“We can’t do it, Hozie. Old Judgment is the most honest man on earth. He needs that money for the heathen. I could never look him in the face again. He wouldn’t do wrong to anybody, and he needs that money. He trusted that woman, jist like he trusts everybody. Why, he’d even trust me and you.”
“That’s right,” says I. “We’ll give it back.”
But I wanted to see how much money they took in for that show; so I steamed the envelope open and dumped it out. I looked at Peewee and he looked at me. Money? Nothin’ but a lot of old newspaper, cut to the size of bills. We sets there and does a lot of thinkin’, and after while Peewee dumps the whole works into the stove.
And as far as we know, the heathen are in jist the same shape they were before we put on this show. Peewee wanted to be a contortionist, and for once in his life he got tied in a knot. Peewee’s satisfied. Hank’s satisfied, but Susie ain’t; she wanted to go all the way to heaven. I’m satisfied—that a cowpuncher ought to keep off every kind of a stage, except one with four wheels.
Susie says it’s too bad we were obliged to miss the moral of her play, but I said I didn’t.
“What was the moral?” she asks.
“Don’t kill yore jockey before the race starts,” says I.
And I’m right, too.
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the April 10, 1929 issue of Short Stories magazine.