“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?”