Part 3

His reversion to instinct raised a laugh. For the first time the assemblage was getting its money’s worth. The little rector was very much shocked. He could not understand that Jaundice meant no disrespect. He argued that no man could live in the United States and be so completely ignorant of religion. I said that Jaundice thought Jesus Christ was a cuss word and that his only knowledge that he possessed an immortal soul was from hearing it God damned by trainers and others.

A week later I heard that Jaundice was in a Brooklyn hospital and in bad shape. I went to see him to get for a newspaper the story of a jockey who, while sick to death, rode in a race to win money enough to bury a friend. He was propped up in bed, coughing. The doctor had told me he had but a little time to live. He was glad to see me and inquired how I liked Lord James’ funeral.

“Great class to that, Jaundice; best I ever attended.”

“No one can’t say that I piked,” he responded, beaming at the praise. “I planted Lord James swell, and his folks can’t ever say I didn’t.”

“You’re looking better,” I lied. “Be back on the track pretty soon?”

“Lord James won’t beat me more than a neck,” he said without emotion. “Something busted inside me during that race. Have you heard how Doc Grausman is comin’ along? He sure ought to win that stake this week.”

Presently he spoke of the little rector. “What do you think of that guy?” he asked, rather contemptuous of the ignorance of the minister. “He thought Lord James was only sleeping, but he wouldn’t back his opinion with coin.”

I strove to explain, without much success.

“That little guy is all right,” said Jaundice. “Did you hear what he said about Lord James havin’ a chanst on that track he was talking about? Say, Lord James has about as much chanst as I have.”

“Everyone has a chance,” I said feebly.

“Me?” he asked in surprise.

“Sure; the Book says everyone has who repents.”

“I ain’t got nothin’ to repent of exceptin’ pullin’ three or four of them bum chasers. The stewards couldn’t get nothin’ on me at that.”

“The Judges up there know it all.”

“Know everything? Then, say, what chanst has a guy got?”

As a religious prospect the case was too hard, so I telephoned the little rector and gave it over to him. He called upon Jaundice several times, and the following week I went to the hospital again. Jaundice was weak but smiling.

“Say,” he whispered hoarsely, “I got a chanst. That little man says that them Judges up there knows I was carryin’ too much weight to run true and that you can’t blame anyone for losin’ when he is handicapped out of it. I told him about pulling them chasers and lyin’ and stealin’, and he said that didn’t make no difference, that the Judges don’t set a guy down forever if he is sorry he done wrong.” He remained thinking for a time.

“He didn’t have to tell me to be sorry,” he whispered. “Honest, I always was sorry when I pulled one of them bum chasers when he was trying. It wasn’t square to the horse. This is the softest bet I ever had,” he whispered. “I’m going to play it. Them’s good odds--a chanst to win all them things he told me about and only be sorry. It’s like writing your own ticket.”

I found the little rector very thoughtful and amazed at this new manner of man he had discovered, and when he buried Jaundice the next week he got right down among us and talked about handicaps and weights, and keeping on trying all the time. He talked just as if he had been in the paddock half his life, and the last thing he said was: “If I were a bookie, I’d lay odds that Jaundice cashes that last bet.”

TOUTIN’ MISTAH FOX

TOUTIN’ MISTAH FOX

Prosias Trimble’s protuberant lower lip drooped dejectedly, his eyes shifted in a scowl until the pupils were dots in the corners of expanses of white, his russet shoes, rapier-pointed and uncomfortably overcrowded with feet, dragged laggingly along the marble floor of the St. Charles Hotel Turkish baths. He went about his task of distributing towels with the air of one who has suffered great wrong.

In the private rooms and on cots ranged in the dormitory, white men snored, gurgled, choked, strangled. The sounds of sixty fat men snoring in sixty keys filled the rooms. Even the snore of the man in room six, which was a combination of shifting gears, a cut-out muffler, and a slipping clutch, passed unheard by “Pro.” Even the cheery whistle of his fellow rubber was unnoticed. The world was a place of darkness, and Pro’s mood was two shades darker than his skin, the color scheme of which was that of the ace of spades.

It was a dull night. The St. Charles Hotel Turkish baths were but half filled with patrons, although overcrowded with snores. The light patronage and the dejected mood of Prosias were due to the same cause: the winter meeting at the Fair Grounds race-track in New Orleans had ended two days before, the army of men and horses that had encamped in the Crescent City during the winter, and the swarm of plump patrons which nightly had crowded the St. Charles, had moved northward to Baltimore, and Prosias Trimble, top sergeant in that army, with the rank of tout, was left behind, to eke out a livelihood by working as rubber in the bath-house. The pearl-colored spats, the pointed russet shoes, the fawn waistcoat checkerboarded in green, the massive watch-chain draped in two graceful curves from buttonhole to pockets, the four-carat near-diamond which glistened with fading brilliancy in the purple necktie, were of the vanities vain: the “hosses” were gone, and Pro, compelled to return to the profession he had disowned when he became a race-follower, was not with them.

