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diff --git a/75271-0.txt b/75271-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b86b4e9 --- /dev/null +++ b/75271-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1762 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75271 *** + + + + + + TALES + OF THE + TURF + + _By_ + HUGH S. FULLERTON + + [Illustration] + + A. R. DE BEER + PUBLISHER + New York City + + + + + Copyright, 1922 + by + A. R. DE BEER + + _All Rights Reserved_ + + + + +FOREWORD + + +The publisher feels highly honored at being able, at this time, to +present to the American public, from the pen of America’s foremost +sports-writer and recognized authority, Hugh S. Fullerton, these +stories of the American Turf, feeling sanguine that these tales, +saturated with human interest, will be digested with as much pleasure +and delight as the author took in writing and the publisher in +publishing them. + + + + +AUTHOR’S PREFACE + + +All men love a horse who know a horse. The love of contest and struggle +forms a kinship between man and horse that exists between no others. It +is the gameness, the courage, the fighting spirit of the thoroughbred +which arouses in man the finest instincts, and it is these qualities +that cause the love of man for the thoroughbred. It is noticeable too, +that the thoroughbred horse loves only those human beings who possess +those same qualities. + +On the race-track we find the only pure democracy of the world, a +democracy which includes all classes, all strata of society. It is more +liberal, more forgiving of human frailties and human weakness, than any +other place, because men who know racing understand how hearts break +when the weight cloths are too heavy and the distance too great. + +These little tales of the turf are based upon real incidents and real +characters. Perhaps those lovers of racing who have lived the life will +recognize the characters, and to those I would plead that they extend +to them the same broad understanding and forgiveness that they give to +the tout, the cadger, and the down and outer in real life. + + THE AUTHOR + + + + +To Morvich + +_SON OF RUNNYMEAD AND HYMIR_ + +_who has demonstrated to the world that handicaps of birth and breeding +are not insurmountable--that the offspring of a sprinter can carry +weight over a distance if he has the heart, that neither straight +stifles, weight cloths nor distance counts against gameness and +courage--this little volume is dedicated._ + _THE AUTHOR._ + + + + +“HARDSHELL” GAINES + + +“Hardshell” Gaines was the only name we knew him by, although had +anyone been sufficiently interested to look through the list of +registered owners of race-horses, he would have learned that Hardshell +had been christened James Buchanan Gaines. The name might also have +furnished a clue as to his age. + +Tradition was that he came from somewhere in Pennsylvania, as he spoke +sometimes of the horses “up the valley”; but beyond the fact that +he had a farm in Tennessee, where he bred and trained the horses he +raced, nothing was set down in the “Who’s Who” of the turf. He was +called Hardshell because he had once explained the difference between +the Hardshell Baptists, to which denomination he belonged, and the +Washfoots. + +He was an old man, thin and poorly dressed in baggy garments which +carried the odor of horses and were covered with horse hairs. He loved +horses, lived with them and for them and by them. In those days he +emerged from his hibernation on the Tennessee farm when racing started +at New Orleans and moved northward to Memphis, Louisville, Cincinnati, +St. Louis, and Chicago, and in the fall he retraced the route and +disappeared. He usually could be found working with some horse and +humming an old hymn, and occasionally, when forgetful, he sang hymns +aloud while brushing the horses. + +He was honest, which fact set him apart from the majority of the +persons who follow horse-racing. According to the unwritten law of the +turf, it was all right for a millionaire to race horses for sport and +the purses, but a poor man was expected to do the best he could, dodge +the feed man’s bill when possible, get a shade the best of the odds, +keep under cover the fact that one of his horses was fit for a race +until the odds were right, and, if possible, sell one or two colts to +the wealthy owners at a fancy price to even the losses on the season. + +Hardshell Gaines violated all these rules. He was poor. He bred and +raced horses because he loved them and loved the sport. He wagered two +dollars on each horse he entered in a race, never more or less. He +depended upon winning purses to meet expenses, and he refused to sell +his best colts at any price. Each year he emerged from Tennessee with +three or four fair selling-platers, a string of two-year-olds from +which he hoped to develop a champion, and Sword of Gideon, better known +as Swored at Gideon, his alleged stake horse and the pride of the Big +Bend stables. + +Some of the race followers believed