“Whut is de word about de game, Skeeter?” Hitch grunted. “Is us gwine win?”
“Suttinly,” Skeeter declared. “I done bet fawty dollars. Coco is bet ten dollars. I b’lieves in bettin’ all I kin git.”
“Dem Sawtown niggers is powerful pert players, Skeeter,” Hitch warned him. “Dey wucks reg’lar in de big sawmill, an’ dey got plenty muscle an’ wind. Dey plays baseball all day on eve’y Sunday, an’ dey keeps in fine practice. Dey all ’pears like new-issue niggers to me—slick-heads, plum’ full of tricks, an’ dangersome.”
Skeeter turned and looked over the picnic grounds where a number of husky blacks were prancing around with the women. They all wore their baseball suits, and these uniforms drew the women like a barrel of sugar attracts flies.
“Yes, suh, I admits dem facks,” Skeeter said. “But look at de baseball team us is got—Figger Bush is de best pitcher in Loozanny; Prince Total ketches; Mustard Prophet straddles fust base—us is been playin’ all summer, an’ we is winned eve’y game up to now!”
“Dat’s so,” Hitch remarked, with less uneasiness in his voice. “I reckin I’ll bet eve’y dollar dat I’m got.”
“Dat’s de talk,” Skeeter applauded. “I been pussuadin’ all de players on de Tickfall team to bet all de money dey had.”
“Dat ain’t good bizziness,” Hitch declared. “Ef players bets deir own dollars an’ de team is losin’, dey all gits rattled.”
“Mebbe so, wid white folks,” Skeeter replied. “But ’tain’t so wid niggers. You know how niggers is—ef dey think de yuther man is gwine lose money on deir wuck, dey don’t pay no mind, an’ de Lawd’s will kin be did. But ef a nigger figgers dat he’s gwine lose money on his own se’f—Lawdy, he shore do scratch gravel!”
Their conversation was brought to a close by a long blast upon a fox-horn.