Instantly the horse gave a loud snort, leaped high into the air, broke the halter rope with which he was tied to the post, sprang awkwardly across the lot, and stood in the corner of the fence, looking fearfully around him and blowing the air with a whistling sound through his nostrils. “What in the name of mud is the matter with that fool?” Gaitskill demanded. “Dat hoss is done expe’unce a rattlesnake, Marse Tom, an’ dat rattlin’ newspaper skeart him” Shin Bone grinned. “When dat hoss hears somepin rattle he don’t take no time to study--he hikes!” Shin walked over and led the trembling animal back to the post. Gaitskill said with deep regret: “My fine horse is ruined, Shin. If he should recover from that stiff leg he would always be unreliable.” “Dat’s a fack, Marse Tom,” Shin agreed. “Nothin’ cain’t never make no rattlin’ sound aroun’ him. I done expe’unce dat myse’f--he throwed me off two times an’ nigh fractioned my neck.” “I don’t know what to do with him now,” Gaitskill said sadly. “Sell him to me, Marse Tom!” Shin pleaded. “Me an’ Whiffle Boone is gwine git married an’ start a eatin’-house, an’ ef I could own dis hoss an’ a little wagon I could make plenty money wid light haulin’.” Gaitskill pondered this a moment. Then he said: “I’ll let you have him for forty dollars, Shin.” “Suttinly, Marse Tom. I’ll take him!” “But remember this: you must promise to turn that horse into my pasture every night, so he can get enough to eat. I won’t have you starve him.” “A nigger don’t starve his own hoss, Kunnel,” Shin Bone laughed. “A nigger will steal feed fer his own hoss, but he won’t steal fer a white man’s hoss.” Gaitskill smiled and turned away. Shin gazed upon Rattlesnake with the proud eyes of an owner. He put his arms around the animal’s slim, graceful neck, drew the shapely head down upon his bosom, and said: “Cripple hoss, ef I jes’ had a live rattlesnake to tie to yo’ tail, I figger I could go out on de race-track dis day an’ win all de races whut is!” Suddenly he straightened up, released the horse’s head and turned away with an air of deep dejection. “Shucks!” he growled. “Marse Tom specify I got to pay him fawty dollars fer dis hoss! Whar kin I git dat money?” Shin led the horse back to the stall and sat down on a broken chair in the runway. Twenty minutes of deep cogitation threw no light upon his financial problem, so he rose with a sigh and idly ran his hands through his empty pockets. Suddenly he thought of the breast pocket of his coat. Hastily he thrust his hand into that pocket and brought out one silver dollar and one copper cent. Up to that moment he had forgotten this money since he placed it there three days before. “Dis two money fotch me luck one time,” he sighed. “Mebbe I could git a little lift from ’em agin ef Skeeter Butts hadn’t took cold foots an’ announce his specify dat he warn’t gwine race no mo’.”