Hardshell to be rich. The +suspicious ones (and suspicion has its breeding place on race-tracks) +thought the old man laid big bets through secret agents whenever he was +ready to win a race. When, at not too frequent intervals, one of his +horses won, the wise ones nodded and whispered that old Hardshell had +made another killing. Others of us who knew how many of the purses +offered in selling races must be won to feed, care for, and transport +eighteen or twenty horses, estimated his financial rating more closely. +I knew there were times when second or third money in cheap races was +welcome to help pay feed bills and jockey fees, and that in several +lean times colts had disappeared from the Big Bend stables, having been +sold secretly at low prices. + +No one ever heard Hardshell complain. His health was always “tol’able,” +his horses were always “tol’able fast,” his luck was “tol’able,” and +after replying thus to inquiries he hummed a hymn and went away. He +never was with the crowd of owners and bookmakers around hotels or +restaurants, but lived in the stables; and when little Pete, the +diminutive negro jockey, rode out of the paddock, Hardshell, a timothy +straw in his mouth and trousers laced into the tops of disreputable +boots, sauntered into the betting ring, went to the stand of a +bookmaker who had been his friend for years, wagered two dollars that +his horse would win, and, without looking to see what the odds were, +went down to the rail to root for his horse. + +Few knew that Hardshell cherished either an ambition or an enmity--but +he did. His ambition was to breed and train a champion colt, and the +object of his hatred was Big Jim Long, gambler, bookmaker, sure thing +man, and the head of the Long Investment Company--and the ambition and +the hatred were associated. + +Long was the Long Investment Company so far as advertising and general +knowledge went, but the real head sat at a desk in a suite of offices +in the lower Broadway district in New York, and, so far as anyone +knew, never had been near a race-track. Not even his name was to be +found in connection with the Long Investment Company. All letters, +remittances, and transfers from branch offices were addressed to James +Long, but the man who opened them was Thomas J. Kirtin, whose business, +according to the modest lettering on the door of the back room, which +opened upon an entirely different corridor from that upon which the +Long Investment Company fronted, was “Investments.” + +Kirtin’s brain had evolved the idea of applying the all Tontine game +to betting upon horse-races, and he had organized the Long Investment +Company. In addition to the promise of certain dividends, the company +added the appeal to the gambling instinct in human beings. It claimed +that the reason persons who bet upon horse-races fail to beat the +bookmakers is that the bookmakers have the preponderance of capital. +The small bettor could not withstand a run of losses and the gamblers +could. It proposed to turn the tables: all bettors were to pool their +capital with the Long Investment Company, which, with its elaborate +system of doping horse-races, its exclusive sources of information +from owners and jockeys who were “interested,” and its perfect system +of laying bets which would assure investors of the best odds on each +race, would beat the game. Further, it was not as if a bettor wagered +all on one race; the company would bet on three, four, possibly six, +races a day on different tracks, betting only on inside information, +and the winnings would be pooled and divided. One hundred per cent was +guaranteed, and more if the winnings were larger. + +The public had shied at the proposition at first. Then those who had +been lured by golden promises commenced to draw ten, fifteen, even +twenty-five, per cent a month on their investments. On one occasion a +“dividend” of seventy per cent was declared. The first investors had +their money back and still were credited with the original investment. +The news was received with incredulity, but as more and greater +dividends were declared hundreds and then thousands had flocked to +invest. Branch offices of the company, lavishly furnished and equipped +with telegraph and telephone communications with all tracks, were +established in a score of cities. Money poured into the Long Investment +Company by tens of thousands, then almost by millions. Each month +the “investors” received astonishing dividends. Some perhaps knew or +suspected that the dividends were being paid out of the fresh capital, +but, being gamblers, they threw their money into the gamble, betting +that they would draw out their principal and more before the bubble +burst. + +In New York, Kirtin waited, watching the expansion of the bubble and +timing almost to the hour when the crash must come. In his safe nearly +fifty per cent of the money received, changed into bills of large +denominations, was packed in cases, and in his desk were reservations +of staterooms on every vessel departing for Europe