“Full flush,” answered “Peachy.”
“Mexico” was in the grasp of the elemental emotions of his untutored nature. His swarthy face was twisted like the face of a man in torture. His black eyes were gleaming like two fires from under his shaggy eyebrows.
“How it came about,” continued the doctor, in a quiet, even tone, “I am not going to tell. But this I am going to say, I know it was God's great mercy, His great kindness it was that took the hate out of my heart. I forgave my brother that day—and—God forgave me. That's all there is to it. It's the biggest thing that has ever come to me. I have got my brother back just as when we were little chaps at the Old Mill.” A sudden choke caught the speaker's voice. The firm lips quivered and the strong hands writhed themselves in a mighty effort to master the emotions surging through his soul.
Tommy Tate was openly sniffling and wiping his eyes. “Peachy” Budd was swearing audibly his emotions, but, most of all, “Mexico's” swarthy face betrayed the intensity of his feelings. He had grasped the back of the seat before him and was leaning toward the speaker as if held under an hypnotic spell.
Again the doctor, getting his voice steady, went on. “I have just a word more to say. I would like to give credit for this that happened to me to the One we have been reading about this afternoon, and I do so with all my heart. I came near being coward enough and mean enough to go away without owning this up before you. How He did it, I do not pretend to know. I'm not a preacher. But He did it, and that's what chiefly concerns me. And what He did for me I guess He can do for any of you. And now I've got to square up some things. 'Mexico'—” At the sound of his name “Mexico” started violently and, involuntarily, his hand went, with a quick motion, toward his hip—“I've taken a lot from you. I'd like to pay it back.” The voice was humble, earnest, kind.
“Mexico,” taken by surprise, shifted his tobacco to the other side of his mouth, stood up and drawled out, “Haow? Me? Pay me back? Blanked if you do! It was a squar' deal, wa'n't it?”
“Yes, I played fair, 'Mexico,' but—”
“Then go to hell!” “Mexico's” tone was not at all unfriendly, but his vocabulary was limited, and he was evidently deeply stirred. “We're squar' an'—an' blanked if I don't believe ye're white! Put it thar!” With a single stride “Mexico” was over the seat that separated him from the platform and reached out his hand. The doctor took it in a hard grip.
“Look here, men,” he said, when “Mexico” had resumed his seat, “I've got to do something with this money. I've got at least five thousand that don't belong to me.”
“'Tain't ours,” called a voice.