Correct transcription error

src/epub/text/chapter-21.xhtml

@@ -113,7 +113,7 @@
 			<p>Maybe Bill he gives him a chaw; maybe he lies and says he ain’t got none. Some of them kinds of loafers never has a cent in the world, nor a chaw of tobacco of their own. They get all their chawing by borrowing; they say to a fellow, “I wisht you’d len’ me a chaw, Jack, I jist this minute give Ben Thompson the last chaw I had”⁠—which is a lie pretty much everytime; it don’t fool nobody but a stranger; but Jack ain’t no stranger, so he says:</p>
 			<p>“<em>You</em> give him a chaw, did you? So did your sister’s cat’s grandmother. You pay me back the chaws you’ve awready borry’d off’n me, Lafe Buckner, then I’ll loan you one or two ton of it, and won’t charge you no back intrust, nuther.”</p>
 			<p>“Well, I <em>did</em> pay you back some of it wunst.”</p>
-			<p>“Yes, you did⁠—‘bout six chaws. You borry’d store tobacker and paid back niggerhead.”</p>
+			<p>“Yes, you did⁠—’bout six chaws. You borry’d store tobacker and paid back niggerhead.”</p>
 			<p>Store tobacco is flat black plug, but these fellows mostly chaws the natural leaf twisted. When they borrow a chaw they don’t generly cut it off with a knife, but set the plug in between their teeth, and gnaw with their teeth and tug at the plug with their hands till they get it in two; then sometimes the one that owns the tobacco looks mournful at it when it’s handed back, and says, sarcastic:</p>
 			<p>“Here, gimme the <em>chaw</em>, and you take the <em>plug</em>.”</p>
 			<p>All the streets and lanes was just mud; they warn’t nothing else <em>but</em> mud⁠—mud as black as tar and nigh about a foot deep in some places, and two or three inches deep in <em>all</em> the places. The hogs loafed and grunted around everywheres. You’d see a muddy sow and a litter of pigs come lazying along the street and whollop herself right down in the way, where folks had to walk around her, and she’d stretch out and shut her eyes and wave her ears whilst the pigs was milking her, and look as happy as if she was on salary. And pretty soon you’d hear a loafer sing out, “Hi! <em>so</em> boy! sick him, Tige!” and away the sow would go, squealing most horrible, with a dog or two swinging to each ear, and three or four dozen more a-coming; and then you would see all the loafers get up and watch the thing out of sight, and laugh at the fun and look grateful for the noise. Then they’d settle back again till there was a dog fight. There couldn’t anything wake them up all over, and make them happy all over, like a dog fight⁠—unless it might be putting turpentine on a stray dog and setting fire to him, or tying a tin pan to his tail and see him run himself to death.</p>