in the next +fortnight. The bubble had endured longer than he expected. There was +more than a million dollars packed in the cases, and more than that +amount already had been transferred and deposited in various European +banks. He hesitated, undecided as to whether to risk another week of +delay--and decided that the time had come to reap the last harvest and +permit the gleanings to remain. + +On the race-tracks Big Jim Long swaggered and continued his rôle +as head of the company spending thousands and talking millions. He +was a huge man, with a huge laugh, a round, ruddy face pink from +much massage. He wore clothing of striking cut and colors, and his +diamonds dazzled the eyes of jockeys and touts. He maintained an air +of condescending familiarity with some and patronizing good fellowship +with others, and he treated money as dross. Judges, stewards, and club +officials watched Long closely and with some disappointment. Rumors +that he had bribed jockeys, had influenced owners, that he had fixed +races and engineered great killings, were whispered around the tracks, +yet the officials could not discover any evidences of his guilt. Big +Jim made no denials of the whispered accusations, but blatantly defied +the officials to “get anything on him.” Moreover, the bookmakers, who +watched his movements even more closely than the racing officials did, +knew that he never had bet any large sums at the track, and Big Jim +had sarcastically inquired if they thought him a fool to make bets for +the company at the tracks, where the odds were made, when the company +system was to scatter the bets over a score of cities and get better +odds. Such bets as he made at the tracks were for his own account, and +generally he lost, so that the small bettors who spied upon him, hoping +to learn which horses the company were backing, suspected that he bet +to blind them to the real identity of the horses the “killings” were +made on. They believed that the Long Investment Company was winning +vast sums. As a matter of fact, the Long Investment Company did not bet +at all. Kirtin did not believe in gambling. Yet, oddly enough, Big Jim +Long believed firmly and unshakably that, if he had complete control of +the finances of the company, he could beat the races. He was convinced +that with the capital of the Long Investment Company he could corrupt +enough jockeys and owners to pay dividends legitimately and make a +fortune for himself. Long would have been an easy victim of the game +which he was helping perpetrate upon the public. Kirtin had no such +illusions. Long had once argued the point with Kirtin in the privacy +of the back room in New York, and Kirtin had called him a fool, with +variations, prefix and addenda. And, as Kirtin sent him five thousand +dollars a week with which to keep up the front of the Long Investment +Company, Long had not pressed the point. Neither had he been convinced. + +It was against Big Jim Long that Hardshell Gaines cherished the one +hatred of his life. It had started when Long sought to amuse himself +and his friends by ridiculing Gaines and his stable. He had joked at +the old man’s clothes, at his stable, his colors, and his jockey--and +then had made the fatal blunder of ridiculing Sword of Gideon, calling +him a “hound.” + +Perhaps nothing else would have aroused vengeful hate in the bosom +of Hardshell, but to speak scornfully of Sword of Gideon was the +unbearable insult. The Sword was Hardshell’s weakness, the consummation +of his life’s ambition gone wrong. It was as if he had reared a +strong, handsome son and seen him crippled and then laughed at. + +Hardshell had bred and reared the colt and named him, as he did all his +other colts, from the Bible. As a two-year-old, racing against the best +of the baby thoroughbreds of the West, the Sword had shown stamina, +gameness, a racing instinct, and a dazzling burst of speed. He was +royally sired, and even the millionaire owners agreed that Hardshell +had at last produced a great colt. In mid-season he was rated as one of +the two best two-year-olds of the year, and offers of large sums were +made for him. He was eligible to race in all the big three-year-old +stake races the next season, and Hardshell had refused to listen to any +offer or set any price. He had set out to develop a champion racer down +there on the little farm in the Big Bend of the Tennessee, a champion +which would outrun and outgame the best of the country and win the +American derby--then the greatest of all turf prizes. + +Late in August the thing happened. The colt was at the starting post in +a six-furlong dash on the Hawthorne track when the barrier, a band of +elastic, was broken by the lunging of another colt. The elastic band +struck Sword of Gideon in the eye and maddened him with fright and +pain. The accident seemed trivial, but the effect was the destruction +of Hardshell’s life dream. Never thereafter would Sword of Gideon +face the barrier without a fight. The memory of the stinging agony of +that flying elastic