Three horses galloped up the track and Shin looked them over carefully, concluding that the horse which carried his money was the only race-horse of the three. Trailer was a clumsy plow-horse; Doodlebug was a Tuckapoo mustang with an ugly temper; Skipper alone had the long, grayhound lines of the real racer.
“Whut hoss is you got yo’ money on, Shin?” Whiffle asked.
“I bets on Skipper.”
“My gosh!” the girl exclaimed, staring at him with big eyes. “Is you done loss all yo’ good sense?”
“Pap Curtain tole me to bet on Skipper,” Shin said defensively.
“Pap is like a mule, Shin,” Whiffle said sadly. “He wucks bofe ways. You gotter look out fer surprises when you monkeys wid Pap.”
The band stopped playing, the intense silence of the people was broken by the sound of pounding hoofs, and the horses swept under the wire.
“Go!” Vinegar Atts bellowed.
The blood pounded in the temples of Shin Bone, and he suddenly felt dizzy, almost delirious. Then he sat down, gasping like a landed fish. Doodlebug was three lengths ahead, running with the ease and regularity of a watch.
Skipper was dropping behind without even a symptom of a rally. At the half-mile post, Skipper was slowing up some more, showing weariness. Slower and slower he got in spite of the frantic efforts of his jockey to extract some speed from his mount’s system.