“Ticky,” he said, “you stay here till I gits back.”
“Suttinly,” Tick said pitifully. “I’s skeart to go anywhar else; lock all de doors up tight.”
Skeeter ran across lots to his home on the premises of Sheriff John Flournoy.
Flournoy had a little automobile, which he used for fishing and hunting trips, and Skeeter pushed this out of the garage, cranked it, and jumped to the seat. In a few minutes he was back again at the saloon.
“Climb in dis machine, Ticky,” he commanded. “A leetle fresh air will rest yo’ mind an’ do you good. Git in!”
Then Skeeter steered the machine straight toward the home of Button Hook. Tick uttered angry and frightened protests, but in vain. Skeeter persisted in his plan.
“Dis is whar it happened, Skeeter,” Tick said as they passed a place in the road. “Dis is whar I wus shotted!”
“Whoa!” Skeeter said, as he brought the car to a stop. “Look dar—dat is de gun whut Button drapped!”
Placing the gun in the machine, Skeeter hurried on toward Button Hook’s home.
“Dis gun will he’p me a heap!” he exulted.