was not to be effaced. A dozen times exasperated +starters ordered him out of races and sent him back for further +schooling at the barrier. Schooling was useless. He refused to face the +thing which had hurt him. The only way in which he could be handled at +the start of a race was for the jockey to turn his head away from the +barrier, wait until the other horses started, then throw him around +and send him after the flying field. Occasionally when the jockey +swung him at the right second he had a chance to win. The majority of +times he was handicapped five or six lengths on every start, and not +infrequently when he heard the swish of the barrier he bolted the wrong +way of the track. Look in the guide and after his name in many races +you will find the brief record of a tragedy in the words, “Left at +post.” + +The champion was ruined. But in the heart of Hardshell Gaines Sword +of Gideon still was the champion. He worked over him as tenderly as a +mother over a crippled child, and for him he sang his favorite hymns, +as if striving to comfort the horse when he had behaved badly at the +post. The newspapers, on account of his bad acting at the start, wrote +of him as “Swored at Gideon.” + +Big Jim Long had called the Sword a “hound,” and thereafter Hardshell +never spoke to him but passed him unseeing. At the bar one day Big +Jim had noisily invited everyone to drink with him, and Hardshell had +thrown away his beer and spat before walking away--and the open insult +stung even Big Jim Long. + +All this was three years prior to the day when the affairs of the Long +Investment Company reached their climax. In his New York offices, +Kirtin realized that the finish was at hand. The bags filled with +money had been removed from the safe in the luxurious offices of the +Long Investment Company, carried through the door connecting them with +the little office of Thos. J. Kirtin, Investments, and the door locked +on both sides. Then Kirtin did the one decent thing of his career. He +sent a code telegram to Long and to every agent of the company over the +ganglia of leased wires, warning them that the jig was up and it was +time to disappear. + +Probably it was not until he read that message that Big Jim Long +understood the full significance of the situation. He never had stopped +to ask himself why Kirtin had bestowed rank and titles upon him, why +he had elected him president, and why all the ornate stationery and +the many messages bore his name, or even why he had been paid five +thousand dollars a week. Perhaps he thought he earned it by virtue +of his influence among racing people. He understood now that he, Jim +Long, would be held accountable to the law, that he would be fugitive +or prisoner while Kirtin, with the millions of dollars looted from the +public, could not be connected with the swindle and would be safe in +Europe. + +He cursed Kirtin, and, strangely, not because Kirtin was a thief and +worse. He cursed him because he considered Kirtin a fool. Had Kirtin +followed his plan and advice, the scheme would have worked. With that +almost unlimited capital behind him he could have fixed enough races +and won enough money to pay the dividends. + +Long knew that within a day or two, three at the longest, the +authorities would descend upon the company offices. With a sudden +determination, Long sent a code order to every agent of the company to +ignore Kirtin’s message and prepare for a killing. + +Let Kirtin go his cowardly way. He, Big Jim Long, would face the +situation, pay the dividends, and handle the big money himself. He +knew that at least a half million dollars remained in the hands of +the agents of the company in different cities--the gleanings which +Kirtin had not considered worth the risk to remain and collect. Long +telegraphed, ordering the agents to hold all funds subject to his order +instead of forwarding them to New York. + +Kirtin, busy clearing the desk in his office and destroying the last +papers that would reveal any connection between Kirtin, Investments, +and the Long Investment Company, heard the news and shrugged his +shoulders. He had tried to save the fools, and if they refused to be +saved it was none of his affair. An hour later he and his suitcases +were in the stateroom of a liner. + +At the Fair Grounds track in St. Louis, Big Jim Long set to work +hastily to stave off disaster and revive the investment company. He +had considered telegraphing the authorities to hold Kirtin, but had +rejected the plan as unbecoming one in his profession. Long’s plan +of procedure was simple and direct. He would fix a race, pay the +horse owners well, and win enough money to declare another dividend, +restoring the faith of the investors, who already had begun to show +signs of uneasiness as rumors spread. It was not a problem of morals +but of mathematics. + +The chief obstacle to his plan was lack of time, and he knew he must +act rapidly. Already the rumors that the Long Investment Company was +in trouble had spread through the uneasy ranks