About seven hundred people had assembled at that spot, and nearly all the live stock in the Parish was out in the woods!
To Skeeter’s unbounded amazement he found himself a wounded hero instead of a criminal and a captured fugitive.
“Did the stock run you down on the bridge, Skeeter?” Sheriff Flournoy asked; and that gave Skeeter his cue.
“Yes, suh. De bridge is been pretty rickety a long time, an’ dem animiles piled up all aroun’ me an’ we jes’ nachelly all went down.”
“If you want to bring suit against this Parish for injuries to yourself and damage to your automobile, I’ll help you,” Colonel Gaitskill snapped. “I’ve been telling that road commissioner to repair this bridge for the last three years, and now he’ll get what is coming to him, and we’ll make him pay for his neglect of duty.”
That word “damages” sounded good to Skeeter.
“I’s pretty bad hurt, Marse Tom,” he sighed, when he saw a chance to collect money for his injuries. “Bofe ankles is spraint an’ my back is busted, an’ my neck feels kinder stretched and loose, an’ my head——”
“Tell all that to the trial jury,” Gaitskill snapped. “You can ride back in the wagon with Mustard Prophet—I think you had better go on right now!”
Mustard drove down into the woods and, crossing the branch, came up on the other side of the broken bridge to the road. It took four men to help Skeeter in the wagon, so great were his injuries after he heard that magic word—damages!
The first place they passed on the way back was the Shin Bone eating-house. Skeeter decided that this was a good place to demonstrate how badly hurt he was, and he could exhibit his disability in the presence of many witnesses.
“I cain’t trabbel a inch furder, brudders,” he sighed. “I’s gittin’ weaker an’ weaker all de time. You better drap me off here at de resteraw.”
So Mustard picked him up from the bed of the wagon, carried him bodily into the eating-house and laid him out on one of the dining-tables. Dazzle and Hopey and Popsy Spout followed them in, and Shin Bone hurried to see what the trouble was.
“I think I’s fixin’ to die, Mustard,” Skeeter wailed, thrusting his yellow hand into the inside pocket of his coat. “So I passes dis little thing over to you befo’ I j’ines de angel band dat toots de horns aroun’ de golden throne.”