Shin Bone needed money badly. He sat on the edge of the sidewalk by the old cotton shed, his feet in the gutter and his head resting upon his hands, and did the heaviest thinking of his whole thoughtless life.
“I’d rob Marse Tom’s bank ef I jes’ knowed how,” he said, speaking aloud to himself.
Then he wondered if he had spoken too loud, for Colonel Tom Gaitskill stopped directly behind him in his walk to the bank, and surveyed with amusement a number of gaudy lithographs which had been pasted upon the side of the cotton shed.
Shin Bone sat perfectly quiet until he had assured himself that Gaitskill had not overheard him, then a shrewd look came into his eyes, and he rose to his feet. Taking a corn-cob pipe from his pocket, he filled it with tobacco, and edged up closer to the white man.
“When is de succus gwine be, Marse Tom?” he asked, as he struck a match and applied the flame to the bowl of his pipe.
“This is no circus, Shin,” Gaitskill said shortly. “Where have you been all the time? Haven’t you heard anything about the nigger uplift?”
Every negro knows the advantage which accrues to himself from letting the white man tell him. Carefully concealing the fact that these same gaudy lithographs had caused his grief over his poverty, Shin said:
“Naw, suh—yes, suh. De white folks is always doin’ somepin to us niggers. But I cain’t figger out dese shiny new bills on dis wall.”
“Those lithographs announce a negro fair at the old race track,” Colonel Gaitskill told him. “There will be prizes for all kinds of garden truck and field crops, prizes for chickens, pigs, and cattle, prizes for draft horses, carriage horses, and all kinds of horses. Admission is free for all the negroes, all the exhibits will be by the negroes, and the white folks are financing the fair for the benefit of the negroes.”
“Dat shore will be a lift-up,” Shin Bone grinned, as he gazed with admiration at the pictures of the running horses. “Does us be allowed to had races, too?”
“Yes, there’ll be speed exhibits,” Gaitskill smiled. “But every negro who enters a horse for a race must own the horse.”
“Dat’s right,” Shin Bone agreed heartily. “Ef dat’s de rule, de niggers cain’t borry no real race hosses an’ git all our money away from us.”
“Betting will not be permitted,” Gaitskill remarked, watching Shin Bone closely. “That is against the law.”
“Huh,” Shin Bone grunted, and the tone of his voice and the expression on his face were those of a baby just tuning up to cry. But Gaitskill checked the deluge of tears by his next remark:
“Of course, the chief characteristic of the sport of kings must not be allowed to die out entirely, and if a few bets are made on the quiet, it is nobody’s business. I am sure every darky will put down a dollar or two just to try his luck.”
“Huh,” Shin Bone grunted, and this time the tone of his voice and the expression on his face set Gaitskill to laughing merrily.
“Dat’s de only spote whut will fetch de niggers to even a free fair, Marse Tom. Dey ain’t comin’ here jes’ to show deir spindle-laig chickens an’ deir little runt pigs. Dey wants to action aroun’ wid de ponies.”
“I think you’re right, Shin,” Gaitskill grinned. “I’ve been going to fairs ever since I was old enough to stand on the seat and yell, but I never could get up any interest or enthusiasm for anything except the slim horses which galloped swiftly around the circular track.”
“Ain’t you spoke de jaw-breakin’ truth!” Shin Bone applauded. “Eve’y nigger whut comes to dis fair will hab his cotton-fiel’ pet bang-tailed an’ trained fer de races! Marse Tom, ain’t you got no cheap, spry-legged hoss you wants to sell me?”
“No!” Gaitskill walked on.
“Whut ’bout dat pie-faced sorrel, Kunnel?” Shin persisted, following a few steps behind.
“How many races do you think you could win with a horse which had been bitten on the leg by a swamp rattlesnake?” Gaitskill asked disgustedly.
“Not such a many,” Shin remarked, in a disappointed tone. “Of co’se, dat leg mought git well——”
“The horse is ruined, Shin,” Gaitskill told him. “That leg will always be stiff.”
Shin Bone stopped, watched the colonel until he turned the corner, then he returned to the gaudy lithographs and resumed his former position on the curb, dropping down in an attitude of dejection and deep meditation.
“Marse Tom oughter had sold me dat hoss,” he sighed. “My credick wid him oughter be good. He knows I had plenty money in his bank las’ mont’ an’ drawed it all out to buy dat eatin’-house. Of co’se, I couldn’t win nothin’ wid dat cripple hoss, but I might could swap him off fer somepin dat I could win wid.”
Shin Bone refilled his pipe, dug his heels deeper in the soft loam of the gutter, rubbed his chin reflectively, and gazed across the street with troubled, brooding eyes.
“Dat little gal got me in dis jam,” he announced finally.
Of course there was a girl in it.
After meeting her, Shin Bone bought a new suit of clothes, a cake of sweet-scented soap, three white shirts, and a bankrupt restaurant, fondly hoping that personal cleanliness, personal adornment, and the ownership of property would help him persuade the girl to make up her mind to live with him. But alas, the four hundred dollars which he had in the bank were spent before he got started, and now the fair was on with a chance to make big winnings, and Shin Bone was broke!
“Jes’ when I wus gittin’ ready to ax her, I went bust,” Shin groaned. “Jes’ when she done got her mind encouraged up to take me, my little dab of money gib out.”
Yes, Shin needed money.
He began to search his clothes for money, feeling in every pocket. He brought forth one silver dollar and one copper cent.
“I didn’t make no new discovery,” he lamented, as he surveyed his earthly fortune. “I knowed I had dis money already.”
He placed the dollar on the curb beside him and laid the copper cent on top of the silver coin, surveying them disconsolately. Glancing down at his feet, he observed a tiny red earthworm crawling in the loam of the gutter. He picked this up and laid it on top of the copper coin, thus making a pyramid of his fortune.
“Huh,” he grunted, “I’d rather be a fishin’ worm dan a nigger wid one dollar an’ one cent.”
Suddenly he looked at the fishing worm with a new interest. It was twisting and turning upon the copper coin evidently wishing to get off, but every time it touched the silver dollar it retreated to the copper coin again.
Drawn by E. W. Kemble.
The pie-faced sorrel with the snake-bitten leg.
“Dis worm ’pears like it’s skeart of dis dollar,” Shin muttered.
He flicked the worm into the grass with his finger nail, slipped his two coins in the upper breast pocket of his coat, then arose and walked slowly up the street.
At the nearest corner he met Whiffle Boone, dressed like a sun-burst, and on her way to the fair.
“You ain’t lookin’ so powerful peart, Shinny,” she said.
“Ef I looks like I feels, you better git de sheriff to put me in a cage,” was Shin’s reply.
“Whut ails you?” the girl inquired solicitously.
“Ef I wus to tell you whut ails me, you’d snicker right in my face,” Shin Bone declared irritably. “An’ ef you did, I’d shore spile all de nice clothes you is got on.”
The girl sniffed and passed on.
“Dar now,” Shin lamented. “I didn’t aim to start nothin’ wid Whiffle. Dis is shore my onforchnit day.”
But a moment later Shin forgot all his troubles.
Pap Curtain met him and shook hands with great cordiality. Pap’s yellow face was a glowing golden color from excitement, his shifty eyes were more uncertain than ever, and his sneering mouth had a still uglier twist.
“Whut you bettin’ on to-day, Shin?” he whispered hoarsely.
“I’s collectin’ tips, Pap,” Shin replied.
“I got a shore thing, Shin,” Pap whispered. “Three hosses starts in de fourth race. Put yo’ bet on Skipper.”
“I shore thank you fer dem few kind words, Pap,” Shin declared with delight. “How come yo’ heart busted open so free?”
“Ain’t you figgerin’ on gittin’ married to my sister’s child?” Pap asked.
“Suttinly.”
“Well, suh, dat’s de reason. But fer Gawd’s sake, keep de secret in de fambly!”
II
SKIPPER’S FORM.
“Dat shore he’ps me a lot,” Shin exulted, as he started rapidly down the street. “All I’m got to do is to bet on dat hoss fer a winner.”
Then his rapid gait suddenly ceased, his knees wabbled weakly, and he leaned against a convenient picket fence.
“O Lawd,” he groaned. “Dat jes’ makes my sorrer cut mo’ deeper. I ain’t got no mo’ money to bet wid now dan I had befo’ I got dat tip!”
Sadly he turned his back to the fair and walked in the opposite direction, mumbling to himself.
“Dat’s always my luck,” he mourned. “Ef it rains soup my plate is turned upside down, an’ ef gold dollars draps down from de sky, I’m shore to be locked up in jail.”
He passed along the ever-lengthening stream of negroes going to the races.
“Look at Shinny goin’ back to dig up some mo’ of his buried money,” was the common greeting of every group of friends he met. “Somebody is been talkin’ to Shin about some hoss, an’ tellin’ ain’t no fair!”
Shin scanned every face as a panhandler watches the crowd on the street looking for some easy mark from whom he can extract a “temporary” loan, but there was no face which indicated that the owner was willing to part with even a little of his money in behalf of an impecunious friend. Each one would have promised him all he wanted—after the races.
At last Shin met the Rev. Vinegar Atts.
“Elder,” he began, “I think I done got a tail-holt on somepin’ mighty good an’ I been lookin’ fer you.”
“Yes, suh, dat’s right, son,” Vinegar boomed. “Of co’se, I ain’t no gamblin’ man myse’f, an’ don’t b’lieve in it, but I likes to hear tips so I kin know whut hoss to watch.”
“Is you got any change on you, elder?” Shin asked eagerly.
“A few, a measly few!” Vinegar rumbled. “Whut hoss did you say?”