of the gamblers, and +Long knew the first one who informed a district attorney of the affairs +of the company would bring the avalanche. By rapid work he completed +his preliminary plans during the races that afternoon. An overnight +handicap was carded for the next day’s races, and Long selected eight +owners whose morals he knew were below the par even of racing and each +agreed to enter a horse in the race. The chief problem was to prevent +other owners from naming their horses to start, and to avoid this one +owner agreed to enter Attorney Jackson, a high-class racer, to frighten +owners of slower horses out. + +That evening a caucus was held. Besides Long, eight owners were +present. It was agreed that with Attorney Jackson the favorite, the +odds against Mildred Rogers would be at least fifteen to one, therefore +by simple arithmetic Mildred Rogers should win, because fifteen times +one is fifteen, whereas two times one is two. Long intended to bet the +remnants of the capital of the investment company, and, figuring the +price would recede from fifteen or twenty to one to ten to one before +the money was placed, he estimated that he would win close to five +million dollars. Not a cent was to be wagered at the track. + +The caucus, after nominating Mildred Rogers to win, decided that +Attorney Jackson was to make the early running, cutting out a terrific +pace to the head of the stretch, while Betty M. and Pretty Dehon were +to come up fast, crowd the leader far outside on the turn, allowing +Mildred Rogers to come through along the rail, after which the entire +field was to bunch behind her and shoo her home a winner, while +Attorney Jackson pulled up as if lame. + +The rehearsal was progressing satisfactorily and each owner was +receiving instructions as to the way his horse should run. The caucus +was pleased. Long had agreed that he would bet at least four hundred +thousand dollars, and that he would give twenty-five per cent of the +total winnings to the owners. The eight who were playing deuces wild in +the sport of kings were calculating that they would divide at least a +million dollars among themselves when the disquieting news arrived. + +“What the hell do you think of that?” Sorgan, owner of Patsy Frewen, +demanded. “Old Hardshell Gaines has entered old Swored at Gideon.” + +There were a chorus of curses. + +“That hound of his ain’t got a chanst,” declared Kinsley. “It’s ten to +one he runs the wrong way of the track.” + +“He’s the worst actor at the post on the circuit,” said Stanley. + +“He’s liable to bust up the start.” + +“Better pick one of our horses to bump him and put him over a fence,” +snarled McGuire. “He ain’t got any business in this. He knows Attorney +Jackson can beat him.” + +It was a testimonial to his reputation for honesty that not one +of the assembled crooks even suggested asking Gaines to enter the +conspiracy. They cursed him for an interfering old fool, they cursed +his stubbornness, they cursed his idiocy in still insisting that Sword +of Gideon was a stake horse, they cursed his supposed parsimony and +believed he had entered his aged racer in the hope of winning a few +dollars by getting the place or show money. Not one suspected that +anything excepting blind chance had caused him to enter his horse in +the race. + +They were wrong. Hardshell Gaines, with an unsullied record of fifty +years on the turf, had heard something. He had seen Long in conference +with some owners, and when the same owners rushed to enter their horses +in the overnight handicap Gaines’ suspicion had become certainty. He +had entered Sword of Gideon in the handicap, and for an hour afterward +had rubbed and stroked the old campaigner, and as he rolled bandages +around the bad leg of the old horse and applied liniment to his throat, +he had hummed a hymn. + +Occasionally his voice rose in song and he sang of the time when “the +wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.” It was after +dark when he entered the Laclede downtown and sought out the assistant +starter. + +“Joe,” he said solemnly, “I have been in this game, man an’ boy, clost +to fifty year and tried to run straight and do right as a hossman and a +Baptist. No man can say James Buchanan Gaines owes him a cent or ever +done a dishonest thing. I’ve done had a wrastle with my conscience, and +consarn me if I believe it’s wrong to skin a skunk!” + +Joe nodded approval. + +“There’s something doing, Joe,” said Hardshell. “Eight of them owners +and that slick crook Jim Long is holdin’ a caucus. Nary a word to old +Hardshell, and the Sword is entered.” + +Joe nodded understandingly. + +“Lissen, Joe,” said Hardshell, lowering his voice. “Long is planning a +big killing, and it’s up to me and the Sword and you to stop him. The +Sword is good for once, if that nigh left leg don’t overheat. He can +beat any hoss in that race, ’ceptin’ Attorney Jackson, and I reckon +they ain’t plannin’ to have no favorite win.” + +Joe nodded again and reserved speech, waiting for the proposition. + +“I ain’t asking