Two days before this night of gloom Prosias had strutted the streets of New Orleans--the envy of colored men, the admired of many colored women. His shining countenance, which reflected joy and happiness, had added color to the throngs in paddock and betting ring. In the evenings his presence had graced social affairs of the negro eight hundred, and Miss Luck had smiled consistently upon him. He had spent three evenings bidding farewell to the friends he had accumulated during the winter, had lightly promised half a dozen of his newly acquired lady friends to see them when the horses came back, and had created envy and dark hatred among the men by the casual carelessness with which he bade them polite farewells and expressed hopes of seeing them at Baltimore or Louisville or even at Saratoga during the meetings.

Until the morning of “Get Away Day” Miss Luck had smiled, and on that morning she beamed. Prosias and his bankroll had prospered, waxed fat, and flourished. The customary rumors had circulated on that morning--the old, old story of the “Get Away Killing” and the feed man’s bill--and straight from the oats-box the rumor had come to Pro, alighted upon him, and stung him. It was a hot tip--so hot that it singed and burned. The tip was to the effect that Centerdrink had been nominated to win--that he was to be shooed in at long odds, and that all the grievances of the bettors against the bookmakers were to be evened up in one great killing.

Pro had it from a jockey, who had it right out of the conference at which Centerdrink had been chosen to win. Pro had hurled his bankroll--the fortune accumulated during the entire winter--at the bookmakers, who, instead of breaking in panic, had handed him back smiles and bits of pasteboard with cabalistic charcoal characters on them. Pro had stood to win more than twelve thousand dollars--and he had stood dazedly while he watched Centerdrink finish eighth. When the truth dawned upon his benumbed brain he had reached one hand into the now vacant pocket, seeking car-fare, and, finding it not, had sought the bath-house and work--his dream of a summer jaunt around the race-courses wrecked.

Pro completed his task of distributing towels and stood thinking. Daylight was commencing to show through the little windows just under the ceiling of the bath-house, and daylight brought with it fresh, bitter thoughts. He knew that a few hundred miles to the northward the sun was rising on a stretch of level land, a circular ribbon of loam laid upon a field of green. Birds were singing in the trees, meadow larks were rising from the infield. Rows of fires were springing up along the front of the circular line of low, whitewashed stables. Slender, graceful horses, blanketed to the knees, were being led around and around in little circles, the odor of frying bacon was in the air, the rhythmic drumming of the feet of a speedy colt was sounding from the track. Far across the velvet infield, near where the spidery pillars of the stand stood black against the lightening sky, men with watches in their hands were on the rail, timing in fractions of seconds the movements of the flying colt. He pictured one vacant spot on the pickets of the fence--a spot which, but for the fickleness of Miss Luck and the hot tip on Centerdrink, he would have been occupying.

Slowly a light broke over his face--as sun striving to shine through thunder clouds.

“Reckon as how maybe Ah’ll be dar yit,” he muttered to himself. “Mist’ Jim Robin he say to me yistaddy mahnin’: ‘Pro, yuh wuthless niggah, gimme good rub dis mahnin’ an’ when Ah gits to Baltimo’ Ah’ll sen’ yoh a good thing.’ Yassah, dat ’zackly what he done say, an’ Ah done rub him till he yell ’nuff. Mist’ Jim Robin he done keep his promise. He’ll sen’ me dat good thing, den Ah’ll show dese Noo ’Leans shines a classy niggah. Ah’ll ride in Mistah Pullman’s cahr ’stid o’ Mistah Burton’s cahr--nothward. Yassah.”

Visibly affected by a process of triumph of mind over condition, Pro achieved a more cheerful countenance. The happy smile which was his trademark, and the ingratiating grin which made him welcome among race-track followers, returned by degrees, and by the time the snorers aroused themselves and shuddered at the cold plunge before coming to the rubbing tables his ready laugh and the seductive manner in which he wielded the solicitous whisk-broom upon each departing guest won reward.

“Um-um, Miss Luck comin’ back,” he muttered hopefully, as he counted his tips. “Um-um. Dis niggah in Baltimo’ foah Sattaday suah--jes’ in time foh to see de handicap. Wisht Mist’ Jim’d sen’ me dat tip he done promise me.”

