“Hurry up, niggers!” one of the bloated, dressy coons from the city whooped. “Git yo’ money on de race! Dey’s saddlin’ up! Ef you wants to git in on dis spec’lation now is de las’ an’ loudest call fer yo’ money! Git busy!” “Put yo’ las’ dollar on de las’ race an’ don’t cry ef you bets it on de hoss dat comes in las’, niggers!” another darky bawled as he waved a handful of money. “You’ll be shore to git yo’ money’s wuth of dis race, fer dese three hayburners cain’t lope aroun’ dat track befo’ sundown!” “Listen, Shin!” Skeeter said as he plucked at his friend’s sleeve. “I ’speck we better hunt up dat Whiffle Boone an’ make frien’s wid her over agin. ’Tain’t no use to bear her no grudge--us is winners!” “Lawd, I done fergot dat sweet little gal offen my mind!” Shin exclaimed as he hastened with Skeeter into the crowded grandstand and pushed through the sweating multitude in his search for his girl. “Dar she am!” Skeeter said, pointing. “You go up an’ set on one side of her, an’ I’ll set on de yuther side, an’ us’ll jolly her up!” To their surprise, they found Whiffle as jolly already as she could possibly be. She made room for them, sat down between them and began to talk like the whirr of a flutter-mill. The bell rang for the fifth race, and the three horses galloped up the track in front of the grandstand. Skeeter noticed that Skipper’s jockey was having the time of his life trying to keep his mount on the track. The animal acted like he had an insane desire to walk the fence, climb into the grandstand, or slide on his ear. “Somebody is done hit dat Skipper over de head wid somepin an’ sot him crazy,” Skeeter commented. “Don’t you slanderize Skipper now!” Whiffle warned him. “Dat hoss b’longs to my maw.” “He’s a good hoss all right,” Skeeter said propitiatingly. “But of co’se he ain’t whut you mought call a race-hoss.” “Oh, _ain’t_ he?” Whiffle sniffed. “He wus a race-hoss when we bought him, an’ I bet I knows mo’ about race-hossin’ dan you do!” There was a loud whoop from the crowd and Skeeter Butts raised himself on tiptoe and looked with popping eyeballs. “Bless _gracious_, whut a git-off!” Whiffle exclaimed. It was indeed a very bad start. In a few moments the three horses were strung over a distance of a hundred yards, but well to the front and all alone a big gray named Skipper was skimming the rail and running like a wild fox, while Skeeter’s favorite bet, Peedee, was the last in the line. “O Lawdy!” Skeeter sighed, his heart bumping against the base of his tongue. “Dis is awful, puffeckly awful!” He sat down heavily and closed his eyes. Shin Bone took one look and vanished. Whiffle Boone stood without a tremor of excitement watching her horse. “Run, you gray houn’ dawg, run!” she whooped in a clear, bugle call. At the head of the stretch Skipper was far ahead, running like a high-powered automobile.