“But I ain't gwine to give it back,” smiled the old man.
Colonel Troup flushed: “What'll you do, then? Let him rob you an' me, sah? Steal my two thousand, and Flecker's? Your purse that you've already won—yours—yours, right this minute? Rob the public in a fake race, sah? You've won the purse, it is yours, sah. He forfeited it when he brought out that other mare. Think what you are doing, sah!”
“Cap'n Tom an' Shiloh, too”—winced the old man. “But I forgot—you don't kno'—yes”—and he smiled triumphantly. “Yes, Col'nel, I'll let him do all that if—if God'll let it be. But God won't let it be!”
Colonel Troup arose disgusted—hot. “What do you mean, old man. Are you crazy, sah? Give me back my word—”
“Wait—no—no,” said the Bishop. “Col'nel, you're a man of yo' word—wait!”
And he arose and was gone.
The Colonel swore soundly. He walked around and damned everything in sight. He fumbled his pistol in his pocket, and wondered how he could break his word and yet keep it.
There was no way, and he went off to take a drink.
Bud, the tears running down his cheeks—was rubbing Ben Butler down, and saying: “Great hoss—great hoss!”
Of all, he and the Bishop had not given up.