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.