“I ain’t say,” Shin replied.
“Why don’t you bawl out?” Vinegar bellowed. “I cain’t stand here on my foots all day! Git yo’ mouf gwine!”
“You an’ me oughter make a trade, elder,” Shin said. “I got de idear an’ you is got de chink. You gimme all de money you is got, an’ I’ll ’tend to dat part of it while you watches de hosses gallop.”
“I’s skeart you’ll lose my dollars,” Vinegar said uneasily, fumbling the change in his voluminous pockets. “Mebbe you better tell me fust whut kind of tip you is got.”
“Pap Curtain tole me to bet on Skipper in de fourth race,” Shin said earnestly. “Don’t you think dat is a good tip?”
Vinegar turned and walked away a few steps, then turned and walked back. His hands were thrust deep into his trouser pockets and his chin was sunk down upon his breast.
“Naw, dat ain’t no good tip a-tall!” he exploded. “Pap Curtain is a slick-head nigger, as full of tricks as a monkey wid a tin tail. I don’t hab no trust in him no-time, no-whar, no-how! You better gib dat Skipper de go-by.”
“Pap ain’t tryin’ to fool me, Vinegar,” Shin Bone protested. “I’s gwine marry his sister’s onlies’ chile, an’ so me an’ him is in de same fambly. Excusin’ dat, dis Skipper hoss b’longs to my gal’s maw. Dat proves he ain’t tryin’ to rob me.”
“You ain’t on to Pap Curtain’s curves yit, Shin,” Vinegar told him. “Pap would steal de gold outen his granmaw’s jaw toofs, ef de ole woman had any toofs in her gums. Excusin’ dat, Pap don’t expeck you to lose no money. He knows you ain’t got none.”
“Dat’s a fack,” Shin admitted.
“He knowed you would git active an’ succulate de tip, “Vinegar told him. “He knowed you’d git aroun’ an’ try to borrer some money, an’ tell all de niggers you touched fer a few change whut hoss to bet on, an’ he knowed dat eve’y nigger in Tickfall would fall fer de losin’ hoss. I bet Pap’s got all his money on de yuther hoss right dis minute!”
“I don’t b’lieve Pap would treat me dat way, Vinegar,” Shin insisted. “He tole me not to tell nobody, because he wanted to keep de secret in de fambly.”
“Did he know you wus broke?” Vinegar asked.
“Yep. I tried to borrer some money from him dis mawnin’.”
“Ef he loves you so awful much, how come he didn’t loant you some money an’ let you win an’ gib you a start fer de yuther days of racin’?”
“Dat do look like he ain’t actin’ plum’ honest,” Shin admitted reluctantly. “But, you see, it’s dis way, Vinegar: niggers wants to manage deir own money endurin’ of de fair.”
“Dat’s whut I’s gwine do,” Vinegar told him in a pompous voice. “Dat bait you dangles down in front my nose am pretty temptin’ to a sucker, but you done showed me too much of de hook. Excusin’ dat, I jes’ remembers dat I’s been app’inted de officious starter at de races, an’ shouldn’t oughter bet on no hoss!”
Vinegar resumed his walk toward the fairgrounds, leaving Shin Bone to ponder what he had heard.
“I b’lieves dat Pap Curtain is totin’ fair wid me,” he concluded at last. “My onlies’ hope is to pussuade some yuther nigger to b’lieve de same way an’ put up de dough. I reckin I better git busy.”
Shin met Hitch Diamond and presented his proposition to him. Hitch laughed at him.
“Three hosses starts in dat race, Shin,” Hitch chuckled. “Doodlebug b’longs to Pap Curtain, Skipper b’longs to Pap’s sister, an’ de yuther hoss is de plug whut Prince Total drives to his trash cart when he cleans up dis town. Now, kin you tell me which one of Pap’s two hosses is de winner?”
Shin did not answer.
“I ain’t bettin’ on nothin’ in de fourth race,” Hitch rumbled, as he walked away. “I ain’t got spry enough brains to foller Pap’s tricks.”
Time was passing and Shin realized that he must get some sort of action promptly. He turned toward the portion of the town occupied by the whites, and with renewed hope began to solicit loans from his white friends. After an hour of activity, running from place to place as busy as a bird dog, he was in possession of fifty cents, and had told about fifty different lies to get that much.
“Dar ain’t but one mo’ hope,” he said, as he eyed with disgust the handful of nickels he had accumulated. “Dat hope is Skeeter Butts. Ef he don’t see de light, den de night is done sottled down on me shore enough.”
With eager steps he hastened to the Hen-Scratch saloon.
III
DEEP LAID PLANS.
Shin found Skeeter Butts sitting behind the bar in the Hen-Scratch saloon counting a roll of soiled and poisonous-looking money. The sight gladdened the eyes of the poverty-stricken negro.
“Skeeter,” he exulted, “dat little wad of money shows dat you an’ me is gwine to git rich.”
“How come?” Skeeter asked. “You ain’t got no claimance on dis wad.”
“I’se got one real good tip.”
“Explode it in my y-ear,” Skeeter exclaimed eagerly.
“Pap Curtain say bet on Skipper.”
Skeeter grinned, snickered, chuckled, laughed. He stood up, turned around, sat down again, and laughed louder.
“Ain’t dat no good tip?” Shin asked.
“Yes, suh, dat’s a dandy,” Skeeter proclaimed. “All dat tip signifies to me is, don’t lose no money on Skipper.”
“You don’t onderstan’ ’bout dis, Skeeter,” Shin said earnestly. “You see, I is about to marrify into Pap Curtain’s fambly, an’ he jes’ passed me de news fer my own good.”
“Who is you gwine take on?” Skeeter asked.
“Dat little charcoal blonde named Whiffle Boone,” Shin told him. “An’ dis Skipper hoss belongs to her maw.”
“Huh,” Skeeter grunted. “Mebbe dat’s diffunt an’ mebbe not. How much change is you got to bet?”
“I ain’t got none,” Shin replied sadly. “I wants to borrer a leetle. I’ll gib you a owe-bill agin’ my eatin’-house ef you’ll loant me some.”
Skeeter weighed this for a minute, then said:
“Us’ll fix it dis way, Shin: I’ll loant you fifty dollars on yo’ eatin’-house, pervided you’ll let me handle de money an’ manage de bets. I jes’ nachelly hates to pass out money to anodder coon.”
“Dat’s all right, Skeeter,” Shin declared, a burden lifted from his heart. “All I wants is a chance to win.”
“I’s gittin’ ready to close up right now, “Skeeter said, as he reached for his hat. “Us’ll mosey out to de track togedder.”
They entered the gate to find the grounds thronged with happy, eager, black faces, shiny with sweat. The band was playing, the peanut roasters were shrieking, and dozens of apron-clad, thunder-voiced negroes waved long-handled forks and howled like a wolf-pack. “Hot—hot—hot-dog!”
“Lawdy,” Shin sighed. “My empty stomick is wrapped aroun’ my backbone like a wet dishrag aroun’ a dryin’-pole. I feel like I ain’t et fer fawty days!”
He promptly separated himself from Skeeter Butts and lost no time in finding Whiffle Boone.
“Is you had somepin to eat sence you got out here, Whiffle?” he asked eagerly.
“I ain’t got nothin’ but a smell of dem hot dogs,” she smiled.
“Dis is whar we chews a few,” Shin declared, as he led her away from the grandstand.
“Whut wus you so snippy about when I met you uptown?” Whiffle inquired as they consumed the sausage which Shin purchased with the money he had begged from the white folks of Tickfall.
“I wus figgerin’ on how to git a bet down on a winnin’ hoss, honey,” Shin laughed. “It ’peared like I couldn’t make de riffle, an’ when I seed you I had on one of dese here grouches.”
“Ain’t it about time you wus bustin’ de news?” Whiffle asked. “Cain’t you tell me de name of de hoss?”
“No’m,” Shin grinned. “I done promise I wouldn’t say no words. But ef you wait fer me atter de races is over I’ll take you to a real eatin’-house an’ us’ll celebrate our winnin’s. We ain’t fur from gittin’ married now an’ I’s savin’ somepin fer a surprise.”
The gong sounded at the starter’s shed, and Whiffle and Shin walked toward the grandstand, eating hot sausage as they went.
“Whut race is dis, Whiffle?” Shin inquired.
“Dis is de fourth,” Whiffle told him. “My uncle Pap Curtain is got a couple hosses in dis race.”
Shin Bone promptly lost his appetite.
“Lawd,” he exclaimed. “I asked Skeeter Butts to put a few money on dis race fer me. I hope he is got time.”
“Plenty time,” Whiffle declared. “De ponies ain’t come out on de track yit.”
At that moment Shin saw Skeeter Butts sliding eel-like through a dense crowd without touching an elbow. A few minutes later he saw Skeeter again, talking earnestly to certain dressy, furtive persons, bearing every evidence of being visitors from New Orleans, and these men displayed tiny celluloid slates on which were penciled various fractions after the name of each horse.
Three horses galloped up the track and Shin looked them over carefully, concluding that the horse which carried his money was the only race-horse of the three. Trailer was a clumsy plow-horse; Doodlebug was a Tuckapoo mustang with an ugly temper; Skipper alone had the long, grayhound lines of the real racer.
“Whut hoss is you got yo’ money on, Shin?” Whiffle asked.
“I bets on Skipper.”
“My gosh!” the girl exclaimed, staring at him with big eyes. “Is you done loss all yo’ good sense?”
“Pap Curtain tole me to bet on Skipper,” Shin said defensively.
“Pap is like a mule, Shin,” Whiffle said sadly. “He wucks bofe ways. You gotter look out fer surprises when you monkeys wid Pap.”
