Mr. Fox wrinkled the end of his broad nose and looked puzzled.
“De roll on de filly!” said Prosias, his eyes rolling.
“Wha’ hoss he mean?” inquired the less informed Mr. Fox.
“Wha’ hoss?” Pro repeated disdainfully. “Why, dat Ivory Gahter filly,
dat who: Mist’ Jim’s filly, an’ she good. She ripe, niggah, she win
suah, an’ de odds--um-um! Niggah, we rich!”
“Ivory Gahter--I’m gwine!” exclaimed Mr. Fox excitedly. “Niggah, yoh
play de books ’roun’ hyar. Ah’ll slaughtah dem Rampaht Street gamblahs.”
The convinced Mr. Fox, hesitating at the barber shop only long enough
to sweep the till clean, dashed toward Rampart Street, while Pro,
waiting until his financial backer disappeared, ascended to the second
story of the pool-room nearest the hotel, and, after considerable
haggling, persuaded the handbook keeper to wager twenty dollars against
two against the chances of Ivory Garter’s winning. Pro mourned because
he knew that at the track the odds would be twenty to one.
Instead of retiring for the day, Pro promenaded, ostensibly for
pleasure, but always with a view of borrowing capital to wager.
Several times he tentatively opened negotiations, but, meeting with
scant encouragement, he contented himself with remarking airily that
he had remained in New Orleans to consummate a betting commission for
an owner, and was leaving to join the horses that evening, after the
killing.
His probably were the first eyes to read the ticker that afternoon,
when in jerks and clicks the tape recorded the fact that Ivory Garter
had won. Thirty minutes later, with twenty-two dollars in his pocket,
Pro entered the bath-house.
“Ah’s sorry to be ’bliged to notify yoh Ah resigns,” he announced.
“Ah’s called No’th.”
With light heart and faith in Miss Luck restored, he went forth to the
Royal Crescent Palace barber shop by a devious route. At his first
stop he remarked casually that he wouldn’t be surprised if he and Mr.
Fox had cleaned up five hundred dollars, at the second stop he opined
he and Mr. Fox had won seven hundred, and by the time he reached
Canal Street his estimate of probable winnings had passed twelve
hundred dollars and his cash capital had dwindled to eight dollars,
due to sudden generosity in lending and to purchasing cigars for less
fortunate acquaintances.
His mental estimate of the amount won exceeded the figures he dared
express openly. There was no limit to his imagination. Mr. Fox had
money. A hundred dollars should yield fifteen hundred at proper
pool-room odds. Mr. Fox rated himself a sport. Pro calculated that a
proper sport, with money, would bet at least five hundred dollars on a
tip straight from an owner, which at twelve to one--the lowest possible
odds he figured Mr. Fox would accept--would be six thousand dollars,
fifty per cent of which was three thousand dollars. Pro pictured
himself riding into the track at Baltimore in an open automobile. He
even determined to pay admission instead of soliciting an employee’s
badge.
He reached the Royal Crescent Palace barber shop in a state of excited
anticipation. Mr. Fox, at ease, was draped over the cigar counter, and
his very nonchalant calmness sent a shiver through Pro’s optimism.
“Howdy, Clarence?” he exclaimed, under forced draught. “We suah slip
dat one over!”
“Suah did,” assented Mr. Fox, without enthusiasm.
“We ’mos’ ruin dis hyah town, Ah reckon,” observed Pro, inviting
information. “Ah suah clean mah end.”
“Ah’s glad yoh hit ’em hahd, Pro,” said Mr. Fox, without warming. “Ah
wah jest a-wishin’ Ah done had ez much faith in yoh frien’ ez yoh did.”
“How come, Clarence?” asked Pro, with a sudden sinking suspicion.
“Didn’ yoh plunge?”
“Hadn’ no faith a-tall,” asserted Clarence.
“Didn’ yoh win _nothin’_?” asked Pro, unbelief, suspicion, crushed
hopes, all concentrated in his voice.
