“Give me nine dollars and fifty cents change. Pap,” he said eagerly, “an’ a tip on de winner of de nex’ race.”
Pap handed back the change, caught Skeeter by the arm, led him to one side out of ear-shot of all other negroes, and whispered impressively:
“Swa’r befo’ Gawd dat you won’t tell nobody whar you got dis tip!”
“I prommus!” Skeeter murmured.
Pap bent down, cupped both hands around Skeeter’s ear like a trumpet, and whispered hoarsely:
“Rastus!”
Skeeter’s little legs bounced him down the steps of the grand stand and for the next ten minutes he circulated assiduously among the negroes placing his private bets.
When Skeeter had gone Pap Curtain turned his back to the track and gazed upward in worshipful adoration of Sugar Sibley as if she were the saint of his deepest devotion. The gaudy princess opened wide her large eyes, then squinted them, then slowly closed one eye and smiled.
Pap promptly pranced up the steps and seated himself in the place vacated by Skeeter Butts. He did not act like a stranger, nor as if he regarded an introduction necessary.
“Howdy, Sugar?” he remarked. “I argufies dat yo’ name fits you’ corporosity like a candy jaw-breaker fits a pickaninny’s mouf.”