“Dunno,” Skeeter murmured. “Mebbe ef I go down by de stables an’ pick up some tips——”
“Huh!” Sugar snorted. “I done tried dat game befo’. Down in Baton Rouge I made love to eve’y nigger stable-boy, nigger rubber, nigger jockey, nigger trainer, an’ nigger owner on de track.”
“Didn’t dey gib you no hot tips?”
“Shore! An’ eve’y time dey gimme a hot tip de hoss I bet on got cold foots—but I got scorched good an’ plenty!”
“Dey’s shore makin’ cracklin’ outen yo’ hide here,” Skeeter snickered. “Dese niggers will all die water-millyunaires ef yo’ pile holds out long enough.”
“I don’t keer,” Sugar said finally. “Dis here money ain’t cost me nothin’, an’ ’tain’t no loss ef I loses it.”
“Dat’s de right talk,” Skeeter exclaimed. “Less spend it all. I ain’t never wasted money like dis befo’, an’ I likes de exoncise.”
“We’s got to waste it all on de nex’ race, den,” Sugar snickered. “Dar ain’t but one mo’ race. Whut hoss we gwine lose on now, Skeeter?”
A red-headed boy climbed up a ladder in front of the starter’s stand to write the names of the horses in the next race on a blackboard.
“De fust name he writes totes my money!” Sugar proclaimed.