“Jes’ li’l’ pikin’ bet, Pro,” said Mr. Fox resignedly. “Ah bin kickin’
mahsef. Ah mought a-win ’nuff to be goin’ norf wif yoh. But Ah lack
faith. Ah lack faith perdigious.”
“Yoh win nuffin a-tall?” Pro reiterated, his voice expressing his
ebbing hope.
“Ah win jes’ twenty dollah,” said Mr. Fox positively. “Niggah on’y lay
me ten to one, an’ Ah bet on’y two dollah.”
He hesitated, waiting as if expecting passionate contradiction, and
added:
“Hyah yoh bit foh de tip.”
He peeled a five-dollar bill from a huge roll extracted carelessly from
a trousers pocket and flipped it toward Pro.
“Dat a good tip, Pro,” he said in conciliatory tones. “Ah thanks yoh
foh it. Wish Ah’d had moah faith. Ef yoh git any good ones in Baltimo’,
wiah me.”
Prosias, speechless, pocketed the bill and turned. At the door he
paused.
“Yas, sah, Clarence,” he said slowly. “Ah ain’ done fohgit. Ah’ll
’membah yoh, Clarence.”
His brain was dazed, but his heart seethed with bitter resentment. He
knew that Clarence Fox had profited largely and had swindled him out of
his just share. He walked slowly, bitterly regretting the generosity
of the morning, but for which he still would have had enough money to
reach the race-track. He went humbly back to the St. Charles baths and
petitioned to be restored to his position. That night, while working
upon the super-fattened carcasses of patrons, thoughts of Clarence Fox
and his perfidy came to his mind, and he struck hard, eliciting howls
of protest. And during that long night his brain slowly evolved a plan
of vengeance.
Three days later Clarence Fox, arrayed in a glory which neither
Solomon nor the lilies ever could have rivaled, descended into the St.
Charles baths.
“Why, howdy, Pro?” he exclaimed, with well simulated surprise. “Ah
thought yoh done gone Baltimo’.”
“Not yit, Clarence, not yit.”
His cheerful aspect and his failure to express either anger or sorrow
puzzled Clarence.
“How come?” he asked.
“Frien’ ast me would Ah remain foh a few days an’ ack ez his bettin’
c’missioner.”
“Whafoh of a frien’?”
“Same frien’ ez sen’ me that last tip.”
Clarence Fox’s manner changed with startling suddenness. From a
patronizing familiarity and superior condescension, he descended
instantly to solicitous friendship.
“Hear anythin’?” he inquired.
“Ain’ ’spectin’ anythin’ foh a day er two.”
“Gwine tell me when he wiahs yoh, Pro?”
“Ain’ slippin’ no tips to niggahs da won’ bet no coin.” Pro’s contempt
was impersonal.
“Ah’s a bettin’ fool when Ah got faith,” asserted Mr. Fox earnestly,
fitting the shoe to himself. “Las’ time Ah ain’ got no faith a-tall.”
“Reckon maybe yoh won’ hab no faith dis hyah time,” Pro remarked
disinterestedly. “Ah sabes mah tips foh gamblahs, not pikahs.”
The term stung, but Mr. Fox, while writhing under the insult, chose to
pretend dignity and ignored it.
“Ah ain’ int’rusted in five-dollah bettahs,” Pro added, rubbing salt
into the hurt.
“Five dollah?” Mr. Fox exclaimed indignantly. “Pro, when Ah’s got
faith Ah bets five hundred dollah.”
“Mebbe so,” Pro commented in unconvinced accents. “Wha’ dat git me?”
“Dat,” asserted Mr. Fox, with emphasis, “git yoh twenty-fibe pussent ob
all Ah wins.”
“Ah ain’ int’rusted,” said Pro, proceeding about his duties with an air
of finality.
“Lissen at reason, Pro,” Mr. Fox argued in quick alarm. “Twenty-fibe
am mah reg’lar pussent, but ’tween frien’s lak yoh an’ me, it’s forty
pussent.”
“Fifty neahrer right,” commented Pro, still busy.
“Fifty an’ me takin’ all de chanst? Fohty am gen’rous.”
“An’ show me de tickets?” Pro’s tone was an ultimatum.
