“Ah git seben,” Mr. Fox lied cautiously. “What yoh git?”
“Ah git nine foh mine,” Pro lied. “Show me dem ticket.”
“Ah git nine foh paht o’ mine, too,” declared Mr. Fox, weakening.
“Ah git seben foh a hunnerd, an’ nine foh a hunnerd. Hyar de ticket foh de nine. Dat othah niggah de one dat doan’ write no ticket.”
“Pay me, niggah!” said Pro sternly. “Pay me six hunnerd an’ forty dollar.”
“Count it yohsef,” said Mr. Fox, suddenly reckless in his prosperity as he dragged money from pockets and tossed it in scrambled heaps on the cigar counter. “Count dat triflin’ six hunnerd an’ fohty dollah, an’ tell me dat special. Ah gwine staht an epidemic ob bankruptcy ’mongst dem niggah gamblahs from de levee to de lake.”
Pro counted his share, feeling the money as if striving to make certain he was awake. His eyes rolled, and he blinked. He knew Mr. Fox had won more than he admitted winning, but in his amazement he failed to feel even resentment.
“Git a move on, niggah,” commanded Mr. Fox. “Doan’ be all day countin’ dat triflin’ money. Le’s go git de real coin. What dat las’ hoss’ name?”
Pro arose, stuffed his share of the loot into his pockets, shoved the remainder back toward Mr. Fox, and suddenly gave voice to long pent feelings.
“Run ’long an’ guess, niggah, guess,” he said witheringly. “Ah’s done tippin’ lyin’, stealin’, cheatin’ niggahs.”