Rubin sidled over. “This ain’t none of your business,” he said.
“Besides, Rainie’s not looking for a fight. We just want to make a bet with him.”
Grandpa glared at Rubin. “Any bet you would make sure would be a good one all right. What kind of a bet?”
Rubin spat a mouthful of tobacco juice on the clean floor.
He said, “Well, we’ve heard so much about them hounds of his, we just think it’s a lot of talk and lies.
We’d like to make a little bet; say about two dollars.”
I had never seen my old grandfather so mad. The red had left his face.
In its place was a sickly, paste-gray color. The kind old eyes behind the glasses burned with a fire I had never seen.
In a loud voice, he asked, “Bet on what?”
Rubin spat again. Grandpa’s eyes followed the brown stain in its arch until it landed on the clean floor and splattered.
With a leering grin on his ugly, dirty face, Rubin said, “Well, we got an old coon up in our part of the country that’s been there a long time.
Ain’t no dog yet ever been smart enough to tree him, and I—”
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