A crowd quickly gathered around the prostrate Shin Bone, and he was picked up and carried into the Hen-Scratch saloon. A few minutes later, after sufficient liquor had been spilled down his throat and over his dusty clothes, Shin opened his eyes and gazed into the yellow, grinning face of Skeeter Butts.
“I figgered it wus about time you wus comin’ here so us could divide up, Shin,” Skeeter laughed. “But I’s plum’ sorry you got throwed off.”
“I cain’t divide up nothin’,” Shin said sadly. “Of co’se I’ll sottle my owe-bill wid you jes’ as soon as I kin. I done got me a job wid Marse Tom. But I ain’t got nary cent of money now.”
“I ’speck you is got mo’ dan you figger on,” Skeeter laughed. “How much does you s’pose you winned on dat race?”
“I ain’t winned nothin’,” Shin declared. “Skipper lose.”
“Shorely,” Skeeter agreed. “I knowed he wus gwine do dat all along. So I bet yo’ money an’ my money on Doodlebug!”
“Bless gracious!” Shin howled, sitting up in the middle of the floor and gazing into the faces of the grinning negroes who stood in a ring about him. “How much did you rake down?”
“Yo’ win is one hundred dollars,” Skeeter declared exultantly. “But you owes me fifty an’ I takes dat out of yo’ win.”
“Dat’s right,” Shin laughed. “Hand me over dem dollars.”
He sat down at the table and counted the money laboriously, his manner becoming more and more elated as the dollars piled up under his hand. Then he slipped the wad into his pocket, and beamed upon the circle of admiring friends.