“I wus figgerin’ on how to git a bet down on a winnin’ hoss, honey,” Shin laughed. “It ’peared like I couldn’t make de riffle, an’ when I seed you I had on one of dese here grouches.”
“Ain’t it about time you wus bustin’ de news?” Whiffle asked. “Cain’t you tell me de name of de hoss?”
“No’m,” Shin grinned. “I done promise I wouldn’t say no words. But ef you wait fer me atter de races is over I’ll take you to a real eatin’-house an’ us’ll celebrate our winnin’s. We ain’t fur from gittin’ married now an’ I’s savin’ somepin fer a surprise.”
The gong sounded at the starter’s shed, and Whiffle and Shin walked toward the grandstand, eating hot sausage as they went.
“Whut race is dis, Whiffle?” Shin inquired.
“Dis is de fourth,” Whiffle told him. “My uncle Pap Curtain is got a couple hosses in dis race.”
Shin Bone promptly lost his appetite.
“Lawd,” he exclaimed. “I asked Skeeter Butts to put a few money on dis race fer me. I hope he is got time.”
“Plenty time,” Whiffle declared. “De ponies ain’t come out on de track yit.”
At that moment Shin saw Skeeter Butts sliding eel-like through a dense crowd without touching an elbow. A few minutes later he saw Skeeter again, talking earnestly to certain dressy, furtive persons, bearing every evidence of being visitors from New Orleans, and these men displayed tiny celluloid slates on which were penciled various fractions after the name of each horse.