“I don’t know what to do with him now,” Gaitskill said sadly.
“Sell him to me, Marse Tom!” Shin pleaded. “Me an’ Whiffle Boone is gwine git married an’ start a eatin’-house, an’ ef I could own dis hoss an’ a little wagon I could make plenty money wid light haulin’.”
Gaitskill pondered this a moment. Then he said:
“I’ll let you have him for forty dollars, Shin.”
“Suttinly, Marse Tom. I’ll take him!”
“But remember this: you must promise to turn that horse into my pasture every night, so he can get enough to eat. I won’t have you starve him.”
“A nigger don’t starve his own hoss, Kunnel,” Shin Bone laughed. “A nigger will steal feed fer his own hoss, but he won’t steal fer a white man’s hoss.”
Gaitskill smiled and turned away. Shin gazed upon Rattlesnake with the proud eyes of an owner. He put his arms around the animal’s slim, graceful neck, drew the shapely head down upon his bosom, and said:
“Cripple hoss, ef I jes’ had a live rattlesnake to tie to yo’ tail, I figger I could go out on de race-track dis day an’ win all de races whut is!”
Suddenly he straightened up, released the horse’s head and turned away with an air of deep dejection.