Toward the close of the races Sugar Sibley began to complain.
“I sho’ is had bad luck, Skeeter,” she mourned. “Done bet my good money on five different races an’ ain’t winned a dollar. How come?”
“Dunno,” Skeeter murmured. “Mebbe ef I go down by de stables an’ pick up some tips----”
“Huh!” Sugar snorted. “I done tried dat game befo’. Down in Baton Rouge I made love to eve’y nigger stable-boy, nigger rubber, nigger jockey, nigger trainer, an’ nigger owner on de track.”
“Shore! An’ eve’y time dey gimme a hot tip de hoss I bet on got cold foots--but I got scorched good an’ plenty!”
“Dey’s shore makin’ cracklin’ outen yo’ hide here,” Skeeter snickered. “Dese niggers will all die water-millyunaires ef yo’ pile holds out long enough.”
“I don’t keer,” Sugar said finally. “Dis here money ain’t cost me nothin’, an’ ’tain’t no loss ef I loses it.”
“Dat’s de right talk,” Skeeter exclaimed. “Less spend it all. I ain’t never wasted money like dis befo’, an’ I likes de exoncise.”
“We’s got to waste it all on de nex’ race, den,” Sugar snickered. “Dar ain’t but one mo’ race. Whut hoss we gwine lose on now, Skeeter?”
A red-headed boy climbed up a ladder in front of the starter’s stand to write the names of the horses in the next race on a blackboard.
“De fust name he writes totes my money!” Sugar proclaimed.
Then she watched a white hand chalking a scrawly signature.
“My Gawd!” Sugar and Skeeter exclaimed in one breath. “He’s done writ Doodle-Bug!”
With a tragic look on her face, Sugar Sibley stooped down, picked up the brown hand-satchel lying between her feet, and handed it to Skeeter Butts.
“I’ll expire game, Skeeter!” she said in a weak, shaky voice. “Bet it all--dollar fer dollar! Dis am de finish!”
Skeeter looked at her a moment, started to say something, then walked away in silence. Once out of her sight he ran with all speed in search of Hitch Diamond, Prince Total, Mustard Prophet, and Figger Bush.
“Git busy, niggers!” he howled. “Sugar bets dollar fer dollar on Doodle-Bug!”
“She’ll git accommodated up!” Prince Total guffawed. “Us niggers is gwine borry all de money on dis fair ground.”
“Why don’t she jes’ hand us dat brown satchel?” Figger Bush giggled.
“She wants some fun fer her money,” Skeeter grinned. “She’s a real, true spote.”