Whiffle Boone began to cry.
“I couldn’t find you till atter de race begun, Pap,” she sobbed. “I wanted to tell you dat Skeeter Butts an’ Shin Bone swapped hosses on you.”
“How’s dat?” Pap asked, stupidly.
“Skeeter bought two black hosses yistiddy, Pap,” Whiffle Boone said impatiently, mopping the tears from her face. “He got one from Tax Sambola at Shongaloon, but de hoss whut winned de race wus dat black hoss whut Indian Turtle owned—dat ole Indian whut lives on de Coolie bayo. Dat’s how come Little Bit rid him jes’ like a Indian!”
Pap leaned weakly against the fence and a deep moan issued from his stiff, parched lips.
“It’s too late now, Whiffle,” he sighed. “I done loss eve’y dollar I owns. I bet dat fifty dollars whut you gib me to keep fer you, an’ I done lost dat. I done bet Doodlebug, an’ lost him! I would hab loss Skipper, too, only but he b’longed to yo’ maw instid of me!”
Whiffle suddenly broke out into a happy laugh.
“When do Skipper run again, Pap?” she inquired.
“He starts in de fifth race,” Pap sighed.
“All right, Pap, don’t cry!” Whiffle giggled. “Skipper will win in de fifth race—you leave dat to me!”