Sugar Sibley, the dusky belle of the Tickfall Parish Fair, sat in the Jim Crow section of the grand stand, clothed in all the colors of the rainbow, posing with all the indolence and insolence of an African princess, lavishing her charms upon the yellow-faced barkeeper of the Hen-Scratch saloon.

“Whut hoss we gwine bet on next, Skeeter?” she inquired.

“Dunno,” Skeeter answered anxiously. “I hopes it’ll be a winner.”

Skeeter removed his hat and rubbed a nervous hand over a closely cropped head, down the middle of which a part had been made with a razor.

His face was seamed with fine lines of worry, and the nervous sweat pouring down his face had wilted his high, white collar to a soiled and crumpled rag.

“I don’t like a nigger whut parts his wool in de middle,” Sugar announced, eyeing Skeeter’s head, with disapproving looks. “Ef a hoss eats in my trough, his mane is all got to lay on one side.”

Skeeter hastily put on his hat.

The band struck up the lively tune of Rastus, Why Don’t You Pay de Rent?

“Dar now!” Sugar exclaimed. “One dem hosses in dat nex’ race is named Rastus. You go bet ten dollars on Rastus, Skeeter! An’ fotch me back some loose change. You ain’t winned me nothin’ dis whole day.”

“I ain’t got but ten bucks lef’ over,” Skeeter confessed. “Ef Rastus don’t win, I’s shore a busted cornstitution!”

“Whut’s dat?” Sugar demanded sharply. “You mean to signify dat you ain’t fotch but one hundred dollars out here wid you to entertain a cullud lady?”

“Dat’s right,” Skeeter declared, “an’ I done loss it all but dis here tenner.”

“You’s gwine lose a lady frien’, nigger,” Sugar remarked in a disgusted tone. “Nothin’ don’t talk aroun’ me but dollars.”

“My talkin’ dollars is done expe’unce a vocal breakdown,” Skeeter answered shamefacedly.

A tall, yellow negro with a furtive manner, a baboon face, eyes too close together, and lips which carried an habitual sneer, passed them, walked down to the rail, and stopped to gaze up and down the track.

“Does you know dat man?” Sugar Sibley asked.

“Dat’s Pap Curtain,” Skeeter informed her. “He’s de meanes’ slick-head nigger in Tickfall.”

Then Skeeter left her, walked down to Pap, and said:

“Pap, is you got any money?”

“Shore!” Pap informed him, patting four capacious pockets bulging with silver coins.

“Cain’t you loant me a few loose change?” Skeeter pleaded.

“Naw, son,” Pap replied positively. “Whenever I loants money to a frien’ I axes dat money an’ dat frien’ good-by. I ain’t never gwine see ary one no mo’.”

“I sho’ am on de list fer he’p,” Skeeter mourned. “I’s armin’ a she-queen aroun’ an’ she done et up all my money an’ bawlin’ fer mo’ an’ I’s skeart she’ll pass me down because I’s busted.”

“Dat’s too bad,” Pap sympathized. “You had oughter picked de winners.”

“Is you winned all dat money wid bets?” Skeeter asked eagerly.

“Naw, suh!” Pap made emphatic answer. “I don’t bet on nothin’. I sells tips! I charges one half dollar fer eve’y tip per each.”

Skeeter produced his last bill and handed it to Pap.

“Give me nine dollars and fifty cents change. Pap,” he said eagerly, “an’ a tip on de winner of de nex’ race.”

Pap handed back the change, caught Skeeter by the arm, led him to one side out of ear-shot of all other negroes, and whispered impressively:

“Swa’r befo’ Gawd dat you won’t tell nobody whar you got dis tip!”

“I prommus!” Skeeter murmured.

Pap bent down, cupped both hands around Skeeter’s ear like a trumpet, and whispered hoarsely:

“Rastus!”

Skeeter’s little legs bounced him down the steps of the grand stand and for the next ten minutes he circulated assiduously among the negroes placing his private bets.