no man to do anything dishonest, Joe,” the old man went +on--“it’s agin my religion and my conscience too--but something’s _got_ +to be done.” + +Hardshell waited expectantly and hummed “When temptation sore assails +me,” hoping that Joe would indicate his attitude or show receptivity, +but the assistant starter nodded and smoked in silence. + +“’Tain’t as if I was trying to bribe anyone,” Hardshell explained +painfully. “I don’t want no one to do anything that is agin his +conscience.” + +“What do you want me to do?” Joe asked, breaking his silence. + +“All I ask is that you help the Sword get off straight, and me and you +and the Sword’ll spile the crookedest plan ever hatched.” + +“Ain’t any law against my helping a bad actor get off right,” said Joe. + +Hardshell said no more. He gripped Joe’s hand hard, and, after buying +him a cigar, strolled away, humming “Come, Holy Spirit, Heavenly Love, +with all thy quickening powers.” + +There was an air of uneasiness hanging over the betting ring at the +Fair Grounds track as the horses hand-galloped to the starting post in +the fourth race. The air was surcharged with expectancy. Judges, always +alert and watching for signs of dishonesty, stared at the horses and +received frequent bulletins from the betting ring. Bookmakers, fearful +of a sudden attack by betting commissioners backing a certain horse, +held their chalk and erasers ready for rapid use. Bettors, hearing +vague whispers of “something doing,” asked each other excitedly what +was being played. Yet everything in the betting ring, paddock, and +stand seemed tranquil. The betting was light. Attorney Jackson was +favorite at seven to five, Patsy Frewen the second choice, at two to +one, the others at odds of from four to twenty, with Mildred Rogers +ranging from fifteen to twenty to one and only a few scattered bets +registered on her. Yet from a score of cities all over America came +frantic telegrams to gamblers, bookies, and owners, asking for track +odds and inquiring the meaning of the terrific plunging on Mildred +Rogers. Big Jim Long, using the efficient organization of the company, +was betting the remaining funds of the concern. More than fifty +thousand was bet in Chicago, thirty thousand in Louisville, twenty +thousand in Cincinnati, then twelve thousand or more in other cities in +which the Long Investment Company had offices. + +There was a last minute plunge on Mildred Rogers at St. Louis by +gamblers who had heard the news from outside, and the odds dropped +quickly from fifteen to four to one. + +As he tightened the girth for the last time, Hardshell Gaines +whispered to Pete, his jockey: + +“Take a toe holt and a tooth holt, Pete. Joe’ll git you off a-runnin’, +and I got a pill in him that’d blow up a bank. It’s timed to go off +about the half-mile if you ain’t too long at the post. All you got to +do is sit still and hold on.” + +Humming, he went to the book of his friend and wagered two dollars that +Sword of Gideon would win. He was still humming when he went down to +the rail to watch the horses start, and the hymn he hummed was, “Oh, +for a thousand tongues to sing my great Redeemer’s praise.” + +Out by the barrier a perspiring starter was beseeching, swearing, +threatening, and scolding, while a row of horses milled and maneuvered +for position. In the midst of the mêlée of milling horses, Joe, the +assistant starter, a buggy whip in one hand, sweated and swore as he +appeared to be striving to make Sword of Gideon line up with the other +horses. Out of the corner of his eye Joe watched the starter for the +telltale movement which revealed the second that the starter would +spring the barrier. + +When that movement came Joe held the bridle bit of Sword of Gideon, and +before the barrier flashed he threw the horse’s head around, leaped +aside, and slashed him sharply across the quarters with the whip. + +Sword of Gideon, stung into forgetfulness of fear, leaped forward. The +barrier flashed past his nose and he leaped into full stride, two full +lengths in the lead of the field before the others were under way. + +Big Jim Long, his florid face mottled, hurled his chewed cigar against +the ground and swore viciously. Sword of Gideon, running like a wild +horse, opened up a gap of eight lengths between himself and the nearest +pursuer in the first eighth of a mile. In vain Attorney Jackson’s +jockey, remembering his instructions, spurred and urged his mount, +striving to catch the flying leader and set the pace. At the half +Attorney Jackson dropped back, beaten and out of it. Mildred Rogers’ +rider, seeing the conspiracy going wrong, made a desperate effort to +overtake the flying Sword. The nitroglycerine pellet had acted and the +aged horse was running as he had run when he seemed destined to be +champion. Length by length he increased his lead over the staggering, +wabbling field, and tore down the stretch fifteen lengths ahead of +Patsy Frewen. + +Big Jim Long, his heavy jaws sagging, his face mottled red and white, +his big, soft hands