“Doan yoh trus’ me, Pro?” Mr. Fox registered indignant surprise.
“Suah Ah trust yoh, Clarence,” said Pro sulkily. “Didn’t yoh han’ me
fibe dollah last time?”
“Dat mah reg’lar twenty-fibe pussent,” responded Mr. Fox humbly,
choosing to ignore the insinuation. “It fohty dis time.”
“Undah dem circumstances, Clarence, Ah’m int’rusted,” said Pro. “Ah’m
expectin’ de glad tidin’s ’bout day aftah to-morrah.”
“Lemme know, Pro?”
“Yas, sah, Clarence, Ah suah let you know,” Pro promised. And, as
Mr. Clarence Fox departed, Pro, leaning upon the handle of a mop,
suddenly commenced a jellylike flesh quake which concluded with a noisy
irruption of laughter.
“Dat niggah done broke!” he muttered, as his inward merriment subsided.
“Dat niggah broke right now, on’y he doan’ know it.”
His plot was working.
That evening he sat in the bath-house, his mind concentrated upon the
racing form. He was busy picking losers, instead of winners, and even
the unmuffled snores of the sleepers failed to distract his attention.
“Kunnel Campbell,” he read and considered. “Dat de dog what run las’
foah times at de Fair Groun’s. He run las’ foah times, he seben dat
othah time. Dat colt ain’t got no chanst a-tall.” He studied the
entries for a moment.
“Kunnel Campbell,” he repeated. “Dat mah s’lection foh Mistah Fox in de
fust race.”
He yelled with inward laughter for a moment and resumed his work on the
dope sheet.
“Jakmino,” he read. “Jakmino. He dat skate dat Mist’ Jim call de buggy
hoss. Dat hoss got bow tendons, glandahs, an’ de boll weevil. He kain’t
run fast ’nuff foh to wahm hisse’f good. He ain’t no runnin’ hoss. He
ain’ fas ’nuff foh to pull a disc harrer.” He muttered over the form
sheet a moment, then decided. “Jakmino--dat mah s’lection foh Mistah
Fox in de third race.”
Prosias went off into another spasm of inward mirth.
He studied the entries for the last race, suddenly threw back his head
and laughed until the snorers, disturbed, ceased snoring and turned
over off their backs.
“Irene W.,” he said, and laughed again. “Irene W.--dat hoss suah a
houn’--wust houn’ on de circuit. She six yeah ole an’ a maiden--ain’t
nebber bin in de money.”
He laughed until near apoplexy and chuckled to himself.
“Irene W.: dat man gran’ extra special tip foh Mistah Fox in de las’
race.”
Then he said to himself solemnly:
“Mistah Clarence Fox, yoh done broke. Yoh broke, on’y yoh doan’ know
it.”
With the aid of the telegraph operator in the office upstairs, Pro
evolved a telegram to himself, and early the next afternoon, as Mr.
Clarence Fox, attired in the gorgeous clothes purchased with the
illicit profits of the Ivory Garter race, entered the hotel, a negro
bell-boy, propelled by the telegraph operator, hastened through the
lobby.
“Mistah Prosias Trimble!” he paged. “Mistah Prosias Trimble!”
“Hyah, niggah,” the captain called sharply. “Ain’ Ah gwine tell yoh
not foh to be pagin’ dat name ’roun’ de hotel? Dat Pro down in de
baf-house.”
Mr. Clarence Fox was two steps behind the bell-boy when the telegram
was delivered to Pro.
“Wha’ he say dis time, Pro?” he demanded eagerly.
“Ain’t open it yet,” said Pro carelessly, moving as if to place the
telegram in his pocket. “Ain’t openin’ tellygrafs while folks is
pesticatin’ ’roun’.”
“Yoh ain’t gwine t’row me down now, is yoh, Pro?” Mr. Fox’s voice was
tremulous with surprised disappointment.
“Ain’ sayin’ Ah is, is Ah?”
“Ain’ hearin’ yoh sayin’ yoh ain’t,” retorted Mr. Fox. “’Membah yoh
done mek a ’greement ’bout dat tip.”
