“Mistah Prosias Trimble!” he paged. “Mistah Prosias Trimble!”
“Hyah, niggah,” the captain called sharply. “Ain’ Ah gwine tell yoh not foh to be pagin’ dat name ’roun’ de hotel? Dat Pro down in de baf-house.”
Mr. Clarence Fox was two steps behind the bell-boy when the telegram was delivered to Pro.
“Wha’ he say dis time, Pro?” he demanded eagerly.
“Ain’t open it yet,” said Pro carelessly, moving as if to place the telegram in his pocket. “Ain’t openin’ tellygrafs while folks is pesticatin’ ’roun’.”
“Yoh ain’t gwine t’row me down now, is yoh, Pro?” Mr. Fox’s voice was tremulous with surprised disappointment.
“Ain’ sayin’ Ah is, is Ah?”
“Ain’ hearin’ yoh sayin’ yoh ain’t,” retorted Mr. Fox. “’Membah yoh done mek a ’greement ’bout dat tip.”
“Ain’t suah dis de tip,” Pro countered. “Reckon Ah bettah read it.”
He ripped open the envelope and held the inclosed message at a tantalizing angle so that no craning of the neck of Mr. Fox sufficed to give him a glimpse of the contents.