Part 4

“Jakmino,” he read. “Jakmino. He dat skate dat Mist’ Jim call de buggy hoss. Dat hoss got bow tendons, glandahs, an’ de boll weevil. He kain’t run fast ’nuff foh to wahm hisse’f good. He ain’t no runnin’ hoss. He ain’ fas ’nuff foh to pull a disc harrer.” He muttered over the form sheet a moment, then decided. “Jakmino--dat mah s’lection foh Mistah Fox in de third race.”

Prosias went off into another spasm of inward mirth.

He studied the entries for the last race, suddenly threw back his head and laughed until the snorers, disturbed, ceased snoring and turned over off their backs.

“Irene W.,” he said, and laughed again. “Irene W.--dat hoss suah a houn’--wust houn’ on de circuit. She six yeah ole an’ a maiden--ain’t nebber bin in de money.”

He laughed until near apoplexy and chuckled to himself.

“Irene W.: dat man gran’ extra special tip foh Mistah Fox in de las’ race.”

Then he said to himself solemnly:

“Mistah Clarence Fox, yoh done broke. Yoh broke, on’y yoh doan’ know it.”

With the aid of the telegraph operator in the office upstairs, Pro evolved a telegram to himself, and early the next afternoon, as Mr. Clarence Fox, attired in the gorgeous clothes purchased with the illicit profits of the Ivory Garter race, entered the hotel, a negro bell-boy, propelled by the telegraph operator, hastened through the lobby.

“Mistah Prosias Trimble!” he paged. “Mistah Prosias Trimble!”

“Hyah, niggah,” the captain called sharply. “Ain’ Ah gwine tell yoh not foh to be pagin’ dat name ’roun’ de hotel? Dat Pro down in de baf-house.”

Mr. Clarence Fox was two steps behind the bell-boy when the telegram was delivered to Pro.

“Wha’ he say dis time, Pro?” he demanded eagerly.

“Ain’t open it yet,” said Pro carelessly, moving as if to place the telegram in his pocket. “Ain’t openin’ tellygrafs while folks is pesticatin’ ’roun’.”

“Yoh ain’t gwine t’row me down now, is yoh, Pro?” Mr. Fox’s voice was tremulous with surprised disappointment.

“Ain’ sayin’ Ah is, is Ah?”

“Ain’ hearin’ yoh sayin’ yoh ain’t,” retorted Mr. Fox. “’Membah yoh done mek a ’greement ’bout dat tip.”

“Ain’t suah dis de tip,” Pro countered. “Reckon Ah bettah read it.”

He ripped open the envelope and held the inclosed message at a tantalizing angle so that no craning of the neck of Mr. Fox sufficed to give him a glimpse of the contents.

“Wha’ yoh make ob dat?” Pro exclaimed as in surprise. “Mist’ Jim suah gittin’ good, hittin’ ’em hahd.”

“Wha’ he say?”

“He say plenty,” said Pro mysteriously. “Dis clean-up day.”

“Wha’ hoss he name?” quavered Mr. Fox.

“Hoss? He done name three hosses--two hot tip an’ a gran’ special extra br’ilin’ hot one.”

“Gimme dem names, Pro.” Mr. Fox, feeling the urge of excitement, reached as if to take the telegram from Pro.

“Han’s off, niggah, han’s off!” Pro warned, scowling belligerently.

“Ain’t us pahtners in dis?” quavered Mr. Fox.

“Um. Ain’ so suah ’bout dat yit,” said Pro, exasperatingly cool.

“But us made a ’greement.”

“Ah ’membahs dat,” Pro admitted, as if reluctantly. “Le’s see, dey’s a hoss in de fust race, dey’s a hoss in de third race, an’ de gran’ special suah thing in de las’. Reckon Ah tip yoh one at a time.”

“Wha’ de fust, den?” pleaded Mr. Fox humbly.

“How much yoh ’low yoh bet on dat fust hoss?”

“Depen’s.”

“Ain’ tippin’ nuffin’ on no ‘depen’s’.”

“Ef it look good, Ah bet fifty dollah.” Mr. Fox stated the figure tentatively.

“Fifty dollah? Ah ain’ tippin’ no pikahs.”

“Ah bets a hunnerd ef de price look right.”

“Ain’ tippin’ nuffin’ on no ‘ifs.’”

“Ah bets a hunnerd dollah on dat fust hoss.”

Mr. Fox had surrendered, and he stated the figure with the air of a man paying through the nose.

“An’ fohty pussent foh me?”

“Dat ouh ’greement, Pro.”

