“You ain’t entirely wrong, Popper,” the lady grinned. “I’s shore a sweet cake to de coon whut’s got de dough to mix wid de sugar.”
“Skeeter Butts jes’ now specify to me dat he’s nearly out of mixin’s,” Pap muttered, fumbling at his own silver-laden pockets.
“All right, Popper,” Sugar announced complacently. “Me an’ you will let dat Mr. Muskeeter fly up de creek.”
“Ef he won’t fly away us’ll screen him off,” Pap snickered.
Their conversation was brought to an abrupt close by a loud whoop from the spectators. Five horses were loping around the track—loping leisurely in spite of the fact that their frenzied jockeys were using whip and spur at every jump. But the racing game was new to these humble plough-horses, and their idea seemed to be that if they reached the wire before the sun set the day’s work would be done.
But the jockey on Rastus found a tender place on his mount’s tick-bitten flank and managed to provoke a spurt of speed which put Rastus two lengths ahead and kept him there. Rastus won!
Flushed with his triumph and rattling his money, Skeeter Butts came to where Pap and Sugar were seated, tossed five dollars in Sugar’s lap, and glared at Curtain.
“Git outen my seat, Pap!” he commanded. “You’s tryin’ to deeprive me of my gal!”
“Naw, suh,” Pap answered promptly. “I ain’t intend no depravity. Besides, I gotter go. ’Bout fawty niggers wants to cornverse me ’bout dis nex’ race.”