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?”