When Skeeter had gone Pap Curtain turned his back to the track and gazed upward in worshipful adoration of Sugar Sibley as if she were the saint of his deepest devotion. The gaudy princess opened wide her large eyes, then squinted them, then slowly closed one eye and smiled.

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?”

“I dunno,” Skeeter answered. “He’s a slick-head nigger an’ mebbe he’s got a conjure.”

“Ef Popper knowed whut hoss wus gwine win, he wouldn’t sell no tips,” Sugar sniffed. “He’d bet!”

“Mebbe dat’s so!” Skeeter agreed, his confidence shaken by this argument. “But ef you’s so good at pickin’ de winner, s’pose you name de nex’ one?”

Sugar glanced at a large blackboard under the starter’s stand where a red-headed boy was chalking the names of three more horses.

“Doodle-Bug!” she exclaimed eagerly. “Bet on Doodle, Skeeter!”

Butts walked away, but before he placed a single bet he trailed Pap Curtain until he found him, placed a half-dollar in Pap’s willing palm, and demanded the name of the winner.

Again Pap cupped his hands around Skeeter’s ears and whispered:

“Doodle-Bug!”

Skeeter took a big breath. Then he got busy. First he found his friend, Figger Bush.

“Figger,” he panted, “loant me ten dollars. Ef I never pays it back yo’ credick is good at de Hen-Scratch till you drinks dat much liquor up.”

Figger counted out the money, and Skeeter raced around until he had borrowed a similar sum from Hitch Diamond, Prince Total, an Mustard Prophet, thus increasing his supply of money until he had fifty-five dollars. Then he raced around some more, betting every dollar on Doodle-Bug.

Walking back to the grand stand, he found Pap Curtain engaged in a lively conversation with Sugar Sibley. Jealousy boiled in Skeeter’s heart and his saddle-colored face flushed to a brownish crimson. He strode to where they were sitting and began:

“Looky here, Pap, you let my nigger gal alone. I don’t want no ole gray-wool baboon monkeyin’ aroun’ whar I cotes a lady. You hike outen dis!”

“Set down, son, and watch de race!” Pap responded in a patronizing tone. “A nigger hadn’t oughter git uppity when he bets his las’ dollar on Doodle-Bug. Doodle might run in de groun’.”

At that moment Doodle galloped onto the track, and Skeeter postponed his quarrel to watch the horse which carried his money.

Doodle-Bug was a white-faced Tuckapoo mustang; and the Tuckapoo mustang is the beast which the Louisiana Indians purposely left behind when they were forced to migrate to Indian Territory, to wreak vengeance upon the paleface for depriving them of their patrimonial landholdings. Besides being able to buck, bite, and kick like other horses, the Tuckapoo mustang can butt like a goat, break a man’s jaw by switching his tail, and has the deer’s trick of jumping high in the air and coming down on top of a man, spearing him to the ground with his four stiff legs. He has more ways of ridding himself of his rider than a trick circus mule, and, unlike the circus mule, he is not good-natured about it.

Doodle-Bug balked in front of the grand stand, and seven men tried to induce him to go. Four got kicked, one got bit, the jockey was bucked off, and finally Doodle-Bug laid down on his back, squealing like a pig, his four legs fanning the air like the legs of an overturned beetle.

The men backed away from those rapid-firing legs and waited until it pleased Doodle-Bug to get up.

Thereupon Pap Curtain walked down to the rail motioned the little jockey to him, and issued instructions:

“Turn dat Doodle-Bug aroun’, Jim, an’ back him up to de startin’-place. He balks because he figgers you is tryin’ to make him go aroun’ de track de wrong way. Face him right an’ back him up, an’ when he gits started, he’ll run like a rabbit!”

Skeeter and Sugar heard this advice, and it restored Skeeter’s hopes in the horse. Sugar, anticipating a share in Skeeter’s winnings, became extremely gracious.