“Ain’t suah dis de tip,” Pro countered. “Reckon Ah bettah read it.”
He ripped open the envelope and held the inclosed message at a
tantalizing angle so that no craning of the neck of Mr. Fox sufficed to
give him a glimpse of the contents.
“Wha’ yoh make ob dat?” Pro exclaimed as in surprise. “Mist’ Jim suah
gittin’ good, hittin’ ’em hahd.”
“Wha’ he say?”
“He say plenty,” said Pro mysteriously. “Dis clean-up day.”
“Wha’ hoss he name?” quavered Mr. Fox.
“Hoss? He done name three hosses--two hot tip an’ a gran’ special extra
br’ilin’ hot one.”
“Gimme dem names, Pro.” Mr. Fox, feeling the urge of excitement,
reached as if to take the telegram from Pro.
“Han’s off, niggah, han’s off!” Pro warned, scowling belligerently.
“Ain’t us pahtners in dis?” quavered Mr. Fox.
“Um. Ain’ so suah ’bout dat yit,” said Pro, exasperatingly cool.
“But us made a ’greement.”
“Ah ’membahs dat,” Pro admitted, as if reluctantly. “Le’s see, dey’s
a hoss in de fust race, dey’s a hoss in de third race, an’ de gran’
special suah thing in de las’. Reckon Ah tip yoh one at a time.”
“Wha’ de fust, den?” pleaded Mr. Fox humbly.
“How much yoh ’low yoh bet on dat fust hoss?”
“Depen’s.”
“Ain’ tippin’ nuffin’ on no ‘depen’s’.”
“Ef it look good, Ah bet fifty dollah.” Mr. Fox stated the figure
tentatively.
“Fifty dollah? Ah ain’ tippin’ no pikahs.”
“Ah bets a hunnerd ef de price look right.”
“Ain’ tippin’ nuffin’ on no ‘ifs.’”
“Ah bets a hunnerd dollah on dat fust hoss.”
Mr. Fox had surrendered, and he stated the figure with the air of a man
paying through the nose.
“An’ fohty pussent foh me?”
“Dat ouh ’greement, Pro.”
“Dat hoss’ name,” said Pro, opening the message and stopping in
maddening deliberation--“dat hoss’ name--how Ah know yoh play faih?”
“Yoh knows me, Pro.”
“Uh--reckon Ah do, Clarence.”
“Den, what dat hoss’ name?”
Mr. Fox’s voice bore a note of irritation, and Pro hastened to ease the
situation.
“K-u-n-n-e-l C-a-m-p-b-e-l-l,” Pro spelled from the message. “Kunnel
Campbell--dat good hoss. Mist’ Jim bin hol’in’ him foh a killin’. Ought
git a good price on dat hoss, Clarence.”
“Kunnel Campbell,” repeated Mr. Fox. “Ah’s gwine. Ah’ll be back atter
dat race.”
“Ah’ll be waitin’ wif de second hoss,” Pro promised.
When Mr. Fox disappeared with more haste than dignity, Pro threw back
his head and indulged in prolonged laughter.
“Mistah Fox,” he repeated, “yoh done broke--yoh broke, on’y yoh doan’
know it yit.”
For an hour and a half Pro tasted the sweets of vengeance.
“He say he bet a hunnerd,” he soliloquized. “Dat mean he bet two
hunnerd, mebby two hunnerd an’ fifty, an’ lie me outen mah share ef he
win. When he lose he ’low he bet foah hunnerd.”
He was rehearsing reasons for the defeat of Colonel Campbell and
additional reasons for increasing the size of the next bet, when the
door opened and Mr. Fox, wildly agitated and with shining face, hurtled
into the bath-house.
“Did--did--did he win?” Pro’s eyes were bulging.
“Did he win? We kill’m, Pro!” panted Mr. Fox. “Done clean up Rampaht
Street. Gimme dat nex’ tip.”
“Wha’--wha’--what odds yoh git?” Pro, dazed with the unexpectedness of
developments, managed to gasp.
“Niggah on’y lay me five to one,” lied Mr. Fox breathlessly. “Ah bets a
hunnerd at five to one. We win five hundred dollah.”