The band stopped playing, the intense silence of the people was broken by the sound of pounding hoofs, and the horses swept under the wire.
“Go!” Vinegar Atts bellowed.
The blood pounded in the temples of Shin Bone, and he suddenly felt dizzy, almost delirious. Then he sat down, gasping like a landed fish. Doodlebug was three lengths ahead, running with the ease and regularity of a watch.
Skipper was dropping behind without even a symptom of a rally. At the half-mile post, Skipper was slowing up some more, showing weariness. Slower and slower he got in spite of the frantic efforts of his jockey to extract some speed from his mount’s system.
Fairly stunned, Shin sat down and waited for the end. After what seemed to him an age or two, Doodlebug came under the wire, and a yellow, freckled-faced negro boy with an inadequate knowledge of spelling climbed a short ladder and inscribed upon a blackboard the names of the three horses in the order of their places in the race:
DUDDLEBUG
TRAYLOR
SKIPER
There was a little scattering applause, but the crowd could get up no enthusiasm for such an exhibition, and few had bet upon a race in which the tricky Pap Curtain had entered two horses.
Whiffle Boone turned and glared at Shin, who sat dazed and crumpled on the bench.
“Wus dat de news you wus gwine bust to me as a surprise, Shin?” she demanded sarcastically.
“Good-bye, honey,” Shin said gloomily, as he rose to his feet and staggered toward the exit. “I ain’t in no mind to argufy about surprises now. I done got one myse’f.”
“Whut ’bout dat supper we wus gwine hab?” Whiffle asked.
“Honey, I couldn’t buy a sandsquich wid a bad dime,” Shin told her tearfully. “I ain’t got nothin’ dat even looks like money.”
IV
THE LAME SORREL.
Shin hunted all over the fair grounds for Skeeter Butts without being able to find him.
“I knows whut ails dat nigger,” he said to himself, at last. “He’s done gone back to de Hen-Scratch an’ he’s waitin’ fer me to come. I ain’t gwine! Dar ain’t nothin’ mo’ fer me to win but a argumint. I done made dat nigger lose all his money an’ if he gits me shet up in dat saloon, he’ll kill me.”
He walked out of the gate and went straight to the bank, knocking upon the door of the president’s office.
A voice within answered, and Shin turned the knob and entered.
“Marse Tom,” he began, “ain’t you got no job fer a strong, willin’ nigger?”
“Sure,” Colonel Gaitskill said. “But I don’t believe any nigger is willing to work while a free fair is going on out at the race-track.”
“I done got enough fair, Marse Tom,” Shin said solemnly. “I loves hosses, but I ain’t wise to nothin’ about ’em excusin’ how to feed ’em, water ’em, an’ rub ’em down.”
“You wanted me to sell you a race-horse this morning,” Gaitskill reminded him smilingly.
“Yes, suh. But you knowed I didn’t had no money to pay fer no hoss,” Shin grinned. “I wus jes’ talkin’ wid my mouf. But I shore would like to hab a job wuckin’ wid hosses.”
“All right,” Gaitskill agreed. “Go out and potter around my stable. Three dollars a week and feed.”
“Thank ’e, suh. Dat shore suits fine.”
“And listen, Shin. Go out to the bayou pasture and bring in that pie-faced sorrel you wanted to buy. That’s a good saddler. See if you can doctor him up some way and limber up that snake-bitten leg.”
Shin had to pass along the road which led to the Hen-Scratch saloon on his way to the bayou pasture, but he took a wide detour when he came to that place of danger, walking through the fields until he came back to the road at a bend a half mile further on.
Slipping a bridle on the crippled horse, he leaped lightly upon his back, and rode toward the gate. The weeds grew rank and high in that rich bottom land, and multitudes of insects arose from the vegetation and whirled around the heads of the horse and his rider.
Suddenly a large grasshopper whirred up from the weeds and flew past the sorrel’s ear with a sharp, rattling, whining sound—“Zee-e-e-e.”
With a snort of fright the horse sprang forward and ran like a rabbit all around the field, while Shin yelled and wrenched at the bridle, and begged the sorrel to “Whoa!”
In a few minutes the sorrel spilled Shin off and ran far back into the woods.
It was nearly dark when Shin captured him again and rode back to Tickfall. The long run had made the horse lame.
Passing the Hen-Scratch saloon, Shin tried to get a little more speed out of his steed, but the crippled brute merely groaned and limped on. Then right in front of the saloon an accident happened.
There was a new picket fence built around the yard of a home across the street from the saloon. A little negro boy ran down the street with a stick in his hand, and as he passed this fence, he laid his stick against the pickets, scraping it along as he ran. A horrible, rattling noise was the result.
At the first sound, Shin’s pie-faced sorrel leaped into the air, threw Shin heavily to the ground, and ran snorting with fright toward the Gaitskill home with the speed of a deer.
A crowd quickly gathered around the prostrate Shin Bone, and he was picked up and carried into the Hen-Scratch saloon. A few minutes later, after sufficient liquor had been spilled down his throat and over his dusty clothes, Shin opened his eyes and gazed into the yellow, grinning face of Skeeter Butts.
“I figgered it wus about time you wus comin’ here so us could divide up, Shin,” Skeeter laughed. “But I’s plum’ sorry you got throwed off.”
“I cain’t divide up nothin’,” Shin said sadly. “Of co’se I’ll sottle my owe-bill wid you jes’ as soon as I kin. I done got me a job wid Marse Tom. But I ain’t got nary cent of money now.”
“I ’speck you is got mo’ dan you figger on,” Skeeter laughed. “How much does you s’pose you winned on dat race?”
“I ain’t winned nothin’,” Shin declared. “Skipper lose.”
“Shorely,” Skeeter agreed. “I knowed he wus gwine do dat all along. So I bet yo’ money an’ my money on Doodlebug!”
“Bless gracious!” Shin howled, sitting up in the middle of the floor and gazing into the faces of the grinning negroes who stood in a ring about him. “How much did you rake down?”
“Yo’ win is one hundred dollars,” Skeeter declared exultantly. “But you owes me fifty an’ I takes dat out of yo’ win.”
“Dat’s right,” Shin laughed. “Hand me over dem dollars.”
He sat down at the table and counted the money laboriously, his manner becoming more and more elated as the dollars piled up under his hand. Then he slipped the wad into his pocket, and beamed upon the circle of admiring friends.
“Good luck done kotch me agin, niggers!” he laughed. Then he slipped behind the bar beside Skeeter, and said:
“Skeeter, you hab done me a large amount of great good.”
“I don’t deeserve no credick,” Skeeter laughed. “I jes’ happened to know Pap Curtain, an’ besides dat, I done expe’unce dat little Tuckapoo mustang named Doodlebug befo’. I monkeyed wid dat pony one time, an’ Skeeter wus a well skint sucker.”
“Pap hadn’t oughter did me dat way,” Shin lamented.
“Pap cain’t ack no diffunt,” Skeeter told him. “Some niggers is like snakes. Dey gotter wiggle an’ twist an’ go crooked to git along.”
“I shore wish I could gib Pap a twist dat he ain’t lookin’ fer,” Shin declared.
Skeeter eyed him a moment with intense interest. Then he asked:
“Whut you gwine do wid dat money?”
“I’ll ack like eve’y nigger—spend it!” Shin laughed.
“I figger on buyin’ a race-hoss wid my win,” Skeeter suggested. “How would dat plan suit you wid yo’ money?”
“You reckin I could git a hoss whut’ll beat Pap’s Doodlebug?” Shin asked eagerly.
“Suttinly,” Skeeter assured him. “Doodlebug ain’t such a much hoss. Of co’se, he kin beat dese here old plow-hosses whut runs agin him. I knows de hoss whut kin beat him right now.”
Shin pulled his roll of money out of his pocket and passed it back.
“Buy me dat hoss, Skeeter,” he said earnestly. “I don’t want nothin’ as bad as I want to git Pap Curtain’s goat!”
V
NIGGER BLACKIE.
Shin Bone tended bar for Skeeter Butts until eleven o’clock that night, then Skeeter returned to the Hen-Scratch saloon, covered with swamp mud and leading a slim black horse.
“Dis is yo’ winner, Shin,” he said in weary tones, as he placed the lead-rope into the hands of the pop-eyed owner. “I got him for fifty dollars cash down, an’ he’s shore a dandy.”
“He looks pretty peart,” Shin grinned. “Kin he run?”
“Yep,” Skeeter said in a disgusted tone. “He kin run like a log raff floatin’ up de Massassap’ River. But us ain’t winnin’ on his speed—us is bettin’ on his looks.”
“I don’t ketch on ’bout dis,” Shin said stupidly. “Dis sounds to me like you done waste my money.”
“Don’t go by sound, Shin,” Skeeter snickered. “Go by looks. Now listen to dis few advices: you waste all de rest of dis night scourin’ down dis hoss wid a currycomb, a brush, an’ a rag. As soon as it is good day, you git out on de race-track an’ lope dis hoss aroun’ fer a while. Ef Pap Curtain is out on de track, you show him how good dis hoss kin pufform.”
Shin walked away, mumbling to himself in his perplexity. But he took the horse to Gaitskill’s stable and followed Skeeter’s advice. After five or six hours of the most arduous labor, Shin lifted his lantern and surveyed the animal. He shone like a new silver dollar, every hair was in place, and the horse was beautiful.
“He shore is a looker,” Shin proclaimed. “I hopes he’s got some speed inside his black hide.”
A little later, Shin rode him slowly out to the fairgrounds and entered the gate. It was just after daybreak, but early as it was, as Shin rode onto the track, he encountered Pap Curtain mounted on Doodlebug.
