The band struck up the lively tune of Rastus, Why Don’t You Pay de Rent?
“Dar now!” Sugar exclaimed. “One dem hosses in dat nex’ race is named Rastus. You go bet ten dollars on Rastus, Skeeter! An’ fotch me back some loose change. You ain’t winned me nothin’ dis whole day.”
“I ain’t got but ten bucks lef’ over,” Skeeter confessed. “Ef Rastus don’t win, I’s shore a busted cornstitution!”
“Whut’s dat?” Sugar demanded sharply. “You mean to signify dat you ain’t fotch but one hundred dollars out here wid you to entertain a cullud lady?”
“Dat’s right,” Skeeter declared, “an’ I done loss it all but dis here tenner.”
“You’s gwine lose a lady frien’, nigger,” Sugar remarked in a disgusted tone. “Nothin’ don’t talk aroun’ me but dollars.”
“My talkin’ dollars is done expe’unce a vocal breakdown,” Skeeter answered shamefacedly.
A tall, yellow negro with a furtive manner, a baboon face, eyes too close together, and lips which carried an habitual sneer, passed them, walked down to the rail, and stopped to gaze up and down the track.
“Does you know dat man?” Sugar Sibley asked.
“Dat’s Pap Curtain,” Skeeter informed her. “He’s de meanes’ slick-head nigger in Tickfall.”