“I ain’t got no tenner, Vinegar,” Skeeter said nervously. “Conko will tell you dat he got my las’ dollar.” “Git some mo’ dollars!” Vinegar shouted. “Dat hoss white man muss hab ’vided up dat money wid you. I wants mine back!” “You got to gimme time,” Skeeter said desperately. “I’s tellin’ you de noble truth when I says I ain’t got it.” Vinegar turned around and looked at Conko significantly. The brave fighter stepped into the ring and shook a pugilistic fist under Skeeter’s twitching nose. “Lawdymussy, niggers!” Skeeter wailed. “Gimme a little time to hunt dat hoss. You oughter trust me till I kin find him.” “Us done spent a day huntin’ fer dat hoss,” Conko said inexorably. “It didn’t git us nothin’. Now you pay Vinegar’s money back an’ take yo’ time huntin’ dat hoss, an’ when you finds him you will own my tenth an’ Vinegar’s tenth an’ yo’ tenth of dat hoss. Three limpy legs will b’long to you.” Skeeter made a few more feeble protests; but when he saw that Conko was preparing to flash the old familiar weapon, he surrendered finally. Going to his little safe, to his cash-drawer, and raking his pockets of every coin, he managed to scrape together the sum required, in pitiful little pindling amounts—ten cents here and two bits there. “Dar it am,” Skeeter lamented. “I done squoze out my last nickel. I hopes you-alls will take pity on me, an’ not tell nobody dat I paid you back. De nex’ feller dat claims his money will have to take my pants!” “He’ll either take yo’ pants or git his money outen yo’ hide,” Conko laughed unfeelingly, as the two men walked out of the saloon. One hour later Figger Bush and Shin Bone entered the place and drew Skeeter off to a corner of the room. “Us wants our money back, Skeeter!” was the familiar greeting. “I ain’t got no money,” was Skeeter’s old lamentation. Followed a long argument, ending with threats. Skeeter pleaded and prayed until he saw that the two were clearing for action, and once more he quit. “I ain’t got no money, men,” he said desperately, throwing his arms wide in a hopeless gesture. “Jes’ look aroun’ you an’ he’p yo’selves to de Hen-Scratch.” “I takes a fancy to dat grassyphome,” Figger replied promptly. “I always did like free music, an’ dat machine will sound real good in my cabin, wid me settin’ on one side smokin’ my pipe an’ Scootie settin’ on de yuther side, dippin’ snuff.” “Take it!” Skeeter wailed. “Dis here slop-machine whar you draps in a penny an’ gits out a stick of chaw-gum will go good in my resteraw,” Shin Bone remarked. “Take it!” Skeeter lamented. “I’m a blowed-up sucker!” After these men departed, Skeeter did not have long to wait before another caller arrived. It was Pap Curtain. He bit off the end of a cigar and gazed intently into the little barkeeper’s gloomy face. “You owes me ten dollars, Skeeter,” he began.