The negroes tramped out of the door like a drove of horses going through a gap, and then they scattered to all parts of the town to carry the dreadful news.
Dr. Moseley’s examination failed to find a single gunshot wound.
“You are not shot, Tick,” Moseley said. “You’ve been lying to these friends of yours. Somebody beat you over the head with a club.”
“Naw, suh; dat warn’t it, doc,” Tick insisted. “I wus shotted wid bofe barrels of a shotgun!”
“Tick don’t know whut happened, doc,” Skeeter commented. “He come in here ’bout a hour ago so full of booze dat he sloshed like a water-wagon when he walked.”
Moseley bandaged the cut lips and legs and the bruised head, and left Tick to the care and nursing of Skeeter Butts.
“Yes, suh; I’ll set up wid him all night, doc,” Skeeter said. “He’s a fool frien’ of mine.”
Skeeter was aching to know exactly what had happened to Tick, and as soon as the physician left, Tick was served with a drink which sobered him almost immediately, and then he told Skeeter all about his affair in the road.
When Tick had finished, Skeeter sat for a long time in deep thought, at intervals grunting like a pig when some new idea punched him in a new place.
At last he rose to his feet and got his hat.