Prosias Trimble’s protuberant lower lip drooped dejectedly, his eyes
shifted in a scowl until the pupils were dots in the corners of
expanses of white, his russet shoes, rapier-pointed and uncomfortably
overcrowded with feet, dragged laggingly along the marble floor of the
St. Charles Hotel Turkish baths. He went about his task of distributing
towels with the air of one who has suffered great wrong.
In the private rooms and on cots ranged in the dormitory, white men
snored, gurgled, choked, strangled. The sounds of sixty fat men snoring
in sixty keys filled the rooms. Even the snore of the man in room six,
which was a combination of shifting gears, a cut-out muffler, and a
slipping clutch, passed unheard by “Pro.” Even the cheery whistle of
his fellow rubber was unnoticed. The world was a place of darkness, and
Pro’s mood was two shades darker than his skin, the color scheme of
which was that of the ace of spades.
It was a dull night. The St. Charles Hotel Turkish baths were but
half filled with patrons, although overcrowded with snores. The light
patronage and the dejected mood of Prosias were due to the same cause:
the winter meeting at the Fair Grounds race-track in New Orleans had
ended two days before, the army of men and horses that had encamped
in the Crescent City during the winter, and the swarm of plump patrons
which nightly had crowded the St. Charles, had moved northward to
Baltimore, and Prosias Trimble, top sergeant in that army, with the
rank of tout, was left behind, to eke out a livelihood by working
as rubber in the bath-house. The pearl-colored spats, the pointed
russet shoes, the fawn waistcoat checkerboarded in green, the massive
watch-chain draped in two graceful curves from buttonhole to pockets,
the four-carat near-diamond which glistened with fading brilliancy in
the purple necktie, were of the vanities vain: the “hosses” were gone,
and Pro, compelled to return to the profession he had disowned when he
became a race-follower, was not with them.
Two days before this night of gloom Prosias had strutted the streets
of New Orleans--the envy of colored men, the admired of many colored
women. His shining countenance, which reflected joy and happiness, had
added color to the throngs in paddock and betting ring. In the evenings
his presence had graced social affairs of the negro eight hundred, and
Miss Luck had smiled consistently upon him. He had spent three evenings
bidding farewell to the friends he had accumulated during the winter,
had lightly promised half a dozen of his newly acquired lady friends
to see them when the horses came back, and had created envy and dark
hatred among the men by the casual carelessness with which he bade them
polite farewells and expressed hopes of seeing them at Baltimore or
Louisville or even at Saratoga during the meetings.
Until the morning of “Get Away Day” Miss Luck had smiled, and on that
morning she beamed. Prosias and his bankroll had prospered, waxed
fat, and flourished. The customary rumors had circulated on that
morning--the old, old story of the “Get Away Killing” and the feed
man’s bill--and straight from the oats-box the rumor had come to Pro,
alighted upon him, and stung him. It was a hot tip--so hot that it
singed and burned. The tip was to the effect that Centerdrink had been
nominated to win--that he was to be shooed in at long odds, and that
all the grievances of the bettors against the bookmakers were to be
evened up in one great killing.
Pro had it from a jockey, who had it right out of the conference
at which Centerdrink had been chosen to win. Pro had hurled his
bankroll--the fortune accumulated during the entire winter--at the
bookmakers, who, instead of breaking in panic, had handed him back
smiles and bits of pasteboard with cabalistic charcoal characters on
them. Pro had stood to win more than twelve thousand dollars--and he
had stood dazedly while he watched Centerdrink finish eighth. When
the truth dawned upon his benumbed brain he had reached one hand into
the now vacant pocket, seeking car-fare, and, finding it not, had
sought the bath-house and work--his dream of a summer jaunt around the
race-courses wrecked.
Pro completed his task of distributing towels and stood thinking.
Daylight was commencing to show through the little windows just under
the ceiling of the bath-house, and daylight brought with it fresh,
bitter thoughts. He knew that a few hundred miles to the northward the
sun was rising on a stretch of level land, a circular ribbon of loam
laid upon a field of green. Birds were singing in the trees, meadow
larks were rising from the infield. Rows of fires were springing up
along the front of the circular line of low, whitewashed stables.
Slender, graceful horses, blanketed to the knees, were being led around
and around in little circles, the odor of frying bacon was in the
air, the rhythmic drumming of the feet of a speedy colt was sounding
from the track. Far across the velvet infield, near where the spidery
pillars of the stand stood black against the lightening sky, men with
watches in their hands were on the rail, timing in fractions of seconds
the movements of the flying colt. He pictured one vacant spot on the
pickets of the fence--a spot which, but for the fickleness of Miss Luck
and the hot tip on Centerdrink, he would have been occupying.
Slowly a light broke over his face--as sun striving to shine through
thunder clouds.
“Reckon as how maybe Ah’ll be dar yit,” he muttered to himself. “Mist’
Jim Robin he say to me yistaddy mahnin’: ‘Pro, yuh wuthless niggah,
gimme good rub dis mahnin’ an’ when Ah gits to Baltimo’ Ah’ll sen’ yoh
a good thing.’ Yassah, dat ’zackly what he done say, an’ Ah done rub
him till he yell ’nuff. Mist’ Jim Robin he done keep his promise. He’ll
sen’ me dat good thing, den Ah’ll show dese Noo ’Leans shines a classy
niggah. Ah’ll ride in Mistah Pullman’s cahr ’stid o’ Mistah Burton’s
cahr--nothward. Yassah.”
