“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.”