“Dat suits me,” Skeeter agreed. “Us’ll go up an’ stan’ by Sugar, an’ eve’y time dese yuther niggers fetches you a dollar I’ll put one on top of it. Us’ll do dis las’ race up in real good style.”
As Mustard and Prince and Figger made successive trips through the crowd of negroes, coming back each time with a little silver, Skeeter Butts noted with uneasiness the absence of certain cheap watches, brassy finger-rings, and gaudy, sparkling scarf-pins.
Finally Figger Bush placed a fifty-cent piece against Sugar’s choice and sighed:
“Ef dat Doodle wins Gawd knows whut dis dude’ll do! I’s done bet de barlow-knife outen my pocket an’ borried money on dese very clothes I wears. I’s plum busted, popped open, cleant out!”
Three horses loped up toward the starting pole.
Skeeter observed with satisfaction that Doodle-Bug balked right in front of the grand stand, that half a dozen men tried to make him move and failed, that the little jockey was bucked off, and that Doodle-Bug finally turned a complete somersault, landing on his back.
“Doodle-Bug is actin’ in form,” Skeeter grinned.
“He’ll run like a skint rabbit!” Sugar Sibley exclaimed, licking out her tongue, which was as dry as a shuck and felt as large as a doormat.
“I done seen him run!” Skeeter answered sarcastically.
The little negro jockey, mindful of the instructions received from Pap Curtain the day before, stood in front of the ugly tempered Tuckapoo mustang, slashing at the animal’s knees with his whip.