“Wha’ dem ticket?”
“Dat a s’picious niggah gamblah, Pro,” said Mr. Fox. “He done say he
ain’ makin’ no ticket, foh fear de p’lice git evidence.”
Pro saw the uselessness of argument.
“Two hunnerd--dat mah share,” he stated, after an arithmetical
parturition. “Gimme dat money.”
“Ah ain’ c’lect yit.”
“Bettah c’lect foh Ah tell yoh dat nex’ hoss.”
“Ain’ got time befoh de next race.”
“Den pay me yohsef.”
“An’ take chances dat niggah welch?”
“Reckon’ Ah keep dat nex’ tip foh mahsef.”
“Ah’ll take de chanst,” Mr. Fox decided. “Ah low dat niggah pay,
lessen he done broke.”
He counted two hundred dollars off a huge roll of bills and passed them
to Pro reluctantly.
“How much yoh ’low yoh bet dis time?” demanded Pro, recounting the
money.
“Reckon Ah shoot another hunnerd.”
“A hunnerd, an’ all dat gravy in de bowl!” Pro registered indignant
protest. “Yoh gwine shoot two hunnerd or nothin’. Dat’ll leave yoh on
velvet, an’ de special extra comin’.”
“Ah’s gamblin’,” Mr. Fox declared shortly. “What his name?”
“An’ mek de bets whar dey writes de tickets?” Pro added, imposing a new
condition.
“Ah knows a place.”
“An’ fohty pussent foh me?”
“Dat ouh ’greement.”
“Dat nex’ hoss”--Pro studied the telegram tantalizingly--“dat nex’ hoss
J-a-k-m-i-n-o.”
“See yeh latah,” said Mr. Fox, dashing for the exit.
“Wha’ yoh think ob dat?” Pro asked himself wonderingly, as he felt the
money to make certain it was real. “Dat hoss ain’t got a chanst, an’ he
win!”
“Miss Luck she suah smile!” he continued. “Ah kain’t lose, an’ Ah still
break dat niggah. Ah bets dat niggah bet three hunnerd dollar, an’ git
eight to one an’ pay me dis.”
The two hundred dollars suddenly decreased in value by comparison with
Clarence’s supposed winnings. Then Pro’s face lighted.
“Ah’s _got_ mine,” he reflected, “an’ Ah gwine keep it. Wait twell
Clarence done git de bad news ’bout dat Jakmino race! Dat hoss ain’
got no moah chanst ob winnin’ dan a niggah has bein’ ’lected gubonor ob
Louisiana.”
An hour later his comforting reflections were interrupted by the second
avalanche descent of Clarence Fox into the bath-house. His eyes were
protruding and his face shining, and money bulged from every pocket.
“Did--did--did--did dat one win, too?” Pro’s eyes rolled wildly and
amazement was portrayed on every feature.
“He roll home, Pro!” cried Mr. Fox. “Win all de way, by foah length. Ah
lef’ a trail o’ bankrupt niggahs from de Levee to de basin.”
“What odds yoh git, niggah?” demanded Pro, suddenly stern.
“Ah git seben,” Mr. Fox lied cautiously. “What yoh git?”
“Ah git nine foh mine,” Pro lied. “Show me dem ticket.”
“Ah git nine foh paht o’ mine, too,” declared Mr. Fox, weakening.
“Ah git seben foh a hunnerd, an’ nine foh a hunnerd. Hyar de ticket foh
de nine. Dat othah niggah de one dat doan’ write no ticket.”
“Pay me, niggah!” said Pro sternly. “Pay me six hunnerd an’ forty
dollar.”
“Count it yohsef,” said Mr. Fox, suddenly reckless in his prosperity as
he dragged money from pockets and tossed it in scrambled heaps on the
cigar counter. “Count dat triflin’ six hunnerd an’ fohty dollah, an’
tell me dat special. Ah gwine staht an epidemic ob bankruptcy ’mongst
dem niggah gamblahs from de levee to de lake.”
