go it, Fluke, go it!... Aw! damn it, he slid!... Go it, ole feller! Git
there, git there! Ye're almost there, Fluke--git it! It's a dinner--it's
a bone for Snatchet, and we'll eat!... Damn it! he slid again!... Aw!
hell!"

Flukey gained the space he had lost in his last slide. Halfway up, he
began again, the men cheering and the women waving handkerchiefs. But
the boy had heard only the words from the little figure under the pole.
The five dollars did mean a good dinner, and a bone for lean Snatchet.
Up, up, and still up, until his fingers grasped the pole very near the
top.

There he rested for breath. For a few seconds his head drooped on his
shoulders, and absolute quiet reigned below. His slender legs encircled
the pole, and finally, with a painful effort, he lifted out the pin
stuck in the bill, grasped the money in his fingers, and instantly slid
to the ground. Laughs and cheers roared into the air. Flea had backed
away from the pole, still holding the small dog; but, before she could
get to Flukey, other boys were surrounding him, asking how he had done
it.

* * * * *

A sudden shouting came from hundreds of throats. One voice raised above
the clamor:

"Anyone catching the greased pig, Squeaky, can have him. He's a fine
roaster! After him, Boys!"