Reluctantly the horse moved backward step by step, and thus the jockey finally worked him to the starting place.
There was a mighty roar from the crowd, which became a thunderous clamor at the starter’s word:
“Go!”
Sugar Sibley, who had sat unmoved amid the losses of the entire afternoon, suddenly sprang to her feet, ran down to the rail, shrieking like a calliope, begging for Doodle-Bug to run, praying for Doodle-Bug to win, her wailing cry, like the clear notes of a trumpet, heard above the gigantic ululation of the crowd:
“Go, Doodle, go!”
And Doodle went!
At the quarter pole he was two lengths ahead; at the half he led by five lengths; at the three-quarter pole the two other horses were trailing one hundred yards behind. Doodle-Bug came under the wire so far in advance that half the people had left the grand stand for their homeward trip before the other horses arrived!
Faint, weak, giddy, Sugar Sibley staggered back to Skeeter Butts, reeling like a drunkard, clutching at her throat for its hoarseness, dripping with perspiration, her eyeballs burning like coals of fire.
“My Gawd!” Skeeter moaned. “Whut’s done gone an’ happened to dat Doodle-Bug?”
“Nothin’!” Sugar Sibley panted. “Doodle’s all right. Doodle belongs to me. He was riz an’ borned on my little farm an’ my chile Jimmy is a ridin’ him. Us always makes a killin’ on Nigger Day at the parish fairs.”