“Ah’ll be waitin’ wif de second hoss,” Pro promised.
When Mr. Fox disappeared with more haste than dignity, Pro threw back his head and indulged in prolonged laughter.
“Mistah Fox,” he repeated, “yoh done broke—yoh broke, on’y yoh doan’ know it yit.”
For an hour and a half Pro tasted the sweets of vengeance.
“He say he bet a hunnerd,” he soliloquized. “Dat mean he bet two hunnerd, mebby two hunnerd an’ fifty, an’ lie me outen mah share ef he win. When he lose he ’low he bet foah hunnerd.”
He was rehearsing reasons for the defeat of Colonel Campbell and additional reasons for increasing the size of the next bet, when the door opened and Mr. Fox, wildly agitated and with shining face, hurtled into the bath-house.
“Did—did—did he win?” Pro’s eyes were bulging.
“Did he win? We kill’m, Pro!” panted Mr. Fox. “Done clean up Rampaht Street. Gimme dat nex’ tip.”
“Wha’—wha’—what odds yoh git?” Pro, dazed with the unexpectedness of developments, managed to gasp.
“Niggah on’y lay me five to one,” lied Mr. Fox breathlessly. “Ah bets a hunnerd at five to one. We win five hundred dollah.”