As if in answer to the wish, the page in the hotel under which the St. Charles baths are located was passing through lobbies and writing-rooms paging:

“Mistah Prosias Trimble! Mistah Prosias Trimble!”

“Hyah, boy,” the captain of the bell-boys called. “Doan’ be a-pagin’ dat name ’roun’ de house. Prosias Trimble he dat buxom black niggah Pro, down in de baf-house.”

“Tellygraft foh yoh, niggah,” the page announced disgustedly, as he tossed the yellow envelope toward Pro and abandoned all hope of a tip.

“Miss Luck, favor me!” Pro pleaded devoutly as he held the envelope in his hand. “Miss Luck, bring de good news--doan’ betray me now. Ah needs yoh!”

“What does he say, Pro?”

“What who say?” demanded Pro, his lips suddenly bulging outward belligerently, as he swung about to face Mr. Clarence Fox, who had pursued the telegram from the lobby down into the bath-house.

“What Mist’ Jim Robin say?” responded Mr. Fox, scowling.

“How come yoh knows so much?”

“Reckon Ah doan’ know he promise’ you a tip?”

“How come yoh knows?”

“Reckon yoh didn’t infohm a certain lady frien’ o’ mine?”

“Dat yaller gal too brash wif her mouf!” Pro muttered regretfully, as he recalled the fact that the lady in question was manicurist in the Royal Crescent Palace barber shop, Clarence Fox owner.

In spite of his appearance of displeasure, Pro was not displeased. His mind was working, and Mr. Fox was included in the thoughts. Mr. Fox possessed money. Pro’s cash capital consisted of the two dollars and twenty cents secured in tips during the night’s work. Further, he was aware that in order to turn even a sure thing on a race tip into money, working capital is required. His acquaintance with Mr. Clarence Fox had been incidental to his friendship for Miss Susie, the manicurist, and Pro recalled, with some regret, the fact that during the more prosperous times of the winter he had been inclined to treat Clarence Fox condescendingly. But Mr. Fox, proprietor of the five-chair barber shop catering to the swelldom of the negro district, he viewed in a different light now. If Mr. Fox could be persuaded to finance certain illegal but delectable operations, Pro saw a way to overcome lack of working capital.

“’Scuse me, Mistah Fox, if Ah seem discurtous,” he said, “but a gennelman gotta be careful when he gits straight tips from gennelman white owners.”

“Dat all right, Mistah Trimble,” said Clarence, responding to politeness with greater politeness. “Ah respects yoh sentiments. Reckon dat a wahm tip?”

“Ah ’low she ’bout ninety-eight in de shade,” Pro responded.

“Ah doan’ ’low dat yoh ’tends to bet enuff foh to cover all de han’-books in Noo ’Leans?” Clarence inquired flatteringly.

“Don’t ’low as Ah can,” said Pro regretfully. “You ’low ef Ah tell yoh wha’ hoss Mist’ Jim done name’, kin yoh wait till Ah gits my bets down, so’s not influence de odds?”

“Ah ’low dat Ah kin. Yoh ’low dat tip look good?”

“Look good?” Pro’s voice quivered with outraged indignation. “Yoh ’low Mist’ Jim done tellygraft a niggah lessen it good?”

“Nevah kin tell,” commented Mr. Fox cynically.

Prosias hesitated. His mind was in panic for fear of losing the opportunity to secure working capital, yet the situation was embarrassing. He found it difficult to approach a business proposition without revealing the fact that he was embarrassed financially.

“Reckon yoh do the right thing if Ah tell yoh de name ob de hoss?” he said tentatively.

“Yoh knows me, Pro. Ah always does de right thing, doan’ Ah?”

“Dat yoh repitation, Clarence,” said Pro, vaguely conscious of the fact that he knew nothing of Clarence’s reputation.

“Always aims to do de right thing, Pro.”

“Hyah she go, den,” said Pro, with sudden determination, as he tore open the envelope.

“Miss Luck, be mine!” he breathed, as he unfolded the yellow paper. With Mr. Fox craning his neck to see over his shoulder, he read:

Shoot the roll on the filly in the fourth.

ROBIN.

Mr. Fox wrinkled the end of his broad nose and looked puzzled.

“De roll on de filly!” said Prosias, his eyes rolling.

“Wha’ hoss he mean?” inquired the less informed Mr. Fox.

“Wha’ hoss?” Pro repeated disdainfully. “Why, dat Ivory Gahter filly, dat who: Mist’ Jim’s filly, an’ she good. She ripe, niggah, she win suah, an’ de odds--um-um! Niggah, we rich!”

