“Mai-Blanc at the quarter,” he said. “Mayor Behrmann second, Maude G. third. At the half: Mai-Blanc leads, Chicago Fritz second, Mayor Behrmann third. The three quarters: Mayor Behrmann by half a length, Mai-Blanc second, Al Kray third.”
There was a pause.
“Hyar come Irene,” said Pro softly to himself, seeing with the eyes of desire.
“Stretch, the same,” said the caller wearily. “The winner—”
There was another long pause, and Pro, swallowing hard, said:
“Come on, yoh Irene W.!”
“The winner—Mayor Behrmann, Chicago Fritz second, Vicksburg Sal third.”
Pro stood with his lower lip quivering and his eyes big with bewilderment. Then he edged slowly toward the operator. “Mistah,” he said, striving to speak casually, “Irene W. wah scratched in dat race, wah she?”
“Irene W.?” said the operator disdainfully. “Bah! She ran last.”
Slowly, as if in a trance, Prosias made his way down into the street and stood staring across toward the barber shop of Clarence Fox. Light broke upon his bewildered brain, and he muttered: