Chapter 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.”