“Dat nex’ hoss”—Pro studied the telegram tantalizingly—“dat nex’ hoss J-a-k-m-i-n-o.”
“See yeh latah,” said Mr. Fox, dashing for the exit.
“Wha’ yoh think ob dat?” Pro asked himself wonderingly, as he felt the money to make certain it was real. “Dat hoss ain’t got a chanst, an’ he win!”
“Miss Luck she suah smile!” he continued. “Ah kain’t lose, an’ Ah still break dat niggah. Ah bets dat niggah bet three hunnerd dollar, an’ git eight to one an’ pay me dis.”
The two hundred dollars suddenly decreased in value by comparison with Clarence’s supposed winnings. Then Pro’s face lighted.
“Ah’s got mine,” he reflected, “an’ Ah gwine keep it. Wait twell Clarence done git de bad news ’bout dat Jakmino race! Dat hoss ain’ got no moah chanst ob winnin’ dan a niggah has bein’ ’lected gubonor ob Louisiana.”
An hour later his comforting reflections were interrupted by the second avalanche descent of Clarence Fox into the bath-house. His eyes were protruding and his face shining, and money bulged from every pocket.
“Did—did—did—did dat one win, too?” Pro’s eyes rolled wildly and amazement was portrayed on every feature.
“He roll home, Pro!” cried Mr. Fox. “Win all de way, by foah length. Ah lef’ a trail o’ bankrupt niggahs from de Levee to de basin.”
“What odds yoh git, niggah?” demanded Pro, suddenly stern.