“Come an’ set down by me, Skeeter,” she said. “You an’ Popper Curtain kin set on each side of me an’ I’ll set in de middle. ’Tain’t no use fer you to be jealousy of dat ole man. He’s ole enough to be my daddy, an’ I’s jes’ bein’ gentle to him. I’s dead stuck on you!”

Pap Curtain joined them, and the three sat down to watch the race.

Doodle-Bug got a flying start, and did well for a quarter; he was running second at the half; he took last place at the three-quarters’ post, and came in after all the shouting was over, jeered by a few children as he loped past the grand stand.

Skeeter Butts crumpled up beside Sugar Sibley, in the saddest of all the plights which a lover experiences—dead broke!

Pap Curtain got the giggles.

Sugar Sibley pretended not to notice when Skeeter Butts arose and slunk away.

The racing was over for the day, and Sugar Sibley rode back to Tickfall in Pap Curtain’s hired buggy.

“Pa Curtain is done played a buzzo on me, an’ I wants revengeance,” Skeeter Butts soliloquized bitterly, as he sat behind the bar of the Hen-Scratch saloon.

The swinging doors were thrust open, and Hitch Diamond, Mustard Prophet, Prince Total, and Figger Bush entered the room.

“We wants our money back, Skeeter,” they announced in a chorus.

“Yo’ credick is good fer ten dollars per each, niggers,” Butts said with a sickly grin. “I bet on Doodle-Bug an’ Doodle didn’t do.”

There was a whoop from the four negroes, then each handed Skeeter certain derogatory remarks calculated to reduce his self-esteem to the minimum.

“Pap Curtain tipped me off on Doodle,” Skeeter said defensively. “I don’t know nothin’ ’bout pickin’ em.”

There was a moment of surprised silence; then Hitch asked:

“Did you pay him for de tip, Skeeter?”

“Suttinly. He charged me fo’ bits.”

“Dat sho’ is curious,” Hitch said in a perplexed tone. “Now Pap gib me a tip on dat race an’ he said Dixie would win.”

“Dat’s whut he tole us,” Mustard and Figger chimed in.

“I don’t kotch on to dat,” Prince Total declared. “Pap sold me a tip on dat same race, an’ he said Rooster would win.”

“Huh,” Skeeter Butts grunted, “dat shows whut a slick-head nigger Pap is. He wucks it dis way—he tole twenty niggers dat Doodle-Bug would win; den he tole twenty mo’ niggers dat Dixie would win; den he tole twenty yuther niggers dat Rooster would win—an’ dar warn’t but three hosses in de race. Of co’se he picked a winner fer twenty of dem niggers, an’ he picked a near winner fer twenty mo’, an’ he tuck up cont’ibutions of fifty cents from sixty niggers, an’ fawty of ’em come back to git anodder tip!”

“My Lawd!” the quartet mourned in righteous indignation. “Pap hadn’t oughter did us dataway!”

“Dat’s all right,” Skeeter said consolingly. “We gits one mo’ day of racin’ to-morrer, an’ I’s doin’ some heavy thinkin’. When I gits my plan all ready, ef you niggers will he’p, we’ll git Pap Curtain an’ ’vide him up—hoofs, hide, horns, an’ taller!”

“We’s wid you, Skeeter!” they shouted. “You kin sottle you’ owe-bills wid us when we ’vides up Pap’s pickin’s.”

The men tramped out of the saloon, and ten minutes later the door swung open again, admitting Pap Curtain.

“De good Lawd is sho’ heerd my prayer,” Skeeter murmured thankfully as he rose to his feet.

Pap came straight to the bar, laid down a five-cent piece, and remarked:

“Gimme a big beer, Skeeter.”

Skeeter set the drink upon the bar, then, under pretense of wiping the bar with his rag, flicked the coin so that it fell on the floor at Pap’s feet.

When Pap stooped to pick it up, Skeeter quietly emptied the odorless contents of a tiny vial into the glass.

