“Confound me if I’ll be backed out!” he said, as he took out his pocket-book, counted out one hundred dollars and handed it to the stake-holder.
O, that money was in precious hands!
“Now,” said the darkey, who had made up his mind to win or lose one hundred dollars, “fix de lock fur me.”
Number Two “fixed” it.
The darkey took it, and first, merely as a matter of form, took a pull at the ring-bolt. It would not open, of course. Well, no matter: he knew where that “secret spring” was. You bet! He easily found the little protuberance, and pressed on it with his thumb. But it wouldn’t open. He pressed harder. No go. He pressed harder still, and pulled harder at the ring-bolt, at the same time. Bootless. He pressed harder still and pulled harder still. Vain efforts. He got a little apprehensive and a little desperate. The sum of one hundred dollars was at stake. The lock must be opened. He inserted the ring-bolt between his white teeth, placed his thumb on the imaginary spring, and pulled and pressed, and pressed and pulled, with the energy of despair. The lock was firm: his efforts futile.
A laugh now went round at the poor darkey’s expense; and he trembled, perceptibly, while his face assumed a sort of lead-color, with a greenish tinge. His thick lips also became quite void of moisture, and he spoke in a husky voice.
“Dun’no—dun’no—wedder I kin open him or not.”
“I don’t think you can,” said Number Two, calmly.
The poor darkey saw that his “stamps” were gone. Still, he tried it once more. He shook the lock—and something loose within rattled with a taunting sound, tapped it against the capstan, pulled at the bolt, pressed the delusive spring, pulled and pressed, again and again. All was in vain. He gave it up; but, O, with what a poor grace! and handed the lock to Number Two.
“I b’lieve dah’s som’in’ wrong about it,” said he.