“Lawd, I done fergot dat sweet little gal offen my mind!” Shin exclaimed as he hastened with Skeeter into the crowded grandstand and pushed through the sweating multitude in his search for his girl.
“Dar she am!” Skeeter said, pointing. “You go up an’ set on one side of her, an’ I’ll set on de yuther side, an’ us’ll jolly her up!”
To their surprise, they found Whiffle as jolly already as she could possibly be. She made room for them, sat down between them and began to talk like the whirr of a flutter-mill.
The bell rang for the fifth race, and the three horses galloped up the track in front of the grandstand. Skeeter noticed that Skipper’s jockey was having the time of his life trying to keep his mount on the track. The animal acted like he had an insane desire to walk the fence, climb into the grandstand, or slide on his ear.
“Somebody is done hit dat Skipper over de head wid somepin an’ sot him crazy,” Skeeter commented.
“Don’t you slanderize Skipper now!” Whiffle warned him. “Dat hoss b’longs to my maw.”
“He’s a good hoss all right,” Skeeter said propitiatingly. “But of co’se he ain’t whut you mought call a race-hoss.”
“Oh, ain’t he?” Whiffle sniffed. “He wus a race-hoss when we bought him, an’ I bet I knows mo’ about race-hossin’ dan you do!”
There was a loud whoop from the crowd and Skeeter Butts raised himself on tiptoe and looked with popping eyeballs.
“Bless gracious, whut a git-off!” Whiffle exclaimed.