“Put de nickel back in yo’ pocket, Pap,” Skeeter said pleasantly when Pap tendered it again. “It’s my treat. Less sot down at de table an’ cornverse awhile.”

The two sat down, sipped their drinks for a moment, then Skeeter remarked:

“Dat wus mighty bum racin’ we had to-day.”

“Shore wus,” Pap agreed. “Dar ain’t never no real racehosses at dis fair. Ef a feller’s got a hoss whut kin run a little, he picks the cockle-burs outen his tail, fotches him to town, and enters him in de race.”

“You come out powerful good, Pap,” the barkeeper said admiringly. “You muss ’a’ made a whole passel of money.”

“Yes, suh, I done it,” Pap assured him, draining his glass of liquor as he talked. “I didn’t bet none. I jes’ sold tips. But I shore had bad luck wid dat money at de las’.”

“Whut happened?” Skeeter inquired with great interest.

“You remember dat Sugar Sibley you wus wid? Well, suh, dat gal jes’ nachelly hoodooed me outen eve’y dollar I had on me, excusin’ dis one poor, lonesome nickel. She said she wus skeart I would git in bad comp’ny an’ lose it!”

“My Gawd, Pap!” Skeeter exclaimed, springing to his feet. “Whyn’t you tell me dat terr’ble news sooner?”

Pap did not answer. His head fell forward on his chest; his hands hung limply at his sides; he breathed stertorously, with his mouth open.

Skeeter ransacked Curtain’s pockets.

They still sagged from the weight of the coins they had contained, but now—they assayed only one five-cent piece!

Hitch Diamond, admitted into the Hen-Scratch saloon through the rear door early the next morning, was horrified to see the unconscious form of Pap Curtain lying on a pallet in the corner of the room.

“Whut’s come to pass wid Pap?” he inquired.

“Knock-out draps,” Skeeter answered disgustedly.

“When you gwine ’vide up de money?” Hitch grinned.

“Ax Sugar Sibley,” Skeeter responded. “She beat me to Pap’s pockets, an’ never lef’ me nothin’ but a buff’lo jitney.”

“Whar is dat Sugar Sibley?” Hitch asked earnestly.

“Dat’s whut yo’ job is right now—find dat nigger woman!”

“Whut’ll I do when I gits her?”

“Cote her servigerous!” Skeeter informed him. “Find out whar she keeps dat money. Ax her whut’s she gwine do wit it!”

“Dat looks like a dangersome woman to me,” Hitch remarked uneasily. “Whar do she come from, Skeeter?”

“Gawd knows!” the barkeeper answered. “I’s heerd her say somepin ’bout Baton Rouge. Mebbe she stays dar. She made google eyes at me in de grand stan’ an’ I tuck up wid her.”

“I’ll go out and make inquirements an’ see whut I kin do,” Hitch said.

“When you find out somepin, come back an’ repote.”

Two hours later a buggy stopped in front of the Hen-Scratch saloon and Sugar Sibley leaned out like a drowsy stage-queen, and languidly called for Skeeter Butts.

“’Mawnin’, honey,” she said graciously. “Is you gwine out to de fair to-day?”

“Suttingly,” he told her. “Dis here is Nigger Day.”

Sugar leaned over and whispered:

“Is you saw Popper Curtain dis mawnin’?”

“Naw,” Skeeter lied glibly.

The woman hesitated a moment as if debating her next move. Then she said:

“Skeeter, dat little brown hand-satchel at my foots is full of money. I wants you to keep dat coin fer me until atter dinner an’ den fotch it out to de races. I’s gwine bet big money on dem races to-day an’ I wants you to do my runnin’ fer me. I wus gwine ax Popper Curtain to do it, but he’s done made hisse’f absent.”

Skeeter lifted the satchel out of the buggy with an eager hand.

“Don’t say nothin’ to nobody, honey!” Sugar cautioned with a smile as she drove away.

