“I got a race-hoss,” Skeeter grinned. “I’ll bet Nigger Blackie agin fifty dollars dat Skipper don’t win.”
“I takes it,” Pap said promptly.
“I’m got a Nigger Blackie race-hoss, too, Pap,” Shin Bone suggested with a loud laugh. “You seed me on him dis mawnin’.”
“I bets you ten dollars agin yo’ race-hoss,” Pap said promptly.
“I takes it,” Shin snickered.
Pap turned away with forty dollars, and found no trouble in placing it on Skipper, with odds against his horse of ten to one.
It was the last race of the day, and business was brisk. The losers were squealing and begging money, hoping for a chance to repair their fortunes. The winners were whooping and resorting to every means in their power to push their luck to the limit and add to their loot.
“Hurry up, niggers!” one of the bloated, dressy coons from the city whooped. “Git yo’ money on de race! Dey’s saddlin’ up! Ef you wants to git in on dis spec’lation now is de las’ an’ loudest call fer yo’ money! Git busy!”
“Put yo’ las’ dollar on de las’ race an’ don’t cry ef you bets it on de hoss dat comes in las’, niggers!” another darky bawled as he waved a handful of money. “You’ll be shore to git yo’ money’s wuth of dis race, fer dese three hayburners cain’t lope aroun’ dat track befo’ sundown!”
“Listen, Shin!” Skeeter said as he plucked at his friend’s sleeve. “I ’speck we better hunt up dat Whiffle Boone an’ make frien’s wid her over agin. ’Tain’t no use to bear her no grudge—us is winners!”