He yelled with inward laughter for a moment and resumed his work on the dope sheet.
“Jakmino,” he read. “Jakmino. He dat skate dat Mist’ Jim call de buggy hoss. Dat hoss got bow tendons, glandahs, an’ de boll weevil. He kain’t run fast ’nuff foh to wahm hisse’f good. He ain’t no runnin’ hoss. He ain’ fas ’nuff foh to pull a disc harrer.” He muttered over the form sheet a moment, then decided. “Jakmino—dat mah s’lection foh Mistah Fox in de third race.”
Prosias went off into another spasm of inward mirth.
He studied the entries for the last race, suddenly threw back his head and laughed until the snorers, disturbed, ceased snoring and turned over off their backs.
“Irene W.,” he said, and laughed again. “Irene W.—dat hoss suah a houn’—wust houn’ on de circuit. She six yeah ole an’ a maiden—ain’t nebber bin in de money.”
He laughed until near apoplexy and chuckled to himself.
“Irene W.: dat man gran’ extra special tip foh Mistah Fox in de las’ race.”
Then he said to himself solemnly:
“Mistah Clarence Fox, yoh done broke. Yoh broke, on’y yoh doan’ know it.”
With the aid of the telegraph operator in the office upstairs, Pro evolved a telegram to himself, and early the next afternoon, as Mr. Clarence Fox, attired in the gorgeous clothes purchased with the illicit profits of the Ivory Garter race, entered the hotel, a negro bell-boy, propelled by the telegraph operator, hastened through the lobby.