“I put a tree-frog under dat cup,” he said.
Owner of Doodle-bug
Sugar Sibley, the dusky belle of the Tickfall Parish Fair, sat in the Jim Crow section of the grand stand, clothed in all the colors of the rainbow, posing with all the indolence and insolence of an African princess, lavishing her charms upon the yellow-faced barkeeper of the Hen-Scratch saloon.
“Whut hoss we gwine bet on next, Skeeter?” she inquired.
“Dunno,” Skeeter answered anxiously. “I hopes it’ll be a winner.”
Skeeter removed his hat and rubbed a nervous hand over a closely cropped head, down the middle of which a part had been made with a razor.
His face was seamed with fine lines of worry, and the nervous sweat pouring down his face had wilted his high, white collar to a soiled and crumpled rag.
“I don’t like a nigger whut parts his wool in de middle,” Sugar announced, eyeing Skeeter’s head, with disapproving looks. “Ef a hoss eats in my trough, his mane is all got to lay on one side.”
Skeeter hastily put on his hat.