Pro counted his share, feeling the money as if striving to make certain
he was awake. His eyes rolled, and he blinked. He knew Mr. Fox had won
more than he admitted winning, but in his amazement he failed to feel
even resentment.
“Git a move on, niggah,” commanded Mr. Fox. “Doan’ be all day countin’
dat triflin’ money. Le’s go git de real coin. What dat las’ hoss’ name?”
Pro arose, stuffed his share of the loot into his pockets, shoved the
remainder back toward Mr. Fox, and suddenly gave voice to long pent
feelings.
“Run ’long an’ _guess_, niggah, _guess_,” he said witheringly. “Ah’s
done tippin’ lyin’, stealin’, cheatin’ niggahs.”
“What yoh mean?” demanded Mr. Fox, but weakly. “Ain’ Ah done slip yoh
eight hunnerd an’ forty dollah?”
“Yoh suah done so,” admitted Pro, “an’ yeh done win twicet ez much ez
yoh ’mit yoh win. Ah mean yoh done cheat an’ lie an’ steal. Ah say Ah’s
done, an’ Ah mean Ah’s done. Hyah whar yoh an’ me paht. Ah do mah own
bettin’, an’ Ah doan’ tip no pikah.”
He strode indignantly from the bath-house, leaving Mr. Fox crushed.
Presently he rallied and pursued, striving to learn what horse Prosias
was betting on.
Up narrow stairways and down narrower steps into basements, into rooms
behind pool parlors and rooms behind barber shops, into cigar stands,
Pro dashed and dodged, leaving behind him a trail of quaking, alarmed
colored men. The word spread over New Orleans that Prosias Trimble
was plunging, but the bookmakers, anxious to lay off the bets, were
close-mouthed and Clarence Fox strove in vain to discover which horse
Pro was playing. By fifties, twenty-fives, and hundreds, Pro wagered
his discounted share of Clarence Fox’s winnings, and slowly the odds
on Irene W. to win the last race at Baltimo’ were driven downward from
forty to one to six to one.
Just before post time for the final race, Pro, flushed and breathless,
wagered the last ten dollars and stood in a small room where a
telegraph operator clicked away at a key and received the news from the
distant track.
“Two hundred at fohty mek eight thousan’,” he figured, “a hunnerd at
thutty mek three thousan’, a hunnerd at twenty-five mek two thousan’
five hunnerd.”
Laboriously he checked off his bets and strove to strike the total.
“Ah win t’irteen thousan’ fibe hunnerd dollah,” he said dazedly. “Add
dat eight hunnerd an’ fohty, and dat’ll mek me win fo’teen thousan’
t’ree hunnerd an’ fohty dollah.”
“Ah ’low when Ah gits to Baltimo’ Ah staht a stable ob hosses,” he
said. “Ah ’low Ah call it de Miss Luck Stable. Mah colahs will be
scahlet an’ puhple, wif a yaller sash an’ a green cap--”
His reverie was interrupted by the man at the telegraph instrument
calling aloud what the clicking instrument told him.
“Mai-Blanc at the quarter,” he said. “Mayor Behrmann second, Maude
G. third. At the half: Mai-Blanc leads, Chicago Fritz second, Mayor
Behrmann third. The three quarters: Mayor Behrmann by half a length,
Mai-Blanc second, Al Kray third.”
There was a pause.
“Hyar come Irene,” said Pro softly to himself, seeing with the eyes of
desire.
“Stretch, the same,” said the caller wearily. “The winner--”
There was another long pause, and Pro, swallowing hard, said:
“Come on, yoh Irene W.!”
“The winner--Mayor Behrmann, Chicago Fritz second, Vicksburg Sal third.”
Pro stood with his lower lip quivering and his eyes big with
bewilderment. Then he edged slowly toward the operator. “Mistah,” he
said, striving to speak casually, “Irene W. wah scratched in dat race,
wah she?”
“Irene W.?” said the operator disdainfully. “Bah! She ran last.”
Slowly, as if in a trance, Prosias made his way down into the street
and stood staring across toward the barber shop of Clarence Fox. Light
broke upon his bewildered brain, and he muttered:
“Ah done touted mahsef!”