Part 13

“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.

“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.