“Whut hoss we gwine bet on nex’, Skeeter?” Sugar Sibley asked when Pap had gone.
“I dunno,” Butts replied, promptly regretting that he had not been more gracious to Pap Curtain. “Which way did Pap went?”
“Whut you want wid dat ole man?” Sugar asked suspiciously.
“Pap is sellin’ tips,” Skeeter explained. “He teched me off ’bout Rastus winnin’ dat las’ race atter he made me prommus I wouldn’t tell nobody.”
“I don’t b’lieve it,” Sugar snorted. “I picked Rastus myself when de band was playin’ dat tune. How do Popper Curtain know whut hoss is gwine win?”
“I dunno,” Skeeter answered. “He’s a slick-head nigger an’ mebbe he’s got a conjure.”
“Ef Popper knowed whut hoss wus gwine win, he wouldn’t sell no tips,” Sugar sniffed. “He’d bet!”
“Mebbe dat’s so!” Skeeter agreed, his confidence shaken by this argument. “But ef you’s so good at pickin’ de winner, s’pose you name de nex’ one?”
Sugar glanced at a large blackboard under the starter’s stand where a red-headed boy was chalking the names of three more horses.
“Doodle-Bug!” she exclaimed eagerly. “Bet on Doodle, Skeeter!”