"Here's luck!" he gulped, "that's all right—where's my hat?"
"Come out," says little Crook, "you need fresh air."
Jim got up, and wriggled loose, because he hated being pawed, then led the way out past the three fiddlers and the wheezing old harmonium to the door. Outside there was clear blue moonlight. "Where's my horse?" says he.
Crook was lighting a cigarette. "Yo' hawss," says he, "is in the stable. He's unsaddled, rubbed down, watered and fed, befo' now. I reckon you want to be watered and fed yo'self."
"No, kid, I'm not feeling proud enough for that."
"Come on, then," says Crook, "and watch me eat. I'm just a lil' wolf inside, and if I cayn't feed I'll howl."
They went to the pie foundry round the corner, and when Jim saw Crook eat he surely got ravenous. They both fed tree and severe, then strayed back heavy to the street in front of the Sepulchre saloon.
"Sit on yo' tail," says Crook, "and I'll feed you a cigarette." So they sat down on the sidewalk, and Jim yawned two yards and a quarter at one stretch.
"I cal'late," says Crook, "that yo' goin' to be riding to-night, so I had yo' saddle thrown on my buckskin mare."
"I'll be riding my bed on the sleep-trail."