dogs, er devils, er some'n, I wisht I may die right heah in dese tracks.  I did, mos' sholy.  Mars Sid, I _felt_ um--I _felt_ um, sah; dey was all over me.  Dad fetch it, I jis' wisht I could git my han's on one er dem witches jis' wunst--on'y jis' wunst--it's all I'd ast.  But mos'ly I wisht dey'd lemme 'lone, I does.” Tom says: “Well, I tell you what I think.  What makes them come here just at this runaway nigger's breakfast-time?  It's because they're hungry; that's the reason.  You make them a witch pie; that's the thing for _you_ to do.” “But my lan', Mars Sid, how's I gwyne to make 'm a witch pie?  I doan' know how to make it.  I hain't ever hearn er sich a thing b'fo'.” “Well, then, I'll have to make it myself.” “Will you do it, honey?--will you?  I'll wusshup de groun' und' yo' foot, I will!” “All right, I'll do it, seeing it's you, and you've been good to us and showed us the runaway nigger.  But you got to be mighty careful.  When we come around, you turn your back; and then whatever we've put in the pan, don't you let on you see it at all.  And don't you look when Jim unloads the pan--something might happen, I don't know what.  And above all, don't you _handle_ the witch-things.” “_Hannel 'M_, Mars Sid?  What _is_ you a-talkin' 'bout?  I wouldn' lay de weight er my finger on um, not f'r ten hund'd thous'n billion dollars, I wouldn't.” CHAPTER XXXVII. THAT was all fixed.  So then we went away and went to the rubbage-pile in the back yard, where they keep the old boots, and rags, and pieces of bottles, and wore-out tin things, and all such truck, and scratched around and found an old tin washpan, and stopped up the holes as well as we could, to bake the pie in, and took it down cellar and stole it full of flour and started for breakfast, and found a couple of shingle-nails that Tom said would be handy for a prisoner to scrabble his name and sorrows on the dungeon walls with, and dropped one of them in Aunt Sally's apron-pocket which was hanging