Pap promptly pranced up the steps and seated himself in the place vacated by Skeeter Butts. He did not act like a stranger, nor as if he regarded an introduction necessary.
“Howdy, Sugar?” he remarked. “I argufies dat yo’ name fits you’ corporosity like a candy jaw-breaker fits a pickaninny’s mouf.”
“You ain’t entirely wrong, Popper,” the lady grinned. “I’s shore a sweet cake to de coon whut’s got de dough to mix wid de sugar.”
“Skeeter Butts jes’ now specify to me dat he’s nearly out of mixin’s,” Pap muttered, fumbling at his own silver-laden pockets.
“All right, Popper,” Sugar announced complacently. “Me an’ you will let dat Mr. Muskeeter fly up de creek.”
“Ef he won’t fly away us’ll screen him off,” Pap snickered.
Their conversation was brought to an abrupt close by a loud whoop from the spectators. Five horses were loping around the track--loping leisurely in spite of the fact that their frenzied jockeys were using whip and spur at every jump. But the racing game was new to these humble plough-horses, and their idea seemed to be that if they reached the wire before the sun set the day’s work would be done.
But the jockey on Rastus found a tender place on his mount’s tick-bitten flank and managed to provoke a spurt of speed which put Rastus two lengths ahead and kept him there. Rastus won!
Flushed with his triumph and rattling his money, Skeeter Butts came to where Pap and Sugar were seated, tossed five dollars in Sugar’s lap, and glared at Curtain.
“Git outen my seat, Pap!” he commanded. “You’s tryin’ to deeprive me of my gal!”
“Naw, suh,” Pap answered promptly. “I ain’t intend no depravity. Besides, I gotter go. ’Bout fawty niggers wants to cornverse me ’bout dis nex’ race.”
“Whut hoss we gwine bet on nex’, Skeeter?” Sugar Sibley asked when Pap had gone.
“I dunno,” Butts replied, promptly regretting that he had not been more gracious to Pap Curtain. “Which way did Pap went?”
“Whut you want wid dat ole man?” Sugar asked suspiciously.
“Pap is sellin’ tips,” Skeeter explained. “He teched me off ’bout Rastus winnin’ dat las’ race atter he made me prommus I wouldn’t tell nobody.”
“I don’t b’lieve it,” Sugar snorted. “I picked Rastus myself when de band was playin’ dat tune. How do Popper Curtain know whut hoss is gwine win?”