There was one minute of perfect silence. Vinegar broke out in a profuse perspiration. He removed his hat, placed it on the ground, wiped the sweat off the top of his bald head by the simple process of rubbing the sleeve of his coat over it, and sighed like a bellows. Then he asked timidly:
“Boss, would you mind pourin’ all dem buckshots back in de pouch? Dey rattled an’ spluttered all aroun’ me, but dey didn’t hit nowhar.”
“How’s that? I don’t get you!” Rouke snapped.
The two gazed at each other like glass-eyed china dogs, both devoid of comprehension. Then Vinegar wailed:
“Marse Tom hadn’t oughter shoved me inter dis jam. Mebbe ef he’d tole me ’bout dis hisself, I might could ketch on!”
“I don’t get you!” Rouke barked.
“Yes, suh, dat’s right!” Vinegar assured him.
Rouke slapped the upper pocket of his fancy waistcoat, snatched out two fat cigars, and held them out to Vinegar Atts. Without knowing it, he had made an overwhelming hit!
Vinegar took a cigar, carefully removed the large purple and gold band, placed it on his little finger, held up his gorilla-like hand and gazed at the ornament as admiringly as a maiden views her engagement ring. Then he leaned back and puffed the smoke in a cloud around his head.
“Dis shore is a good stogie, boss,” he remarked. “I’s powerful sorry dar ain’t no women folks aroun’ to see me smoke it. It makes me feel a whole heap better. Whut did you say you done fer a livin’?”