“Ivory Gahter--I’m gwine!” exclaimed Mr. Fox excitedly. “Niggah, yoh play de books ’roun’ hyar. Ah’ll slaughtah dem Rampaht Street gamblahs.”

The convinced Mr. Fox, hesitating at the barber shop only long enough to sweep the till clean, dashed toward Rampart Street, while Pro, waiting until his financial backer disappeared, ascended to the second story of the pool-room nearest the hotel, and, after considerable haggling, persuaded the handbook keeper to wager twenty dollars against two against the chances of Ivory Garter’s winning. Pro mourned because he knew that at the track the odds would be twenty to one.

Instead of retiring for the day, Pro promenaded, ostensibly for pleasure, but always with a view of borrowing capital to wager. Several times he tentatively opened negotiations, but, meeting with scant encouragement, he contented himself with remarking airily that he had remained in New Orleans to consummate a betting commission for an owner, and was leaving to join the horses that evening, after the killing.

His probably were the first eyes to read the ticker that afternoon, when in jerks and clicks the tape recorded the fact that Ivory Garter had won. Thirty minutes later, with twenty-two dollars in his pocket, Pro entered the bath-house.

“Ah’s sorry to be ’bliged to notify yoh Ah resigns,” he announced. “Ah’s called No’th.”

With light heart and faith in Miss Luck restored, he went forth to the Royal Crescent Palace barber shop by a devious route. At his first stop he remarked casually that he wouldn’t be surprised if he and Mr. Fox had cleaned up five hundred dollars, at the second stop he opined he and Mr. Fox had won seven hundred, and by the time he reached Canal Street his estimate of probable winnings had passed twelve hundred dollars and his cash capital had dwindled to eight dollars, due to sudden generosity in lending and to purchasing cigars for less fortunate acquaintances.

His mental estimate of the amount won exceeded the figures he dared express openly. There was no limit to his imagination. Mr. Fox had money. A hundred dollars should yield fifteen hundred at proper pool-room odds. Mr. Fox rated himself a sport. Pro calculated that a proper sport, with money, would bet at least five hundred dollars on a tip straight from an owner, which at twelve to one--the lowest possible odds he figured Mr. Fox would accept--would be six thousand dollars, fifty per cent of which was three thousand dollars. Pro pictured himself riding into the track at Baltimore in an open automobile. He even determined to pay admission instead of soliciting an employee’s badge.

He reached the Royal Crescent Palace barber shop in a state of excited anticipation. Mr. Fox, at ease, was draped over the cigar counter, and his very nonchalant calmness sent a shiver through Pro’s optimism.

“Howdy, Clarence?” he exclaimed, under forced draught. “We suah slip dat one over!”

“Suah did,” assented Mr. Fox, without enthusiasm.

“We ’mos’ ruin dis hyah town, Ah reckon,” observed Pro, inviting information. “Ah suah clean mah end.”

“Ah’s glad yoh hit ’em hahd, Pro,” said Mr. Fox, without warming. “Ah wah jest a-wishin’ Ah done had ez much faith in yoh frien’ ez yoh did.”

“How come, Clarence?” asked Pro, with a sudden sinking suspicion. “Didn’ yoh plunge?”

“Hadn’ no faith a-tall,” asserted Clarence.

“Didn’ yoh win _nothin’_?” asked Pro, unbelief, suspicion, crushed hopes, all concentrated in his voice.

“Jes’ li’l’ pikin’ bet, Pro,” said Mr. Fox resignedly. “Ah bin kickin’ mahsef. Ah mought a-win ’nuff to be goin’ norf wif yoh. But Ah lack faith. Ah lack faith perdigious.”

“Yoh win nuffin a-tall?” Pro reiterated, his voice expressing his ebbing hope.

“Ah win jes’ twenty dollah,” said Mr. Fox positively. “Niggah on’y lay me ten to one, an’ Ah bet on’y two dollah.”

He hesitated, waiting as if expecting passionate contradiction, and added:

“Hyah yoh bit foh de tip.”

He peeled a five-dollar bill from a huge roll extracted carelessly from a trousers pocket and flipped it toward Pro.

“Dat a good tip, Pro,” he said in conciliatory tones. “Ah thanks yoh foh it. Wish Ah’d had moah faith. Ef yoh git any good ones in Baltimo’, wiah me.”

Prosias, speechless, pocketed the bill and turned. At the door he paused.

“Yas, sah, Clarence,” he said slowly. “Ah ain’ done fohgit. Ah’ll ’membah yoh, Clarence.”

