TOUTIN’ MISTAH FOX
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.
ROBIN.
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!”
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.