Without a word they started around in the same direction, each man watching the other’s horse with great interest.
Shin broke from a canter into a swinging gallop, and Pap followed with Doodlebug. By the time they had gone half a mile and had pulled up, Pap knew all about the black horse.
“Did you buy dat hoss wid de money you winned on de fourth race yistiddy, Shin?” Pap asked with a sneering grin.
“Naw,” Shin said shortly. “You tole me to bet on Skipper.”
“Skipper skipped aroun’ consid’able fast fer him,” Pap chuckled. “Somebody must hab felt sorry fer you an’ gib you dat hoss to win yo’ losin’s back wid.”
“Dat’s perzackly whut dey done,” Shin replied. “I’ll take some of dat money back now ef you is willin’ to try a private race.”
“I ain’t been made acquaintance wid dat hoss,” Pap objected.
“Is you ’quainted wid ten dollars?” Shin asked in an ugly tone, as he pulled a bill from his pocket.
“Sho’ly, sho’ly,” Pap proclaimed in unctuous tones. “Us’ll ride back to’des de gran’stan’ an’ you kin han’ dat money to de fust coon you meet. I’ll put a ten on top of it.”
Deep joy filled Pap’s heart as he watched the black horse walking beside his own Tuckapoo mustang, the little racer which had never been beaten when Pap wanted him to win. Ten dollars was a great deal of money in Pap’s mind, and easily won.
“You double criss-crossed me on dat race yistiddy, Pap,” Shin said angrily. “You made out like I wus a member of de fambly an’ you wus he’pin’ me along. Whut you wus plannin’ wus to rob me of all my loose change.”
“How much did you drap, Shin?” Pap snickered.
“I drapped eve’y cent I bet on Skipper,” Shin said non-committally.
“Ain’t dat too bad!” Pap sighed mockingly. “You is gwine drap a few mo’ change, too.”
A moon-faced negro sat on the fence near the starter’s stand, waiting for something to happen.
“Hold dis money, pardner!” Pap said, as he extended his hand with ten dollars. “Dis little Shin Bone wants to lose a bet!”
Shin dropped his bill into the eager stake-holder’s hand, and turned his horse to ride a few feet up the track for a start. The moon-faced negro took his place under the starter’s wire and the two horses loped down the track.
“Go!” the stakeholder whooped.
It was a pretty race for a quarter and the black was putting forth his best effort every foot of the way. Then Shin’s horse seemed to lose all interest in the race and all other affairs of life and the utmost efforts of the rider availed only to bring the horse under the wire about fifty yards behind Doodlebug.
“Good-bye, po’ little, las’ little ten dollar bill!” Shin chanted tearfully as he loped tearfully on toward the stable leaving Pap Curtain to collect the stakes.
But Pap was not disposed to let Shin off so easily. He galloped after him and began:
“Whut race is you gwine start dat cow in, Shin?”
“He runs in eve’y race whut Doodlebug has, Pap,” Shin said easily enough, but his heart was filled with chagrin. “I bought him to beat yo’ Doodlebug!”
“Doodlebug is in de secont race to-day,” Pap chuckled. “You shore owns a good-looker, but as a race-hoss dat shiny black is a puffeckly awful arrangement.”
This was Shin Bone’s idea exactly, and he rode out of the fairgrounds and hitched his horse in front of the Hen-Scratch saloon to hold an executive session with Skeeter Butts.
He strode into the saloon like a personified calamity, and dropped down in a chair beside the table where Skeeter sat.
“Skeeter,” he howled, “you shore made a awful miscue about dat Nigger Blackie hoss you bought fer me. He’s so nigh nothin’ dat nobody cain’t tell de diffunce betwix’ him an’ nothin’!”
“’Tain’t so,” Skeeter replied, continuing to count some money he had spread out on the table. “Dat’s a dandy lookin’ hoss.”
“Suttinly,” Shin retorted bitterly. “He’s a looker, but he runs like a lan’ tarrapin travelin’ in a plowed field.”
“Ain’t it awful!” Skeeter snickered. “I’d druther try to win a race ridin’ straddle of a mud scow whut I borrered outen de ribber dan to put up dat hoss fer a winner.”
Shin grunted and relapsed into an outraged silence, looking at the unperturbed Skeeter now and then with glaring eyes. Finally Skeeter asked:
“Did you gib Nigger Blackie a tryout?”
“Yep. An’ I loss de onlies’ ten dollars I’m got in de worl’ tryin’ to beat Pap’s Doodlebug.”
“Dat’s whut I loant you dat ten fer,” Skeeter said, handing Shin ten dollars more from the pile on the table. “Ef you hadn’t lost it, I’d ’a’ fit you!”
“Huh,” Shin grunted. “You ain’t tellin’ me as much as I oughter know.”
“Naw, suh, not quite as much. You see, you’s gwine marry into Pap’s fambly, an’ you’s got one of dese here open-work minds an’ cain’t keep nothin’ secret.”
“Dat ain’t no reason why I don’t want to rob Pap of all his dollars,” Shin declared belligerently. “But I don’t expeck to git much of Pap’s money wis Nigger Blackie to run fer it.”
“Mebbe you didn’t know how to ride him, Shin,” Skeeter suggested.
“’Taint dat, Skeeter,” Bone said earnestly. “Dat hoss jes’ nachelly ain’t got no speed in him.”
“I’s heerd tell dat he had racin’ blood in him,” Skeeter replied.
“Mebbe so, he did had—one time,” Shin responded gloomily. “But a stable flea bit him an’ got it all.”
Skeeter stood up and reached for his hat.
“I’s glad to git dat repote from you, Shin,” he said. “Now I wants you to tend dis bar fer me till I gits back. I’s gwine ride Nigger Blackie aroun’ a little an’ see kin I limber up his racin’ speed.”
VI
BY THREE LENGTHS.
On the morning of the second day of the Tickfall Negro Fair, Colonel Tom Gaitskill, the chief promoter of the negro uplift movement, received a shock.
A delegation of wailing women waited upon him and tearfully told their tale of woe. All the canned fruits and vegetables, all the preserves and jams, all the cakes and pies which they had brought to the Fair and entered in the competition for prizes had disappeared from the hall!
Investigation revealed the fact that the hungry negroes had helped themselves, sampling everything until nothing of the sample remained.
Half an hour later a delegation of negro farmers waited upon the Colonel and informed him that all their potatoes, cabbages, fruit, and home-raised peanuts, along with their sugar cane, corn, and hay had mysteriously disappeared from the display hall!
Investigation revealed the fact that those who had animals on exhibition on the grounds had looted and foraged, and found the supply insufficient for their needs.
A committee of howling negro girls waited upon Colonel Gaitskill and announced that all their plain and fancy sewing, their scarfs and handkerchiefs, their dresses and towels had disappeared!
Fowl raisers came to complain that their chickens, ducks, geese, and turkeys had vanished, some or all of them, and what could they do about it?
“By George!” Gaitskill exclaimed in exasperation. “These niggers don’t have to be taught any uplift. They’ve lifted everything on the fairgrounds and made away with it.”
Nothing was left on the grounds but the race-horses, and the Uplift Committee of white citizens of Tickfall decided to charge admission to the grounds for the last two days of the racing, and by the money thus received reimburse the farmers and their wives and daughters for their losses. Thus peace and happiness were restored.
The afternoon was bright and fair and Pap Curtain was on the track early with a careful eye upon Doodlebug and upon all the other horses in Doodlebug’s race, the second. He made a special inspection of Nigger Blackie as the jockey, Little Bit, rode him up the track for a warming. The black was as clumsy as a cow, and the diminutive darky rode him awkwardly and fearfully.
None of the ordinary rules and regulations were in force upon this race-track. A jockey could ride with any sort of saddle, or without one. The negroes had no uniforms, carried any sort of whips or spurs which they thought would get speed from their mounts. Only one rule was positively enforced, and that was made for this event: the man who entered a horse for a race must own the horse.
Pap was at the stable when Little Bit rode back, and he greeted the little jockey in a tone which already thrilled with anticipated victory.
“Don’t bet no chink on dat sook-cow, Little Bit,” he snickered. “Ef you got any loose change, buy yo’se’f a bernaner—don’t waste it!”
Skeeter Butts overheard this remark and hastened forward.
“No jockey kin ride my hoss wid a bettin’-ticket in his hat, Pap,” he said positively. “Ef you wants to lose yo’ money, lemme take it away from you.”
“I thought dis hoss b’longed to Shin Bone,” Pap remarked.
“He do,” Skeeter assured him. “Me an’ Shin went cahoots, an’ Shin exoncised dis hoss dis mawnin’.”
“I remember ’bout dat,” Pap chuckled, as he produced a roll of money from his pocket. “Less go down to de gramstan’ an’ git a stakeholder fer dese funds.”
Skeeter took all the money which Pap would bet, then he walked to the betting shed where a howling mass of half-intoxicated negroes demonstrated an intense love for the improvement of stock.
Ten big, hoarse-voiced, fat-necked negro gamblers from New Orleans pushed and bellowed among the darkies with their little celluloid slates, taking bets for any amount on the favorite, Doodlebug.
Hitch Diamond, Prince Total, and Figger Bush closed in upon Skeeter Butts.
“I hear tell you is got a hoss in de nex’ race, Skeeter,” Hitch Diamond rumbled.
“Yes, suh, I’s gibin’ him a leetle tryout,” Skeeter replied modestly. “Dis here race-hoss game is kinder new on me, an’ I’s jes’ tryin’ to break in easy-like. I buyed a race hoss yistiddy in Shongaloon from Tax Sambola.”
