“Gib him a leetle dram, Mister Johnnie,” Pap Curtain spoke up.
“Go over to my office and get my flask, Pap,” the sheriff commanded, as he tossed Curtain his office keys, “You’ll find it on my desk.”
Pap Curtain started after that flask at full speed. In the middle of the street, under the broken electric light, his foot struck a coarse canvas bag, he stumbled, fell headlong, butted a hitching post with a resounding whack and stayed right there.
Ten minutes later the crowd found him, unconscious, clutching the office keys in his cold hand.
One negro, a belated arrival, saw Pap Curtain fall.
He ran to Pap’s rescue, but never arrived. His foot also struck that bag. Stooping, he picked it up, felt of its contents, recognized the familiar rattle of coins, and promptly departed, taking that bag with him lest some other person fall over it and get hurt.
The sheriff had no sooner sent Pap Curtain after a flask than several were produced and tendered. The liquor, poured down the throat of Slatey, started a shudderlike cough and a bloody spume issued from the wounded man’s mouth. Then he spoke splutteringly:
“You broke a rib and caved it through the only good lung I have, Mr. Officer. I guess you win.”
“Where’s the money?” Flournoy demanded.
“I—ah—” A shuddering, racking cough stopped all speech and the pitiful creature struggled as if he were never to breathe again. At last he spoke: