“I’ll go ax Skeeter Butts ’bout dis,” the wretched man moaned.
When he staggered into the Hen-Scratch saloon he made a big sensation. Negroes were standing at the bar, others were playing pool, some were engaged at various games at the table, and a big group was assembled in the center of the room singing, cracking jokes, and laughing as they smoked. The crowd sprang up and rushed forward as Tick stumbled in, sobbing like a little child.
“My Gawd, niggers!” he howled. “Marse Tom is got to git him anodder nigger. Dis’n is plum’ ruint. Send fer de dorctor! I’s been helt up an’ robbed an’ shotted to death!”
X
TICK SEEKS A PLACE TO DIE
Tick flopped over on a battered pool-table, and dyed the green cloth red with his blood.
A bunch of negroes gathered close around the table, cackling their comments like a flock of excited hens.
“I heerd dat gun go off!” Figger Bush squeaked. “Dey shot him twicet. Dat gun went bang! bang!”
“Us heerd it, too,” Hitch Diamond growled. “He shore is bad hurted. Dey shot bofe de legs off his pants. I ’speck he fixin’ to die!”
Skeeter Butts talked excitedly over the telephone and five minutes later a big automobile stopped in front of his place, and Dr. Moseley came in.
“Get all these niggers out of here, Skeeter!” he commanded sharply. “Clear the house!”