Skeeter sat down behind the bar with the satchel of money between his feet and tried to think. This last incident had nearly unsettled his reason.

After a long period of meditation he arose and tiptoed into the room where Pap Curtain lay and examined the prostrate man long and attentively. He shook him by the shoulder—not too hard. He kicked him—gently. Then he remarked with great satisfaction:

“He won’t wake up till mighty nigh dark. By dat time de fair will be over an’ Sugar will be gone away on de excussion, an’ I won’t know nothin’ a tall!”

When Skeeter entered the saloon again he found Hitch Diamond waiting for him.

“Skeeter,” he said with an air of dejection, “I foun’ dat nigger gal ridin’ ’roun’ town in a buggy, an’ she pronounce dat she ain’t gwine arm roun’ wid no kind of nigger excusin’ a high-yaller coon like you. She say she’s dead stuck on you, an’ she gimme de go-down.”

“Dat’s right, Hitch,” Skeeter replied complacently. “Dem arrangements I made wid you is all called down. Me an’ Miss Sugar is done made a trade.”

“Whar does I come in on de trade?”

“You comes in right now, Hitch,” Skeeter said affably. “I’s gwine pay you dat ten dollars you loant me.”

From the brown hand-satchel under the bar Skeeter counted out ten silver dollars and passed the money to his friend. Then he said:

“Now, Hitch, you go find dem yuther niggers I owes an’ fetch ’em in here in a bunch, because I wants to talk to all of you an’ fix up a plan.”

Half an hour later Hitch re-entered the room, followed by Prince Total, Mustard Prophet, and Figger Bush.

Out of Sugar’s hand-satchel Skeeter counted thirty dollars, arranged them in piles of ten dollars each and pushed them across the bar to the three negroes.

“Now, niggers,” Skeeter remarked, “I don’t owe nary one of you nothin’.”

“Dat’s right!” they exclaimed, pocketing the money.

“Now you listen to me: Sugar Sibley specify dat she’s gwine bet big to-day. I’s her runner. Now you niggers git all de loose change you kin borry an’ steal an’ be out dar. Ef Sugar wins I’ll tip you-all off whut her bet is. Ef Sugar lose I’ll place all her bets wid you-alls, an’ atter de races is over us’ll ’vide up.”

“Dem kind of exhort sho’ edifies my mind, Skeeter,” Hitch Diamond boomed, “an’ us is wid you!”

When the negroes had gone Skeeter counted the money remaining in the hand-satchel. It was nearly two hundred dollars.

The last day of the Tickfall fair was always given over to the negroes. Every darky who had a horse or mule was privileged to enter the animal for any race without paying a fee.

Under such an arrangement the chief attraction was the races, and the betting was wild and reckless. There was no betting-shed, no bookmakers. The gamblers circulated among their friends and placed private bets.

Skeeter Butts was perfectly happy. Whenever Sugar lost, he won; if Sugar won, it was no loss to him.

“Five hosses runs in de nex’ race, niggers,” Skeeter informed his fellow conspirators, in their operations to separate Sugar Sibley from her money. “Sugar bets on Hooligan. Ef Hooligan wins, each of you-alls is gotter gimme two dollars an’ fo’ bits; ef Hooligan lose, I splits dis ten-bill fo’ ways.”

Hooligan lost.

“Which hoss we gwine bet on nex’, Skeeter?” Sugar laughed.

“I ain’t no good jedge,” Skeeter grinned. “I foun’ out yistiddy dat sometimes dey runs bad an’ de nex’ time dey runs wuss.”

Three mules came loping down the track, and Sugar picked Hot-Dog for a winner, instructing Skeeter to place five dollars on that mule.

Hot-Dog started around the track as if he were going to eat it up, grew weary of the journey at the half-mile post, brayed, turned around, and galloped back to the grand stand, meeting the other two mules as they came under the wire.

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.”

