“Whafoh of a frien’?”
“Same frien’ ez sen’ me that last tip.”
Clarence Fox’s manner changed with startling suddenness. From a patronizing familiarity and superior condescension, he descended instantly to solicitous friendship.
“Hear anythin’?” he inquired.
“Ain’ ’spectin’ anythin’ foh a day er two.”
“Gwine tell me when he wiahs yoh, Pro?”
“Ain’ slippin’ no tips to niggahs da won’ bet no coin.” Pro’s contempt was impersonal.
“Ah’s a bettin’ fool when Ah got faith,” asserted Mr. Fox earnestly, fitting the shoe to himself. “Las’ time Ah ain’ got no faith a-tall.”
“Reckon maybe yoh won’ hab no faith dis hyah time,” Pro remarked disinterestedly. “Ah sabes mah tips foh gamblahs, not pikahs.”
The term stung, but Mr. Fox, while writhing under the insult, chose to pretend dignity and ignored it.