“My Lawd!” Hitch exclaimed. “You ain’t bettin’ money on him, is yer?”
“Jes’ a leetle to keep up my mind int’rusted,” Skeeter grinned.
“I hopes it ain’t no mo’ dan you kin affode to lose, Skeeter,” Hitch Diamond said earnestly. “Dat Nigger Blackie hoss is de best looker in de worl’, an’ he ack like he’s gittin’ ready to go over de land like a air-ship. But he don’t run no faster dan a sewin’-machine.”
“Ain’t it de truth!” Skeeter laughed mockingly. “I figger I better bet on his looks instid of his gait!”
Skeeter walked away and Hitch Diamond turned to his friends with eyes which glowed like a lion’s.
“Sell yo’ socks offen yo’ foots an’ bet yo’ money on Doodlebug, niggers,” he howled. “Skeeter Butts is done commit hisse’f enough to disavow dis Nigger Blackie hoss complete!”
When the bell rang for the second race, Skeeter Butts found Shin Bone in the grandstand, leaning against the rail.
“I got all our spondulix down, Shin,” he grinned. “Bofe of us bets fifty dollars per each.”
“How wus de odds?” Shin asked in a tone trembling with excitement.
“Some of it wus five to one,” Skeeter replied. “All I bet Pap wus at dem odds.”
“Dat’ll bust him in about six minutes,” Shin laughed. “By dark, he’ll be cryin’ in dat lace handkerchief he swiped outen de show-hall an’ beggin’ me to marrify his niece so he won’t hab to suppote her no mo’.”
Shin turned and gazed at the crowd, trying to locate his girl. Failing to find her, he left Skeeter without ceremony.
Nigger Blackie came in front of the grandstand, loping along as sedately as a man might walk across a drawing-room. Little Bit, sitting on his back without a saddle was as nervous as a cat in the midst of a pack of popping fire-crackers.
“I bet ten to one dat Little Bit falls offen dat pony befo’ he gits to de quarter pole,” Pap proclaimed with a loud laugh.
“Ef Nigger Blackie runs in form, he ain’t gwine git to no quarter pole onless Little Bit hauls him dar in a wheel-barrer,” Hitch Diamond grinned.
“Dar’s Doodlebug!” Pap proclaimed, in the tone of a parent speaking of a noble son.
Doodlebug was a Tuckapoo mustang. To those acquainted with the breed, enough said. It means that Doodlebug was a mean, tricky, biting, kicking, balky Indian pony. He came up the track sideways, backwards, on his hind feet, on his fore feet. Twice he lay down and rolled over, and once he balked, spending two minutes in a vain effort to bite off his jockey’s leg.
“Dat hoss ain’t got but one good p’int, Hitchie,” Pap declared. “He kin run like a bullet shot outen a gun!”
A few minutes later five horses swept down the track in an even line.
“Go!” yelled Vinegar Atts, up in the judges’ stand.
In the momentary silence following the get-away, there was a scream so loud and ear-splitting that it thrilled every person on the fair-grounds. Then everybody on the grandstand stood up and an astonished exclamation leaped from every lip:
“Look at Nigger Blackie!” “My Lawd, how dat hoss do run!”
Little Bit had a fence picket for a whip. But instead of using it in the ordinary way, he was violating all the customs of race-riding. He sat perfectly straight, his bridle-reins were untouched, lying upon the horse’s neck and flapping loosely around his face, while he waved his fence picket around his head like a club. Nigger Blackie was running like a streak.
As Little Bit passed the half-mile post, once more that thrilling, ear-splitting shriek swept across the intervening space to the people who stood breathless in the grandstand.
“Whut kind of noise is dat Little Bit is makin’ wid his mouf?” Pap Curtain inquired uneasily as he watched Doodlebug a full length behind Nigger Blackie, running his best and unable to gain an inch.
“Dat’s a Indian war-whoop, Pap,” Hitch Diamond said in a voice which choked in his throat. “When I wus jes’ a little shaver, I used to hear de Caddo Indians yelp dat way when dey wus hoss-racin’.”
“My Gawd!” Pap exclaimed, as the horses turned into the home-stretch. “Whut’s done happened to Doodlebug?”
Doodlebug was doing his best, but he was two lengths behind, while Little Bit was riding Nigger Blackie like an Indian, whooping like a calliope, and Nigger Blackie, with the loose bridle-reins flapping around his face, was coming in like a rocket.
Somebody pulled at Pap’s shoulder, and a soft voice spoke pleadingly in his ear. He struck behind him savagely with his clenched fist, and then leaned far over the fence.
Suddenly the grandstand broke out into a prayer, a wailing cry which urged, pleaded, implored!
“Come on, Doodlebug! Come on, Doodlebug! Come on, Doodlebug!”
“COME on, Doodlebug!” Pap shrieked, with tears in his eyes, and agony in his voice, and tragedy in his heart. “Oh, fer Gawdlemighty’s sake, come on!”
Again some one pulled at Pap’s arm, and a pleading voice spoke to him. Again Pap savagely shook himself loose, struck out blindly and insanely at the person behind him.
Then a mighty moaning sound broke from the grandstand, the lamentation of a crushed, disappointed, bankrupted multitude.
Nigger Blackie was under the wire, a winner by three lengths!
Pap Curtain turned away from the track, dazed, nauseated, his yellow cheeks streaked with white, his sneering lips hanging loosely and quivering, his mouth as dry as sawdust, his tongue feeling like it was as big and rough as a door-mat.
Once more some one pulled at Pap’s shoulder, and a pleading voice spoke tearfully:
“Oh, Pap! I been lookin’ fer you eve’ywhar! I was tryin’ to kotch you an’ tip you off!”
“Whut’s dat?” Pap asked, turning his dazed, unseeing eyes upon the girl.
Whiffle Boone began to cry.
“I couldn’t find you till atter de race begun, Pap,” she sobbed. “I wanted to tell you dat Skeeter Butts an’ Shin Bone swapped hosses on you.”
“How’s dat?” Pap asked, stupidly.
“Skeeter bought two black hosses yistiddy, Pap,” Whiffle Boone said impatiently, mopping the tears from her face. “He got one from Tax Sambola at Shongaloon, but de hoss whut winned de race wus dat black hoss whut Indian Turtle owned—dat ole Indian whut lives on de Coolie bayo. Dat’s how come Little Bit rid him jes’ like a Indian!”
Pap leaned weakly against the fence and a deep moan issued from his stiff, parched lips.
“It’s too late now, Whiffle,” he sighed. “I done loss eve’y dollar I owns. I bet dat fifty dollars whut you gib me to keep fer you, an’ I done lost dat. I done bet Doodlebug, an’ lost him! I would hab loss Skipper, too, only but he b’longed to yo’ maw instid of me!”
Whiffle suddenly broke out into a happy laugh.
“When do Skipper run again, Pap?” she inquired.
“He starts in de fifth race,” Pap sighed.
“All right, Pap, don’t cry!” Whiffle giggled. “Skipper will win in de fifth race—you leave dat to me!”
“’Twon’t do no good, Whiffle,” Pap moaned despairingly. “Us ain’t got no money to bet.”
“You leave dat to me, too,” Whiffle replied confidently. “You set down somewheres an’ rest yo’ mind an’ pick up a brave heart. I’ll git some money fer you to bet, an’ I’ll fry Skeeter Butts an’ Shin Bone in deir own grease!”
VII
DOPE.
In the rear of the grandstand Skeeter Butts and Shin Bone were holding a jubilee. They were in possession of more money than they had ever imagined was in the world. Silver and currency caused every pocket to bulge, and for the first time in their lives they felt the need of police protection.
“I’s skeart dese niggers will stick me up an’ rob me of dis money, Skeeter,” Shin said uneasily. “Wut is us gwine do wid it?”
“Bet it agin!” Skeeter exclaimed exultantly. “Pap Curtain is gwine run Skipper in de las’ race. Dat means dat you an’ me will go home wid all de money on de fairground.”
“We ain’t gwine git many bets,” Shin grinned. “Dese here niggers ain’t got much mo’ money. Us is copped it all.”
“Only three hosses starts in de fifth race, Shin,” Skeeter remarked. “One is Prince Total’s plow-hoss; one is Pap’s Skipper, an’ de yuther is a good runner called Peedee. Us bets on Peedee.”
“All right,” Shin agreed. “Less git busy. Nothin’ don’t bother me but my money.”
“Less go somewhar an’ ’vide up our money even!” Skeeter suggested. “Over by de pond would be a good hidin’ place!”
As they started around the grandstand they met Pap and Whiffle Boone. Pap was walking with bent shoulders, and seemed to have aged forty years in a few minutes. Whiffle was leading him by the hand, and the dazed and broken negro was mumbling incoherently to himself. Whiffle looked straight at Shin Bone without a sign of recognition, and her eyes were like icicles.
“Dar now, Shin!” Skeeter exclaimed tragically. “You done busted Pap an’ yo’ love scrape, bofe at de same time.”
“I ain’t cryin’,” Shin grinned easily. “Whiffle knows whar de money is at, an’ she’ll come back to little Shinny.”
They watched Pap and the girl until they were swallowed up by the crowd, then Skeeter and Shin crossed the track and walked over to a pond in the rear of the judges’ stand. They sat down on the edge of the water, divided their fortune, and happily planned their final raid on the money of their friends.
In the meantime Pap and Whiffle were standing at a stall looking into the face of a sleepy-eyed horse named Skipper.
“How much would you bet on Skipper, ef you had some money, Pap?” Whiffle wanted to know.
“Nothin’,” Pap replied disgustedly.
