“Yes, Pickles, and we must beat him,” replied Andy. “You know just how to help us along.”
“Humph! if he ain’t going to take that coon on the trip!” sneered Pete Sully.
“You ain’t racing niggers, are you, Pete?” questioned one of his followers.
“I don’t know as I am,” returned Pete Sully, slowly.
He walked over to where Harry sat on his toboggan.
“I expected to race white fellows,” he remarked, sourly.
“Pickles is all right,” said Jack Bascoe. “He’s the dark horse to win. If you are going to race, get ready, for Harry isn’t going to wait all night for you.”
“Where’s that knife!” demanded Sully, thus changing the subject.
“Here it is,” replied Harry, producing it. “Four blades, and every one in good condition. Where is yours?”
“It’s just as good as that,” retorted Sully, bringing forth his pocket-knife. “Four blades and a corkscrew.”