One night Br’er Possum called for Br’er Coon, and they rambled forth to see how the others were getting along. Br’er Possum he ate his fill of fruit, and Br’er Coon he scooped up a lot of frogs and tadpoles. They ambled along, just as sociable as a basket of kittens, till by-and-by they heard Mr. Dog talking to himself off in the woods.

“S’pose he runs upon us, Br’er Possum, what you going to do?” says Br’er Coon.

Br’er Possum sort of laugh round the corners of his mouth.

“Oh, if he comes, Br’er Coon, I’m going to stand by you,” says Br’er Possum. “What are you going to do?” says he.

“Who? Me?” says Br’er Coon. “If he runs up on to me, I lay I’ll give him a twist,” says he.

Mr. Dog he came and he came. He didn’t wait to say How-d’ye-do. He just sailed into the two of them. The very first pass he made, Br’er Possum fetched a grin from ear to ear, and keeled over as if he was dead. Then Mr. Dog he sailed into Br’er Coon, but Br’er Coon was cut out for that kind of business, and he fairly wiped up the face of the earth with Mr. Dog. When Mr. Dog got a chance to make himself scarce, he took it, and what was left of him went skaddling through the woods as if it was shot out of a gun. Br’er Coon he sort of licked his clothes into shape, and racked off, and Br’er Possum he lay as if he was dead, till by-and-by he looked up, sort of careful-like, and when he found the coast clear he scrambled up and scampered off as if something was after him.

Next time Br’er Possum met Br’er Coon, Br’er Coon refused to reply to his How-d’ye-do, and this made Br’er Possum feel mighty bad, ’cause they used to make so many excursions together.

“What makes you hold your head so high?” says Br’er Possum, says he.

“I ain’t running with cowards these days,” says Br’er Coon. “When I wants you, I’ll send for you,” says he.

Then Br’er Possum got very angry. “Who’s a coward?” says he.

“You is,” says Br’er Coon, “that’s who. I ain’t associating with them what lies down on the ground and plays dead when there’s a free fight going on,” says he.

Then Br’er Possum grin and laugh fit to kill hisself.

“Lor’! Br’er Coon, you don’t think I done that ’cause I was afraid, does you?” says he. “Why, I were no more afraid than you is this minute. What was there to be skeered at?” says he. “I knew you’d get away with Mr. Dog if I didn’t, and I just lay there watching you shake him, waiting to put in when the time came,” says he.

Br’er Coon turn up his nose.

“That’s a mighty likely tale,” says he. “When Mr. Dog no more than touched you before you keeled over and lay there stiff,” says he.

“That’s just what I was going to tell you about,” says Br’er Possum. “I weren’t no more skeered ’n you is now, and I was going to give Mr. Dog a sample of my jaw,” says he, “but I’m the most ticklish chap that ever you set eyes on, and no sooner did Mr. Dog put his nose down among my ribs than I got to laughing, and I laugh till I hadn’t no more use of my limbs,” says he; “and it’s a mercy for Mr. Dog that I was ticklish, ’cause a little more and I’d have ate him up,” says he. “I don’t mind fighting, Br’er Coon, any more than you does, but I’m blessed if I can stand tickling. Get me in a row where there ain’t no tickling allowed, and I’m your man,” says he.

And to this day Br’er Possum’s bound to surrender when you touch him in the short ribs, and he’ll laugh even if he knows he’s going to be smashed for it.