“Dat hoss’ name,” said Pro, opening the message and stopping in maddening deliberation--“dat hoss’ name--how Ah know yoh play faih?”

“Yoh knows me, Pro.”

“Uh--reckon Ah do, Clarence.”

“Den, what dat hoss’ name?”

Mr. Fox’s voice bore a note of irritation, and Pro hastened to ease the situation.

“K-u-n-n-e-l C-a-m-p-b-e-l-l,” Pro spelled from the message. “Kunnel Campbell--dat good hoss. Mist’ Jim bin hol’in’ him foh a killin’. Ought git a good price on dat hoss, Clarence.”

“Kunnel Campbell,” repeated Mr. Fox. “Ah’s gwine. Ah’ll be back atter dat race.”

“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.”

“Wha’ dem ticket?”

“Dat a s’picious niggah gamblah, Pro,” said Mr. Fox. “He done say he ain’ makin’ no ticket, foh fear de p’lice git evidence.”

Pro saw the uselessness of argument.

“Two hunnerd--dat mah share,” he stated, after an arithmetical parturition. “Gimme dat money.”

“Ah ain’ c’lect yit.”

“Bettah c’lect foh Ah tell yoh dat nex’ hoss.”

“Ain’ got time befoh de next race.”

“Den pay me yohsef.”

“An’ take chances dat niggah welch?”

“Reckon’ Ah keep dat nex’ tip foh mahsef.”

“Ah’ll take de chanst,” Mr. Fox decided. “Ah low dat niggah pay, lessen he done broke.”

He counted two hundred dollars off a huge roll of bills and passed them to Pro reluctantly.

“How much yoh ’low yoh bet dis time?” demanded Pro, recounting the money.

“Reckon Ah shoot another hunnerd.”

“A hunnerd, an’ all dat gravy in de bowl!” Pro registered indignant protest. “Yoh gwine shoot two hunnerd or nothin’. Dat’ll leave yoh on velvet, an’ de special extra comin’.”

“Ah’s gamblin’,” Mr. Fox declared shortly. “What his name?”

“An’ mek de bets whar dey writes de tickets?” Pro added, imposing a new condition.

“Ah knows a place.”

“An’ fohty pussent foh me?”

“Dat ouh ’greement.”

“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.

“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.”

“What yoh mean?” demanded Mr. Fox, but weakly. “Ain’ Ah done slip yoh eight hunnerd an’ forty dollah?”

“Yoh suah done so,” admitted Pro, “an’ yeh done win twicet ez much ez yoh ’mit yoh win. Ah mean yoh done cheat an’ lie an’ steal. Ah say Ah’s done, an’ Ah mean Ah’s done. Hyah whar yoh an’ me paht. Ah do mah own bettin’, an’ Ah doan’ tip no pikah.”

He strode indignantly from the bath-house, leaving Mr. Fox crushed. Presently he rallied and pursued, striving to learn what horse Prosias was betting on.

Up narrow stairways and down narrower steps into basements, into rooms behind pool parlors and rooms behind barber shops, into cigar stands, Pro dashed and dodged, leaving behind him a trail of quaking, alarmed colored men. The word spread over New Orleans that Prosias Trimble was plunging, but the bookmakers, anxious to lay off the bets, were close-mouthed and Clarence Fox strove in vain to discover which horse Pro was playing. By fifties, twenty-fives, and hundreds, Pro wagered his discounted share of Clarence Fox’s winnings, and slowly the odds on Irene W. to win the last race at Baltimo’ were driven downward from forty to one to six to one.

Just before post time for the final race, Pro, flushed and breathless, wagered the last ten dollars and stood in a small room where a telegraph operator clicked away at a key and received the news from the distant track.

“Two hundred at fohty mek eight thousan’,” he figured, “a hunnerd at thutty mek three thousan’, a hunnerd at twenty-five mek two thousan’ five hunnerd.”

Laboriously he checked off his bets and strove to strike the total.

“Ah win t’irteen thousan’ fibe hunnerd dollah,” he said dazedly. “Add dat eight hunnerd an’ fohty, and dat’ll mek me win fo’teen thousan’ t’ree hunnerd an’ fohty dollah.”

“Ah ’low when Ah gits to Baltimo’ Ah staht a stable ob hosses,” he said. “Ah ’low Ah call it de Miss Luck Stable. Mah colahs will be scahlet an’ puhple, wif a yaller sash an’ a green cap--”

His reverie was interrupted by the man at the telegraph instrument calling aloud what the clicking instrument told him.

“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:

“Ah done touted mahsef!”

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.