Visibly affected by a process of triumph of mind over condition, Pro
achieved a more cheerful countenance. The happy smile which was his
trademark, and the ingratiating grin which made him welcome among
race-track followers, returned by degrees, and by the time the snorers
aroused themselves and shuddered at the cold plunge before coming to
the rubbing tables his ready laugh and the seductive manner in which he
wielded the solicitous whisk-broom upon each departing guest won reward.
“Um-um, Miss Luck comin’ back,” he muttered hopefully, as he counted
his tips. “Um-um. Dis niggah in Baltimo’ foah Sattaday suah--jes’ in
time foh to see de handicap. Wisht Mist’ Jim’d sen’ me dat tip he done
promise me.”
As if in answer to the wish, the page in the hotel under which the St.
Charles baths are located was passing through lobbies and writing-rooms
paging:
“Mistah Prosias Trimble! Mistah Prosias Trimble!”
“Hyah, boy,” the captain of the bell-boys called. “Doan’ be a-pagin’
dat name ’roun’ de house. Prosias Trimble he dat buxom black niggah
Pro, down in de baf-house.”
“Tellygraft foh yoh, niggah,” the page announced disgustedly, as he
tossed the yellow envelope toward Pro and abandoned all hope of a tip.
“Miss Luck, favor me!” Pro pleaded devoutly as he held the envelope in
his hand. “Miss Luck, bring de good news--doan’ betray me now. Ah needs
yoh!”
“What does he say, Pro?”
“What who say?” demanded Pro, his lips suddenly bulging outward
belligerently, as he swung about to face Mr. Clarence Fox, who had
pursued the telegram from the lobby down into the bath-house.
“What Mist’ Jim Robin say?” responded Mr. Fox, scowling.
“How come yoh knows so much?”
“Reckon Ah doan’ know he promise’ you a tip?”
“How come yoh knows?”
“Reckon yoh didn’t infohm a certain lady frien’ o’ mine?”
“Dat yaller gal too brash wif her mouf!” Pro muttered regretfully, as
he recalled the fact that the lady in question was manicurist in the
Royal Crescent Palace barber shop, Clarence Fox owner.
In spite of his appearance of displeasure, Pro was not displeased. His
mind was working, and Mr. Fox was included in the thoughts. Mr. Fox
possessed money. Pro’s cash capital consisted of the two dollars and
twenty cents secured in tips during the night’s work. Further, he was
aware that in order to turn even a sure thing on a race tip into money,
working capital is required. His acquaintance with Mr. Clarence Fox
had been incidental to his friendship for Miss Susie, the manicurist,
and Pro recalled, with some regret, the fact that during the more
prosperous times of the winter he had been inclined to treat Clarence
Fox condescendingly. But Mr. Fox, proprietor of the five-chair barber
shop catering to the swelldom of the negro district, he viewed in a
different light now. If Mr. Fox could be persuaded to finance certain
illegal but delectable operations, Pro saw a way to overcome lack of
working capital.
“’Scuse me, Mistah Fox, if Ah seem discurtous,” he said, “but a
gennelman gotta be careful when he gits straight tips from gennelman
white owners.”
“Dat all right, Mistah Trimble,” said Clarence, responding to
politeness with greater politeness. “Ah respects yoh sentiments. Reckon
dat a wahm tip?”
“Ah ’low she ’bout ninety-eight in de shade,” Pro responded.
“Ah doan’ ’low dat yoh ’tends to bet enuff foh to cover all de
han’-books in Noo ’Leans?” Clarence inquired flatteringly.
“Don’t ’low as Ah can,” said Pro regretfully. “You ’low ef Ah tell yoh
wha’ hoss Mist’ Jim done name’, kin yoh wait till Ah gits my bets down,
so’s not influence de odds?”
“Ah ’low dat Ah kin. Yoh ’low dat tip look good?”
“Look good?” Pro’s voice quivered with outraged indignation. “Yoh ’low
Mist’ Jim done tellygraft a niggah lessen it good?”
“Nevah kin tell,” commented Mr. Fox cynically.
Prosias hesitated. His mind was in panic for fear of losing the
opportunity to secure working capital, yet the situation was
embarrassing. He found it difficult to approach a business proposition
without revealing the fact that he was embarrassed financially.
“Reckon yoh do the right thing if Ah tell yoh de name ob de hoss?” he
said tentatively.
“Yoh knows me, Pro. Ah always does de right thing, doan’ Ah?”
“Dat yoh repitation, Clarence,” said Pro, vaguely conscious of the fact
that he knew nothing of Clarence’s reputation.
“Always aims to do de right thing, Pro.”
“Hyah she go, den,” said Pro, with sudden determination, as he tore
open the envelope.
“Miss Luck, be mine!” he breathed, as he unfolded the yellow paper.
With Mr. Fox craning his neck to see over his shoulder, he read:
Shoot the roll on the filly in the fourth.