clenched, watched until the horses were within +a few yards of the finish. Then he turned and walked rapidly across +through the edge of the betting ring toward the exit. At the back of +the betting ring he met Hardshell Gaines moving toward the paddock to +greet the victorious Sword of Gideon. Big Jim’s pent up wrath exploded. + +“You--and your blank blanked spavined hound!” he raged. “You blanked +old fool, if it hadn’t been for you--” + +Hardshell Gaines looked straight ahead, unseeing, unhearing, and as he +walked past the furious gambler he hummed contentedly; and even Big Jim +recognized the long metre doxology. + + + + +“JAUNDICE’S” LAST RACE + + + + +“JAUNDICE’S” LAST RACE + + +There remains some of the Christ-spirit in the worst of us, perhaps, +but the most optimistic of missionaries would hardly have assayed +the soul of “Jaundice” O’Keefe with the hope of discovering even a +trace of that quality. Jaundice was a product, or by-product, of the +race-track. He had run away from his home in St. Louis at the age of +eleven, to escape the beatings administered by a drinking father and a +sodden mother, and had found refuge in a freight car loaded with horses +which were being shipped to a race-meeting in New Orleans. Two hostlers +were drinking from a bottle when not sleeping on a pile of hay. They +welcomed the boy, gave him a drink, fed him, and allowed him to burrow +into the hay for warmth. Perhaps it was kindness, perhaps they saw in +him a means of escaping the work of feeding and watering horses during +the long journey. + +Jaundice was happy. He loved horses. Perhaps that was the remaining +trace of good after the rest had been bred or beaten out of him. He +had loved the horses which drew the coal wagon his father drove when +sober, and the sight of the trim thoroughbreds filled him with awed +admiration. Arrived in New Orleans, he followed the horses to the +race-track, found refuge in the stables, and was adopted into the army +of those who follow the races. A year later he had acquired a master’s +degree in profanity and obscenity and developed a ratlike viciousness +in fighting when cornered. He was undersized and undernourished, with +the remnants of a fighting spirit from generations of Irish sustaining +him. Stable-boys learned to fear the savageness of his methods and left +him alone. Occasionally a trainer or stable boss beat him with a whip +and cursed him. + +Instinctively horses loved him. In one year he was an exercise boy. At +fourteen, with all the wickedness and viciousness of the race-track and +stable concentrated in him, he could ride and was awarded a jockey’s +license and a suit of gay-colored silks. + +He rode winners. Winning, with Jaundice, was unselfish. He rode not for +personal glory or for money, but for the honor of the horse on which he +was mounted. When he was beaten he gulped dry sobs and went away with +his mount to console it. + +For four years he rode races on the flat, at tracks all over America. +During these four years he made as much money as the average man makes +in a lifetime, and at the end of it had nothing. To him money meant +only expensive meals, clothes remarkable for colors and patterns, +wine, women of a sort, and large yellow diamonds. At eighteen he was +an old man. His face was yellow and drawn; he had ceased to be “Kid” +O’Keefe and become “Jaundice.” He was gaining weight and beginning to +pay the penalty of the carouses which followed each temporary period +of prosperity. For a year he fought to hold his standing. His mounts +became fewer and fewer. When the owners ceased to employ him to ride on +the flat, he became a steeplechase jockey. + +Riding steeplechasers in races means in the majority of cases moral and +physical suicide. Jaundice had no fear of physical consequence, nor +any conception of morality. With two drinks of whisky poured into his +outraged body, he would have tried to make his mount jump the Grand +Cañon, had the course led in that direction. Falls and broken bones +failed to break his nerve, but his subconscious honesty was shattered. +On the flat he never had ridden a crooked race. He was restrained by +no consciousness of right or wrong. He tried always to win because +he loved the horses he rode. Over the jumps he had no such scruples. +The steeplechase horses were “has-beens” like himself and entitled to +no consideration. He commenced to ride queer-looking races. He was +nineteen when he fell off the favorite in a steeplechase race to permit +an outsider to win and the stewards ruled him off the tracks for one +year. + +What Jaundice did in that year of banishment he alone knew in detail. +Barred from the only home and the only associates he had ever known, +the great loneliness came upon him. He was broke. He stole and was sent +to prison. When the suspension was lifted he went back to the tracks. +He had grown heavier and his eyes and his mind were blurred by drink. +He lived with the horses, attaching himself to the stable for which he +had been a star jockey, and lived in the