Under such an arrangement the chief attraction was the races, and the betting was wild and reckless. There was no betting-shed, no bookmakers. The gamblers circulated among their friends and placed private bets.
Skeeter Butts was perfectly happy. Whenever Sugar lost, he won; if Sugar won, it was no loss to him.
“Five hosses runs in de nex’ race, niggers,” Skeeter informed his fellow conspirators, in their operations to separate Sugar Sibley from her money. “Sugar bets on Hooligan. Ef Hooligan wins, each of you-alls is gotter gimme two dollars an’ fo’ bits; ef Hooligan lose, I splits dis ten-bill fo’ ways.”
Hooligan lost.
“Which hoss we gwine bet on nex’, Skeeter?” Sugar laughed.
“I ain’t no good jedge,” Skeeter grinned. “I foun’ out yistiddy dat sometimes dey runs bad an’ de nex’ time dey runs wuss.”
Three mules came loping down the track, and Sugar picked Hot-Dog for a winner, instructing Skeeter to place five dollars on that mule.
Hot-Dog started around the track as if he were going to eat it up, grew weary of the journey at the half-mile post, brayed, turned around, and galloped back to the grand stand, meeting the other two mules as they came under the wire.
Toward the close of the races Sugar Sibley began to complain.
“I sho’ is had bad luck, Skeeter,” she mourned. “Done bet my good money on five different races an’ ain’t winned a dollar. How come?”