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.”