“De good Lawd is sho’ heerd my prayer,” Skeeter murmured thankfully as he rose to his feet.
Pap came straight to the bar, laid down a five-cent piece, and remarked:
“Gimme a big beer, Skeeter.”
Skeeter set the drink upon the bar, then, under pretense of wiping the bar with his rag, flicked the coin so that it fell on the floor at Pap’s feet.
When Pap stooped to pick it up, Skeeter quietly emptied the odorless contents of a tiny vial into the glass.
“Put de nickel back in yo’ pocket, Pap,” Skeeter said pleasantly when Pap tendered it again. “It’s my treat. Less sot down at de table an’ cornverse awhile.”
The two sat down, sipped their drinks for a moment, then Skeeter remarked:
“Dat wus mighty bum racin’ we had to-day.”
“Shore wus,” Pap agreed. “Dar ain’t never no real racehosses at dis fair. Ef a feller’s got a hoss whut kin run a little, he picks the cockle-burs outen his tail, fotches him to town, and enters him in de race.”
“You come out powerful good, Pap,” the barkeeper said admiringly. “You muss ’a’ made a whole passel of money.”