Whiffle turned and caught Pap by the lapel of his coat. She looked straight into his eyes and said:
“Pap, you listen to me: I win one hundred dollars in dat las’ race by bettin’ on Nigger Blackie. Dat shows dat I knows more about hoss-racin’ dan you does. Now, you take dis money an’ bet eve’y cent of it on Skipper, an’ leave de rest to me—will you do dat?”
Pap’s sagging backbone stiffened. His chin came up in the air. His air of disappointment and dejection vanished like magic, and his face assumed a broad smile.
“Gimme dat money, honey,” he exulted. “I ain’t mournin’ de loss of my change. I hates to let Skeeter an’ Shin bust me. Ef I kin jes’ show ’em dat dey didn’t git it all, I’ll shore die happy.”
“All right,” Whiffle smiled. “Go ahead an’ die. You hunt up Skeeter Butts an’ Shin Bone an’ bet ’em dis money—make ’em gib you ten to one on Skipper!”
When Pap departed, Whiffle made a circuit of the stables, eyeing each negro loafer with intense interest.
Finally she stopped and concentrated her attention on one darky who sat on top of the fence beside the track, a negro, the features of whose face seemed to have disintegrated and merged in a shapeless mass, as if the clay of which the face was molded had “run” before it was dry.
The negro saw Whiffle without appearing to look. Whiffle put up her hand and rubbed her nose. Instantly the man ran two fingers into his ragged waistcoat pocket, brought them out, and waved them under his nose with a loud sniff.
Whiffle promptly stepped to the fence beside him, laid a fifty-cent piece upon the top rail, and whispered one word. The man acted as if he did not hear. Whiffle turned her back and looked off across the green surrounded by the race-track, and saw Skeeter Butts and Shin Bone leave the pond in the middle of the green and walk toward the betting-shed.
The negro climbed down from the fence and disappeared in the crowd. Whiffle kept her eyes on Skeeter and Shin until he had entirely disappeared. Then she turned, and where the money had been lying upon the fence there now rested a folded paper. Whiffle palmed this paper and walked slowly back to Skipper’s stall.
Entering the stall, she closed the door, opened the paper and poked at the glistening crystals with the tip of her forefinger.
Skipper drew near and sniffed at her hands, begging for sweetmeats.
“Dis ain’t no sugar, Skipper,” she murmured, catching him by the nose. “Whoa! You’ll make me spill dis med’cine, an’ it costed me fifty cents! Whoa!”
She licked a few remaining crystals off of her trembling fingers, twisted the paper into a tiny wad and walked out of the stall.
“Huh!” she sighed as she wiped the bitter taste from her lips. “Ef Pap seed me lickin’ dat he’d kill me!”
VIII
DISASTER.
Skeeter Butts and Shin Bone stood in the crowd at one of the entrances of the grandstand and frowned and sneered at the importunate negroes who crowded around them.
“Lend us jes’ a dollar or two, Skeeter,” they pleaded. “Ef we could git a leetle start, mebbe we could win some of our money back.”
“I ain’t loantin’ no money,” Skeeter proclaimed. “I’s jes’ bettin’ money, an’ I done bet all I’m got an’ couldn’t loant none ef I wanted to.”
At that moment Pap Curtain joined the group, waving five twenty-dollar bills. He had wasted much time trying to locate Skeeter and Shin.
“Put up or shet up, Skeeter!” he howled gleefully. “Here am one hunderd dollars whut say dat Skipper wins dis race.”
“Bless gracious, Pap,” Skeeter grinned. “I figgered dat I had you bust. Ef I’d ’a’ knowed you had a single dollar lef’ I’d shore been to see you. Now I done bet all I’m got.”
“Put up de Hen-Scratch saloon!” Pap taunted. “I’ll bet you on anything you is got.”
“I got a race-hoss,” Skeeter grinned. “I’ll bet Nigger Blackie agin fifty dollars dat Skipper don’t win.”
“I takes it,” Pap said promptly.
“I’m got a Nigger Blackie race-hoss, too, Pap,” Shin Bone suggested with a loud laugh. “You seed me on him dis mawnin’.”
“I bets you ten dollars agin yo’ race-hoss,” Pap said promptly.
“I takes it,” Shin snickered.
Pap turned away with forty dollars, and found no trouble in placing it on Skipper, with odds against his horse of ten to one.
It was the last race of the day, and business was brisk. The losers were squealing and begging money, hoping for a chance to repair their fortunes. The winners were whooping and resorting to every means in their power to push their luck to the limit and add to their loot.
“Hurry up, niggers!” one of the bloated, dressy coons from the city whooped. “Git yo’ money on de race! Dey’s saddlin’ up! Ef you wants to git in on dis spec’lation now is de las’ an’ loudest call fer yo’ money! Git busy!”
“Put yo’ las’ dollar on de las’ race an’ don’t cry ef you bets it on de hoss dat comes in las’, niggers!” another darky bawled as he waved a handful of money. “You’ll be shore to git yo’ money’s wuth of dis race, fer dese three hayburners cain’t lope aroun’ dat track befo’ sundown!”
“Listen, Shin!” Skeeter said as he plucked at his friend’s sleeve. “I ’speck we better hunt up dat Whiffle Boone an’ make frien’s wid her over agin. ’Tain’t no use to bear her no grudge—us is winners!”
“Lawd, I done fergot dat sweet little gal offen my mind!” Shin exclaimed as he hastened with Skeeter into the crowded grandstand and pushed through the sweating multitude in his search for his girl.
“Dar she am!” Skeeter said, pointing. “You go up an’ set on one side of her, an’ I’ll set on de yuther side, an’ us’ll jolly her up!”
To their surprise, they found Whiffle as jolly already as she could possibly be. She made room for them, sat down between them and began to talk like the whirr of a flutter-mill.
The bell rang for the fifth race, and the three horses galloped up the track in front of the grandstand. Skeeter noticed that Skipper’s jockey was having the time of his life trying to keep his mount on the track. The animal acted like he had an insane desire to walk the fence, climb into the grandstand, or slide on his ear.
“Somebody is done hit dat Skipper over de head wid somepin an’ sot him crazy,” Skeeter commented.
“Don’t you slanderize Skipper now!” Whiffle warned him. “Dat hoss b’longs to my maw.”
“He’s a good hoss all right,” Skeeter said propitiatingly. “But of co’se he ain’t whut you mought call a race-hoss.”
“Oh, ain’t he?” Whiffle sniffed. “He wus a race-hoss when we bought him, an’ I bet I knows mo’ about race-hossin’ dan you do!”
There was a loud whoop from the crowd and Skeeter Butts raised himself on tiptoe and looked with popping eyeballs.
“Bless gracious, whut a git-off!” Whiffle exclaimed.
It was indeed a very bad start. In a few moments the three horses were strung over a distance of a hundred yards, but well to the front and all alone a big gray named Skipper was skimming the rail and running like a wild fox, while Skeeter’s favorite bet, Peedee, was the last in the line.
“O Lawdy!” Skeeter sighed, his heart bumping against the base of his tongue. “Dis is awful, puffeckly awful!”
He sat down heavily and closed his eyes.
Shin Bone took one look and vanished.
Whiffle Boone stood without a tremor of excitement watching her horse.
“Run, you gray houn’ dawg, run!” she whooped in a clear, bugle call.
At the head of the stretch Skipper was far ahead, running like a high-powered automobile.
He passed under the wire and started around the track again. In spite of the frantic efforts of his jockey to stop him Skipper made the second mile in record time.
As he passed the grandstand the negro who operated the big bass drum brought down the drumstick on the stretched pigskin with a loud “Boom!”
Skipper promptly jumped the fence, ran far over in the field, bucked his jockey off, ran splashing through the little artificial pond in the middle of the green, and finally lay down in the water and rolled over and over like a muskrat, kicking and squealing and splashing the water and making waves like Pharaoh’s army drowning in the sea!
“Lawdymussy!” Whiffle whined, watching the antics of the crazed horse and wringing her hands in nervous distress. “I knowed Skipper was a hop-hoss, but I didn’t ax nobody how much tea to gib him. I figger dat I doped Skipper too high!”
The crowd was on its way home a long time before they rescued Skipper from the pond and persuaded the mud-begrimed winner to return to his stall and be cleaned off.
At the head of the homeward-bound procession walked Skeeter Butts and Shin Bone. Words cannot describe their distress.
“Dis is a sad an’ sorrerful day fer me, Shin,” Skeeter wept. “At de eend of de secont race I owned all de money in de worl’. But now——”
“Hush, Skeeter!” Shin said impatiently. “Yo’ mouf is jes’ like a gramophome—you sets it runnin’ an’ goes off an’ leaves it.”
“All right,” Skeeter snarled. “I’ll shet up. But fust I tells you dis, solemn an’ specific: I ain’t never gwine bet on nothin’ no more! Dis here expe’unce is done broke me from suckin’ eggs!”
“Hush, Skeeter!” Shin pleaded. “Lemme medjertate!”
IX
ONE DOLLAR, ONE CENT, ONE WORM.
Next morning, as Shin busied himself about the stable of Colonel Tom Gaitskill, he was in the depths of despair. The day before had been one of wild betting, of wonderful winnings, and of most disastrous and heartbreaking losses. And this was the last day of the fair, and Shin found himself in a condition where there was no possibility of recovering even a part of his lost fortune.
One by one he brought out Gaitskill’s handsome horses and cleaned them until a man might rub a silk handkerchief over their shiny coats and not pick up a speck of dust.
Finally Shin brought out the beautiful sorrel with the blazed face and the stiff, snake-bitten leg. The animal was painfully lame, and Shin spent an hour with various remedies striving to get some of the rigidity out of the wounded leg.
