The Backslid Baptist stretched himself full length on the long leather seat of the smoking room.
"Baptist, how come it I don' know. De baby gallopehs wuz spinnin' fo' seven."
"Rough track an' de rocky road swerved 'em. Git to sleep. Us is due at Champaign at 8:10. Money come, money go. Whuteveh sleep you gits is that much to de good."
The Wildcat flopped down on the floor of the smoking room, but sleep would not come to him.
At half past seven the Backslid Baptist on the leather seat began mumbling to himself. A little later he awakened.
"Wilecat, whut dat noise?"
"Ain't heard no noise." All the Wildcat had heard was the accents of his bank-roll bidding him a last farewell.
"'At thumpin' noise." The Backslid Baptist's ears, keenly attuned to the turmoil of travel, distinguished in the sounds about him some unfamiliar puncture of the normal din.
"Sounded lak beatin' a board wid a stick."
"Kain't heah nothin'."