“I ain’t got no hundred dollars,” Skeeter Butts said next. “Dar ain’t no nigger in dis town wid dat much money in one lump. You’ll have to sell out to de white folks.”
“Couldn’t you find ten colored people who had ten dollars each?” the white man asked. “All ten of you can own the horse, and when you make a win you can divide your earnings.”
“What kind of hoss you got?” Skeeter asked with a new interest.
“He’s a hard looker, Skeeter. He’s a hound dog. He limps in all four feet, but not in all at the same time, you know. He swaps from one foot to the other. Every time he stops he goes lame in a different foot, because he can’t remember which foot he was limping on before. He has an awful short memory that way. You never can tell what foot he is going to cripple in next, and he don’t know himself.”
“Dat’s a kind of trick hoss,” Skeeter snickered.
“Exactly,” Dick agreed. “I can make a killing with him at every race-track, for one look at him is aplenty. I can get all sorts of odds against him; but don’t make any mistake, little yeller nigger—that horse can run!”
“Dat sounds good to me,” Skeeter replied after a moment’s thought. “How much do I git fer makin’ de trade?”
“Get nine negroes to give you ten dollars each for the horse, and I’ll be satisfied with the ninety dollars. That will give you a ten-dollar share in the animal without costing you a cent.”
“Kin I try out de hoss an’ see if he is all right?” Skeeter asked eagerly.
“Certainly.”