“Suah Ah trust yoh, Clarence,” said Pro sulkily. “Didn’t yoh han’ me fibe dollah last time?”
“Dat mah reg’lar twenty-fibe pussent,” responded Mr. Fox humbly, choosing to ignore the insinuation. “It fohty dis time.”
“Undah dem circumstances, Clarence, Ah’m int’rusted,” said Pro. “Ah’m expectin’ de glad tidin’s ’bout day aftah to-morrah.”
“Lemme know, Pro?”
“Yas, sah, Clarence, Ah suah let you know,” Pro promised. And, as Mr. Clarence Fox departed, Pro, leaning upon the handle of a mop, suddenly commenced a jellylike flesh quake which concluded with a noisy irruption of laughter.
“Dat niggah done broke!” he muttered, as his inward merriment subsided. “Dat niggah broke right now, on’y he doan’ know it.”
His plot was working.
That evening he sat in the bath-house, his mind concentrated upon the racing form. He was busy picking losers, instead of winners, and even the unmuffled snores of the sleepers failed to distract his attention.
“Kunnel Campbell,” he read and considered. “Dat de dog what run las’ foah times at de Fair Groun’s. He run las’ foah times, he seben dat othah time. Dat colt ain’t got no chanst a-tall.” He studied the entries for a moment.
“Kunnel Campbell,” he repeated. “Dat mah s’lection foh Mistah Fox in de fust race.”