“Didn’t dey gib you no hot tips?”

“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.”

“Let me be de stake-toter?” Hitch Diamond giggled.

“Dat suits me,” Skeeter agreed. “Us’ll go up an’ stan’ by Sugar, an’ eve’y time dese yuther niggers fetches you a dollar I’ll put one on top of it. Us’ll do dis las’ race up in real good style.”

As Mustard and Prince and Figger made successive trips through the crowd of negroes, coming back each time with a little silver, Skeeter Butts noted with uneasiness the absence of certain cheap watches, brassy finger-rings, and gaudy, sparkling scarf-pins.

Finally Figger Bush placed a fifty-cent piece against Sugar’s choice and sighed:

“Ef dat Doodle wins Gawd knows whut dis dude’ll do! I’s done bet de barlow-knife outen my pocket an’ borried money on dese very clothes I wears. I’s plum busted, popped open, cleant out!”

Three horses loped up toward the starting pole.

Skeeter observed with satisfaction that Doodle-Bug balked right in front of the grand stand, that half a dozen men tried to make him move and failed, that the little jockey was bucked off, and that Doodle-Bug finally turned a complete somersault, landing on his back.

“Doodle-Bug is actin’ in form,” Skeeter grinned.

“He’ll run like a skint rabbit!” Sugar Sibley exclaimed, licking out her tongue, which was as dry as a shuck and felt as large as a doormat.

“I done seen him run!” Skeeter answered sarcastically.

The little negro jockey, mindful of the instructions received from Pap Curtain the day before, stood in front of the ugly tempered Tuckapoo mustang, slashing at the animal’s knees with his whip.

Reluctantly the horse moved backward step by step, and thus the jockey finally worked him to the starting place.

There was a mighty roar from the crowd, which became a thunderous clamor at the starter’s word:

“Go!”

Sugar Sibley, who had sat unmoved amid the losses of the entire afternoon, suddenly sprang to her feet, ran down to the rail, shrieking like a calliope, begging for Doodle-Bug to run, praying for Doodle-Bug to win, her wailing cry, like the clear notes of a trumpet, heard above the gigantic ululation of the crowd:

“Go, Doodle, go!”

And Doodle went!

At the quarter pole he was two lengths ahead; at the half he led by five lengths; at the three-quarter pole the two other horses were trailing one hundred yards behind. Doodle-Bug came under the wire so far in advance that half the people had left the grand stand for their homeward trip before the other horses arrived!

Faint, weak, giddy, Sugar Sibley staggered back to Skeeter Butts, reeling like a drunkard, clutching at her throat for its hoarseness, dripping with perspiration, her eyeballs burning like coals of fire.

“My Gawd!” Skeeter moaned. “Whut’s done gone an’ happened to dat Doodle-Bug?”

“Nothin’!” Sugar Sibley panted. “Doodle’s all right. Doodle belongs to me. He was riz an’ borned on my little farm an’ my chile Jimmy is a ridin’ him. Us always makes a killin’ on Nigger Day at the parish fairs.”

She took the empty brown hand-satchel out of Skeeter’s nerveless hands and opened it.

“Pour dat money in dis bag, Hitch!” she commanded. Then she uttered a wail, collapsed into a heap upon the seat, and her mouth dropped open like an imbecile’s.

Hitch Diamond had mysteriously disappeared!

Dizzy, nauseated, sweating at every pore, Pap Curtain sat up in the middle of his pallet in the rear room of the Hen-Scratch saloon, his tongue as dry and thick as if his mouth were filled with cotton-seed hulls. He moved his head and an iron wedge rolled off the apex of his crown and bumped against the inside of his cranium like a rock rattles in a tin can.

“He’p! Come here, eve’body!” he bawled, balancing his head and steadying it with both hands to keep the wedge from bumping against a new place.

“Little Bit—Lawdymussy! My head hurts inside and outside!” he howled to the diminutive assistant barkeeper of the Hen-Scratch saloon.