His brain was dazed, but his heart seethed with bitter resentment. He knew that Clarence Fox had profited largely and had swindled him out of his just share. He walked slowly, bitterly regretting the generosity of the morning, but for which he still would have had enough money to reach the race-track. He went humbly back to the St. Charles baths and petitioned to be restored to his position. That night, while working upon the super-fattened carcasses of patrons, thoughts of Clarence Fox and his perfidy came to his mind, and he struck hard, eliciting howls of protest. And during that long night his brain slowly evolved a plan of vengeance.

Three days later Clarence Fox, arrayed in a glory which neither Solomon nor the lilies ever could have rivaled, descended into the St. Charles baths.

“Why, howdy, Pro?” he exclaimed, with well simulated surprise. “Ah thought yoh done gone Baltimo’.”

“Not yit, Clarence, not yit.”

His cheerful aspect and his failure to express either anger or sorrow puzzled Clarence.

“How come?” he asked.

“Frien’ ast me would Ah remain foh a few days an’ ack ez his bettin’ c’missioner.”

“Whafoh of a frien’?”

“Same frien’ ez sen’ me that last tip.”

Clarence Fox’s manner changed with startling suddenness. From a patronizing familiarity and superior condescension, he descended instantly to solicitous friendship.

“Hear anythin’?” he inquired.

“Ain’ ’spectin’ anythin’ foh a day er two.”

“Gwine tell me when he wiahs yoh, Pro?”

“Ain’ slippin’ no tips to niggahs da won’ bet no coin.” Pro’s contempt was impersonal.

“Ah’s a bettin’ fool when Ah got faith,” asserted Mr. Fox earnestly, fitting the shoe to himself. “Las’ time Ah ain’ got no faith a-tall.”

“Reckon maybe yoh won’ hab no faith dis hyah time,” Pro remarked disinterestedly. “Ah sabes mah tips foh gamblahs, not pikahs.”

The term stung, but Mr. Fox, while writhing under the insult, chose to pretend dignity and ignored it.

“Ah ain’ int’rusted in five-dollah bettahs,” Pro added, rubbing salt into the hurt.

“Five dollah?” Mr. Fox exclaimed indignantly. “Pro, when Ah’s got faith Ah bets five hundred dollah.”

“Mebbe so,” Pro commented in unconvinced accents. “Wha’ dat git me?”

“Dat,” asserted Mr. Fox, with emphasis, “git yoh twenty-fibe pussent ob all Ah wins.”

“Ah ain’ int’rusted,” said Pro, proceeding about his duties with an air of finality.

“Lissen at reason, Pro,” Mr. Fox argued in quick alarm. “Twenty-fibe am mah reg’lar pussent, but ’tween frien’s lak yoh an’ me, it’s forty pussent.”

“Fifty neahrer right,” commented Pro, still busy.

“Fifty an’ me takin’ all de chanst? Fohty am gen’rous.”

“An’ show me de tickets?” Pro’s tone was an ultimatum.

“Doan yoh trus’ me, Pro?” Mr. Fox registered indignant surprise.

“Suah Ah trust yoh, Clarence,” said Pro sulkily. “Didn’t yoh han’ me fibe dollah last time?”

“Dat mah reg’lar twenty-fibe pussent,” responded Mr. Fox humbly, choosing to ignore the insinuation. “It fohty dis time.”

“Undah dem circumstances, Clarence, Ah’m int’rusted,” said Pro. “Ah’m expectin’ de glad tidin’s ’bout day aftah to-morrah.”

“Lemme know, Pro?”

“Yas, sah, Clarence, Ah suah let you know,” Pro promised. And, as Mr. Clarence Fox departed, Pro, leaning upon the handle of a mop, suddenly commenced a jellylike flesh quake which concluded with a noisy irruption of laughter.

“Dat niggah done broke!” he muttered, as his inward merriment subsided. “Dat niggah broke right now, on’y he doan’ know it.”

His plot was working.

That evening he sat in the bath-house, his mind concentrated upon the racing form. He was busy picking losers, instead of winners, and even the unmuffled snores of the sleepers failed to distract his attention.

“Kunnel Campbell,” he read and considered. “Dat de dog what run las’ foah times at de Fair Groun’s. He run las’ foah times, he seben dat othah time. Dat colt ain’t got no chanst a-tall.” He studied the entries for a moment.

“Kunnel Campbell,” he repeated. “Dat mah s’lection foh Mistah Fox in de fust race.”

He yelled with inward laughter for a moment and resumed his work on the dope sheet.