Then he went to work on the ****, coaxing him and petting him, and asking him if he'd been imagining he saw something again.  He raised up, and blinked his eyes around, and says: “Mars Sid, you'll say I's a fool, but if I didn't b'lieve I see most a million 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 ****'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 yo