Little Bit stood beside him, giggling, holding out a half-pint flask.

“Skeeter Butts say gib you dis as soon as you woked up!” he said.

Pap took the bottle, removed the cork; then his hand drooped limply, his head dropped to one side, and the precious fluid was pouring out upon the pallet.

“Hey, dar!” Little Bit shrieked, rescuing the liquid from total loss and kicking Pap into consciousness. “Git up an’ drink dis med’cine!”

Pap swallowed the contents of the bottle, then asked:

“Whut time is it, Little Bit?”

“It’s mighty nigh night.”

“Whut day is dis?”

“It’s jes’ de same day whut it’s been since mawnin’,” Little Bit informed him.

“Whut does you call it?” Pap howled impatiently.

“I calls it to-day,” Little Bit answered.

“Oh, lawdymussy!” Pap bawled. “Whut a fool!”

“Yes, suh, dat’s right!” Little Bit agreed innocently. “You shore is been a whopper!”

Then the medicine which Skeeter prescribed began to take effect, and Pap Curtain felt the revival of his faculties and his strength. He staggered to his feet, stumbled out of the rear door, and disappeared. He went straight to the home of Sugar Sibley, and found Sugar in the wildest hysterics.

Weepingly she told him the tale of her gains and of her great loss. Pap could sympathize with her, for on the day before he had experienced both himself.

Finally Pap said:

“Shut up, Sugar. You done lamented a plenty. Dem niggers whut stole dat money is gone out to de old fish-camp to ’vide it up. Ef you rides out dar right now, you kin ketch ’em at it!”

Twenty minutes later Sugar Sibley stopped Doodle-Bug behind a thicket at the old fishing camp on the Dorforche Bayou, and peered over the top of the bushes where she could hear masculine voices in hot debate.

In fact, it had been a day of such frenzied finance for the five negroes that an expert accountant could not have told what would be an equitable division of their spoils. So the thieves had fallen out, and their voices were raised to high pitch.

What Sugar saw filled her heart with hope and gladness.

Skeeter Butts, with a pile of money lying between his knees, was sitting on the ground, four other negroes watching the count, stopping at intervals to quarrel, but listening to the refrain of Skeeter as it crooned to the musical accompaniment of falling coins:

“A dollar fer me, a dollar fer Hitch, a dollar fer Mustard, a dollar fer Figger, an’ a dollar fer Prince!”

Their business was interrupted by a loud whoop.

A Tuckapoo mustang with a white face thrashed through the underbrush, and Sugar Sibley swept down upon them like an avenging fury, flourishing an immense pistol which cracked three times, the bullets kicking the dirt into the faces of the stooping men.

The five men, leaving their money untouched, got up and went away from the place with astonishing speed.

Sugar dismounted, crammed her money into her brown hand-satchel, jumped on the back of Doodle-Bug, and rode away.

An hour later, as the five weary, disconsolate men trailed back to town, they noticed in front of Pap Curtain’s cabin a Tuckapoo mustang with a white face.

Pap sat upon the porch, his mouth filled with chewing-tobacco and his heart filled with vast content.

Skeeter Butts spoke. “Pap is you saw anything of Sugar Sibley?”

“Suttinly,” Pap answered. “She’s layin’ in my cabin on de bed, takin’ a little nap.”

“You ain’t married to her, is you?” Skeeter asked after a moment of meditation.

“Who? Me?” Pap Curtain roared. “Naw! Sugar is my gal! I’m her daddy! Don’t you remember my gal, Skeeter? Dey used to call her Sweet befo’ her maw lef’ me an’ went down to Baton Rouge.”

Skeeter did not answer, and the gloomy procession moved on. Finally Skeeter Butts mumbled:

“Yes, I remembers dat gal when she warn’t more’n hawn-high to a billy-goat. But I’s had expe’unce dis day dat eve’thing ain’t sweet whut’s called Sugar!”