“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.”