Colonel Tom Gaitskill sauntered out from his house to the stables, carrying his morning newspaper in his hand.
“Mawnin,’ Kunnel!” Shin exclaimed. “Dis old rattlesnake hoss is shore disencouragin’. It ’pears like his leg ain’t limberin’ up a-tall!”
“Is that so?” Gaitskill asked, slapping at the gnats which flew annoyingly close to his face with the newspaper and making a shrill, rattling sound.
Instantly the horse gave a loud snort, leaped high into the air, broke the halter rope with which he was tied to the post, sprang awkwardly across the lot, and stood in the corner of the fence, looking fearfully around him and blowing the air with a whistling sound through his nostrils.
“What in the name of mud is the matter with that fool?” Gaitskill demanded.
“Dat hoss is done expe’unce a rattlesnake, Marse Tom, an’ dat rattlin’ newspaper skeart him” Shin Bone grinned. “When dat hoss hears somepin rattle he don’t take no time to study—he hikes!”
Shin walked over and led the trembling animal back to the post. Gaitskill said with deep regret:
“My fine horse is ruined, Shin. If he should recover from that stiff leg he would always be unreliable.”
“Dat’s a fack, Marse Tom,” Shin agreed. “Nothin’ cain’t never make no rattlin’ sound aroun’ him. I done expe’unce dat myse’f—he throwed me off two times an’ nigh fractioned my neck.”
“I don’t know what to do with him now,” Gaitskill said sadly.
“Sell him to me, Marse Tom!” Shin pleaded. “Me an’ Whiffle Boone is gwine git married an’ start a eatin’-house, an’ ef I could own dis hoss an’ a little wagon I could make plenty money wid light haulin’.”
Gaitskill pondered this a moment. Then he said:
“I’ll let you have him for forty dollars, Shin.”
“Suttinly, Marse Tom. I’ll take him!”
“But remember this: you must promise to turn that horse into my pasture every night, so he can get enough to eat. I won’t have you starve him.”
“A nigger don’t starve his own hoss, Kunnel,” Shin Bone laughed. “A nigger will steal feed fer his own hoss, but he won’t steal fer a white man’s hoss.”
Gaitskill smiled and turned away. Shin gazed upon Rattlesnake with the proud eyes of an owner. He put his arms around the animal’s slim, graceful neck, drew the shapely head down upon his bosom, and said:
“Cripple hoss, ef I jes’ had a live rattlesnake to tie to yo’ tail, I figger I could go out on de race-track dis day an’ win all de races whut is!”
Suddenly he straightened up, released the horse’s head and turned away with an air of deep dejection.
“Shucks!” he growled. “Marse Tom specify I got to pay him fawty dollars fer dis hoss! Whar kin I git dat money?”
Shin led the horse back to the stall and sat down on a broken chair in the runway. Twenty minutes of deep cogitation threw no light upon his financial problem, so he rose with a sigh and idly ran his hands through his empty pockets.
Suddenly he thought of the breast pocket of his coat.
Hastily he thrust his hand into that pocket and brought out one silver dollar and one copper cent. Up to that moment he had forgotten this money since he placed it there three days before.
“Dis two money fotch me luck one time,” he sighed. “Mebbe I could git a little lift from ’em agin ef Skeeter Butts hadn’t took cold foots an’ announce his specify dat he warn’t gwine race no mo’.”
He walked out of the stable, stopped beside a big pine stump in the stable yard, laid his dollar on top of the stump and placed the copper penny on top of the dollar in as nearly the exact center as he could calculate.
Then he lifted up some planks which lay deeply buried in the dirt in the corner of the yard and captured two red earthworms. He took one of these worms and laid it in the exact center of the copper coin.
“Now, Mr. Worm,” Shin commanded, “you crawl often dat cent and specify to me whut direction to go to git some money! Gimme a sign!”
The worm started to crawl off. In his progress his head touched the silver dollar. The worm stopped and promptly crawled back upon the copper. He started again in another direction, but the moment its body touched the silver dollar the worm drew back.
“Huh!” Shin grunted. “Dis worm is igernunt—he don’t know which way to go!”
Shin watched him with intense curiosity. He picked up a straw and gave him little pushes to assist his progress, then he suddenly took a breath which threatened to suck in all the air in the stable-yard.
“Bless Gawd!” he exclaimed with heartfelt gratitude. “It’s a shore, certain fack!”
He tossed the worm aside, pocketed the money and made a beeline to the Hen-Scratch saloon.
That popular resort was crowded with the colored inhabitants of Tickfall. They raved and bellowed and drank and laughed and rattled the money in their pockets and discussed the races of the day.
Shin entered quietly, and after a few minutes he picked up a table and set it in the middle of the room, placing a chair beside it. Seating himself with great ceremony, he put his silver dollar in the center of the table and placed his copper cent on top of the dollar.
The noise of talking and laughing ceased and the negroes crowded around Shin Bone.
Like all negroes, Shin had a dramatic gift, and he played it to the limit. His actions were attended by no explanations and had an air of deep mystery. Then he spoke:
“Whut nigger in dis house is got a fishin’ worm?”
There was a long, astonished silence. Finally Pap Curtain spoke:
“Whut you want wid a fishin’ worm, Shinny? Want to eat yo’ breakfust?”
“Naw, suh,” Shin proclaimed. “I’s gwine make a bet.”
“Whut does you bet?” Hitch Diamond bellowed.
Shin Bone rose to his feet. Pointing dramatically at the money, he shouted:
“I bets any money dat I kin put a fishin’ worm on top of dat copper cent, an’ dat worm will starve an’ squinch up an’ die, befo’ he will crawl across dat silver dollar an’ git away!”
This announcement was followed by intense silence. Finally Pap Curtain remarked:
“Dat’s some kind of trick dollar.”
“’Tain’t so!” Shin howled.
“How much will you bet?” Hitch Diamond wanted to know.
“Any money!”
“Will you lemme furnish my own dollar?” Pap Curtain inquired.
“Suttinly!”
“Will you lemme furnish de copper cent?” Hitch Diamond bellowed.
“Shorely!”
“Will you lemme furnish de fishin’ worm?” Prince Total squealed.
“Yep!”
“Lawd, niggers!” Hitch Diamond roared. “Shin Bone is done gone cripple under de hat! Less bust him!”
Shin Bone pocketed his dollar and his copper and sat down at the table. There was a wild flurry as Prince Total pushed through the crowd to go out and dig an earth-worm. Hitch Diamond sat down in the middle of the sand-covered barroom floor, laid a copper cent down, placed an immense middle finger upon it and began to scour it up and down until the penny shone like new. Pap Curtain dropped a silver dollar upon the floor, placed his boot upon it and scraped it up and down in the sand. When he placed it upon the table it looked like a new-minted dollar.
A moment later Prince Total appeared with a fat red earth-worm.
“Put yo’ money on de table, niggers,” Shin Bone announced as he rose to his feet. “I takes eve’y bet up to fo’ hunderd dollars. I bought a eatin’-house from Marse Tom Gaitskill fer fo’ hunderd dollars, an’ dat house covers all my bets!”
“I keeps de books!” Skeeter Butts squealed, flourishing a pencil and a sheet of paper. “Bellow yo’ bets in a loud voice!”
“Pap Curtain, twenty dollars!” Pap proclaimed.
“Hitch Diamond, twenty!”
“Prince Total, twenty!”
“Figger Bush, twenty!”
All of this was perfectly familiar to the negroes for this reason: in the negro churches when a collection is taken up a table is placed, a secretary is appointed, and each donor marches to the front of the congregation, places his gift upon the table, announces the amount in a loud voice and retires.
In ten minutes the table contained a goodly amount of currency and silver, and Shin Bone swept the contribution from the top of the table into his hat.
“Two hundred an’ fo’ dollars is bet, niggers!” Shin announced. “Now, Prince Total, advance an’ produce de worm!”
Pap Curtain laid his shiny silver dollar in the center of the table. Hitch Diamond placed his shiny copper cent in the center of the dollar. Prince Total placed his fat, shiny, squirmy earth-worm in the center of the cent.
Shin Bone walked over close to the exit, climbed upon the end of the bar so he could see by looking over the heads of the negroes, and began to pocket the money contained in his hat.
There was the most intense and overwhelming silence as the crowd watched the worm. It started off the cent, but it never stayed off. The penny was small and the worm was large, and sometimes it overflowed and touched the silver. When that happened the worm displayed the most intense discomfort, and the most eager desire to readjust its folds and scramble back upon the copper.
A loud groan arose from the watching negroes.
Shin Bone stood up on the end of the bar and squealed:
“Good-bye, niggers! Ef dat worm ever gits offen dat copper cent I’ll pay de money back an’ eat de worm raw!”
He turned and walked out of the saloon a happy and wealthy man!
Ten minutes later Pap Curtain, Hitch Diamond, and Prince Total appeared at the home of Colonel Tom Gaitskill.
“Kunnel,” Hitch said earnestly, “us niggers wants to show you somepin an’ ax you how come!”
“What is it?” Gaitskill smiled.
Pap laid a silver dollar on the floor of the porch, Hitch Diamond placed a copper cent on top of it, and Prince Total laid a worm on top of the cent.
“Now, Kunnel, fer Gawd’s sake, tell us how come dat worm cain’t crawl offen dat cent?”
Gaitskill laughed.
“That is a simple demonstration in experimental electricity, men,” he said. “When the worm’s damp body which is in contact with the copper touches the silver it starts a current of electricity that gives it a shock. Of course the current thus produced is very slight, but it is quite enough for the worm, and the worm finds it more comfortable to stay on the copper coin.”
