“Look at Shinny goin’ back to dig up some mo’ of his buried money,” was the common greeting of every group of friends he met. “Somebody is been talkin’ to Shin about some hoss, an’ tellin’ ain’t no fair!”
Shin scanned every face as a panhandler watches the crowd on the street looking for some easy mark from whom he can extract a “temporary” loan, but there was no face which indicated that the owner was willing to part with even a little of his money in behalf of an impecunious friend. Each one would have promised him all he wanted—after the races.
At last Shin met the Rev. Vinegar Atts.
“Elder,” he began, “I think I done got a tail-holt on somepin’ mighty good an’ I been lookin’ fer you.”
“Yes, suh, dat’s right, son,” Vinegar boomed. “Of co’se, I ain’t no gamblin’ man myse’f, an’ don’t b’lieve in it, but I likes to hear tips so I kin know whut hoss to watch.”
“Is you got any change on you, elder?” Shin asked eagerly.
“A few, a measly few!” Vinegar rumbled. “Whut hoss did you say?”
“I ain’t say,” Shin replied.
“Why don’t you bawl out?” Vinegar bellowed. “I cain’t stand here on my foots all day! Git yo’ mouf gwine!”
“You an’ me oughter make a trade, elder,” Shin said. “I got de idear an’ you is got de chink. You gimme all de money you is got, an’ I’ll ’tend to dat part of it while you watches de hosses gallop.”