“Dat shore is a strange an’ expensive fack, Marse Tom,” Hitch Diamond remarked gloomily.
“De nigger whut bets his dollars on dat exper’ment ain’t gwine git no slight shock,” Pap Curtain declared.
“An’ he ain’t gwine hab even a copper cent to stan’ on!” Prince Total concluded.
X
RATTLESNAKE.
All of Shin Bone’s victims were sitting in the grandstand when Shin rode on the track that afternoon to exhibit his newly purchased horse.
“Hello, Shinny!” Hitch Diamond yelled. “Whar you git dat plug?”
“Marse Tom sold him to me fer fawty dollars,” Shin grinned. “You all he’ped me to pay fer him when you bit like suckers at dat fishin’ worm!”
“Is you gwine race him?” Pap whooped.
“Suttinly. He goes in de las’ race.”
“Is you gwine bet on him?” Prince Total squealed.
“I bets eve’y cent I’m got,” Shin grinned. “Dis hoss’s name is Rattlesnake, an’ he’s pure p’ison.”
Shin trotted his horse down the track, and the negroes watched the stiff hind leg of the animal and noticed that the horse never raised it far enough above the ground to prevent it making a long mark upon the turf. Shin galloped back in front of his friends, and the crippled horse awkwardly dragged his stiff leg, making a longer and deeper mark upon the track.
“I wonder ef dat nigger really means whut he say?” Pap remarked as he sat back in his seat.
“Whut race is you in, Pap?” Hitch Diamond asked.
“I starts Nigger Blackie in de las’ race,” Pap told him. “I bet Doodlebug yistiddy an’ lost him, but I speck he’s gwine in dat race, too. Of co’se Nigger Blackie kin beat Doodlebug—he done it yistiddy.”
“I thought Nigger Blackie b’longed to Skeeter Butts,” Hitch said.
“Naw, suh. I winned Nigger offen Skeeter yistiddy.”
“How many hosses in dat las’ race?” Prince Total asked.
“Gawd knows,” Pap sighed. “It’s de las’ race of de fair. It’s a free-fer-all scramble, an’ eve’y nigger in dis parish kin git in wid a race-hoss ef he wants to.”
“I tells you whut, niggers,” Hitch Diamond suggested. “Shin Bone is done robbed us of a heap of money; now less go down an’ bet agin him an’ his hoss an’ rob him of all de chink he’s got. Dat stiff-leg Rattlesnake cain’t run—any hoss kin beat him as fur as you kin shoot a gun.”
“I favors dat!” Pap exclaimed. “Dis is de las’ race of de las’ day of de fair. I favors makin’ it de las’ of Shin Bone. I’s done got plum’ nauseated wid dat nigger anyhow.”
They waited on Shin in a body and proposed to take all his money away from him.
“I bets dollar fer dollar, niggers,” Shin replied smilingly. “I is got one hunderd an’ sixty dollars, an’ I lets it go easy.”
“Who holds de stakes?” Pap Curtain asked.
“I dunno,” Shin answered. “I ain’t figgered on dat.”
“How will Whiffle Boone suit?” Pap inquired:
“She suits,” Shin said indifferently. “Less hunt her up.”
They found Whiffle in the grandstand and explained what they wanted her to do. She gladly consented and accepted their money, keeping a record of the amount of their bets.
When the men left her Whiffle sat for a long time in deep meditation, then she started on a search for Shin Bone.
Shin was busy at the stable plaiting Rattlesnake’s mane and tail into long, hard braids, a half dozen on the mane and as many on the tail. He was working eagerly, confidently, with the manner of a man who knew what he was doing.
“Shinny,” Whiffle asked, “who is gwine ride yo’ hoss?”
“I’m is.”
“Is you shore you is gwine win, Shin?”
“Suttinly.”
“I don’t see how dat cripple hoss kin run,” Whiffle remarked in troubled tones.
“It do ’pear like dat stiff leg hinders him some,” Shin grinned. “But I done found out somepin ’bout dis hoss: he ain’t skeart of nothin’ but a rattlesnake.”
“Dat discover don’t make him run no faster,” Whiffle replied.
“No’m. But ef I was to tie a rattlesnake to his tail I ’speck he would run some.”
“Huh!” Whiffle snorted disgustedly. “You ain’t gwine tie no snake to dat hoss’s tail.”
“Dat’s a fack,” Shin snickered. “I’s skeart of snakes. But I tells you dis honest, Whiffle: ef you got any money to bet, you bet it on Rattlesnake. I wouldn’t tell you dis ef I didn’t love you more’n anybody!”
“I owns one hunderd dollars, Shin. Me an’ Pap winned in de race whut busted you up yistiddy. I’s gwine bet on Rattlesnake fer yo’ sake, because I loves you.”
It seemed a long time to Shin Bone before the last race. A good hour before that contest of speed Shin had Rattlesnake saddled and waiting.
When at last the bell rang for the final racing event of the fair Shin mounted his stiff-legged steed and rode slowly out upon the track. He counted and found that fifteen other horses were entered, the only formidable rivals to Rattlesnake being Doodlebug and Nigger Blackie.
There are various methods in use among horsemen to extract speed from their race-horses.
Sometimes a jockey carries an electric battery in one of his riding boots, and the battery is connected with copper wire to his spurs; sometimes the battery is hidden in the saddle and the saddle is stitched and lined with copper wire; sometimes the battery is concealed in the butt end of the riding whip. These methods often lead to the detection of dishonesty. A better way is to carry a hand buzzer and apply the juice until the race is won; then the jockey can toss the hand buzzer over the fence and defy the inspection of the judges. Sometimes a groom or rubber pours a bottle of liquid called “High Life” over the horse’s back, or administers a dose of dope; in that case the jockey has the struggle of his life to prevent his horse from climbing into the judges’ stand before he can get a start.
But Shin Bone pulled the most unique stunt ever attempted on a race-track.
The best speed extractor in the world for white flesh, colored flesh, or horse flesh is Fright. Fear will make a lame man walk, a crippled horse run, and a paralyzed negro sprout wings and fly.
Shin rode Rattlesnake without spurs, or whip, or dope, or high life, or electricity. All in the world that he had to induce his horse to run was a handful of toy baby rattles which he had swiped from the nursery of Colonel Tom Gaitskill’s grandchild. Woven in Rattlesnake’s plaited mane were half a dozen celluloid balls, containing two or three buckshot each and marks outside of a baby’s tiny teeth.
As Rattlesnake stumped about on his stiff leg they made no disturbing sound; but Shin had learned by experiment that a little burst of speed started the rattling, and the big horse did the rest!
The fifteen horses trotted down toward the starter’s stand in a pretty fair alignment. Vinegar Atts, the starter, was tired of his week’s work and easy to please.
“Go!” he whooped.
Rattlesnake broke into an awkward gallop. Then Shin Bone reached back and pulled a string in the rear of his saddle.
Four noisy celluloid baby rattles, each suspended from a strong string, dropped down around the legs of Rattlesnake.
The horse heard that deadly, venomous rattle, and felt something touch his flanks and drop further and tap him on the legs; right behind his ears he heard a dreadful whirring sound, as if a snake were entwined in his mane!
He uttered a scream so shrill, so horrible, that every negro in the grandstand shuddered.
Then he leaped forward, and the pop-eyed negroes had never seen such running in their lives!
Rattlesnake’s body lay out in a level line, nose, shoulder, back, and his flying legs were a yellow blur beneath his straining body. But not all the thunder of his going could deaden the sound of that fearful rattle, which whirred like the wind in his ears, stirring the remembrance of suffering and sickness and the agony of the cauterizing iron!
Faster, faster, faster Rattlesnake ran, his feet spurning the brown carpet of turf beneath him, his crippled hind leg limbering up for the last time in his life and shooting his body forward like the piston rod of an engine.
The race was won in an incredible time.
As the terrified horse shot under the wire Shin reached behind his saddle and tore loose the cords which held the rattles flapping around the animal’s flanks; then he ran his hands through the plaited mane and pulled off the rattles which whirred behind Rattlesnake’s ears, and the horse slowly slackened his speed and stopped, his sides heaving, his breath coming and going like a giant bellows.
When the other horses came in Shin rode slowly back and held up his hand.
“Judges?” he called.
Vinegar Atts nodded his head and waved his hand toward the stable.
When Shin Bone dismounted at the stall Whiffle Boone ran forward with the tears running down her laughing face.
She jerked Shin’s hat from his head, turned it upside down on the ground and filled it with money. Then she threw her arms around the graceful, throbbing, sweating neck of the big sorrel horse.
“We win!” she sobbed. “Bless Gawd! We win!”
All this happened three years ago, and there has never been another race at any Tickfall Negro Fair.
For three years Shin Bone’s wife has been in charge of the restaurant which she bought with her winnings in the last great race. For three years Shin Bone has met every train with a light wagon drawn by a pie-faced, stiff-legged sorrel horse. His owner “wrastles trunks an’ gripsacks fer de white folks.” His horse is as fat as butter, but he runs away every time he hears a rattling sound.
Last fall Shin and Whiffle drove Rattlesnake out to the fairground and entered a two-year-old negro boy in the Better Babies’ contest. Colonel Tom Gaitskill had offered handsome prizes in this contest and was in charge.
“This is your son, Shin?” Gaitskill smiled as he entered the piccaninny’s name and age in a large book.
“Yes, suh.”
“I presume it is a eugenic, hygienic baby?” Gaitskill laughed.
“Yes, suh,” Shin replied, wondering at the same time what Gaitskill meant. “Yes, suh. He gits de you-jeans from his maw an’ de high-jeans from his paw. He’s a shore winner!”