stalls and the cars. His love +of the animals themselves had waned. Drudgery and vicious living had +warped even that instinct. When he dared he became a tout, whispering +information to petty gamblers at the edge of the betting ring. When +he left the tracks at night it was to betray stable information to +bartenders in return for drinks. + +When he was twenty-two there remained two loves by which it was proved +that all good can not be smelted out of a human being. One was for Doc +Grausman, the gallant bay stake horse of the stable, whose dam he had +ridden to victory many times. The other was for Lord James. + +On race-tracks there is something in a name. Jaundice received his +because his complexion had become a dirty yellow. Lord James was +so called because the one spark of decency remaining in him caused +him to conceal his family name. It was reputed that he was the son +of an English nobleman and that he could have a title and estate if +he returned to England. Rags of an old pride and remnants of decent +breeding restrained Lord James from mentioning the family name as his +own or from returning home to disgrace them. He had come to America, +a younger son, with a stable of race-horses and high hopes. Robbed, +fleeced, he had “quit.” Jaundice can not be spoken of as having +degenerated. His original height permitted but a slight fall. But Lord +James had sunk to even lower levels. He was a cadger, a tout, and a +sneak-thief at such times when no risk was involved. + +No one around the tracks hated either Lord James or Jaundice. They +pitied Jaundice, but the touts themselves despised Lord James. He had +lost all his courage, if he ever possessed any, and drink had sapped +his health and his brain. Of the trio, only Doc Grausman bore his name +honestly. His names were those of his sire and his granddam, and he was +of royal blood and three years old. + +When Lord James and Jaundice had become friends no one knew. Probably +it was during Jaundice’s career as a winning jockey, while he scattered +money recklessly after every winning race. Upon such boys Lord James +had preyed for years. These two had nothing in common. Race, religion, +birth, breeding, and education made them different, but they met in the +thick scum of vice and became inseparable. For Lord James, Jaundice +stole and betrayed stable secrets, pulled race-horses, bought drinks, +and furnished food and lodging. It is not recorded that Lord James ever +did anything for Jaundice. + +These two sank lower and lower together. When the majority of the +race-tracks of the country were closed, they disappeared from the +world of sport, starved, and served prison terms together. When racing +reopened, they reappeared. Jaundice had developed a cough. His wasted +body revealed the ravages of tuberculosis. Lord James was wearing, with +a pitiful effort to maintain an air of decency, a suit purchased with +his last remittance money two years before. + +The horses were racing at Jamaica and the weather was raw and rainy. +They experienced difficulty in gaining an entry to the track and were +compelled to remain outside, shivering and wet, until the day’s sport +ended. Then a negro stable-boy allowed them to sleep with him in a +stall, and Jaundice procured food from the camp-fires, where no one +ever is refused. + +Lord James did not get up the next morning. He had crawled into the hay +with wet clothing and in the morning he had a fever. Jaundice brought +him food, but he did not eat. All day he remained huddled in the hay, +covered with horse blankets, his face turned to the board wall. He was +thinking and his mind was Gethsemane. + +During the night Lord James touched Jaundice with his hand and waked +him. Very quietly and with a return of long-forgotten dignity, he +entrusted to Jaundice an envelope upon which was written an address in +England, charging him to mail it and allow no one to see it. He asked +Jaundice to see the boys and ask them to bury him decently. Then he +gripped Jaundice’s hand and died gamely, sustained by the traditions of +his race and class. Jaundice alone wept. It was the first time in many +years he had wept, and he was ashamed of his tears. + +Around the race-track no man connected with the game dies and lacks a +decent funeral, but there was scant sympathy for Lord James. The hat +was passed, bookmakers, jockeys, trainers, owners, grafters, even the +pickpockets, contributing, but their contributions were small. The +whole amounted to eighty dollars. Jaundice was not satisfied. Had he +been satisfied, there would have been no story to tell. + +On the day following the horses moved to Belmont Park to open the +racing season on that track, and Doc Grausman was entered to start in +a high-weight handicap. Doc Grausman belonged to a wealthy man whose +colors Jaundice had often carried to victory. This owner had not +entered the horse in the handicap with any expectation of winning. The +colt needed work, and he wanted to see how well the three-year-old +could carry weight racing against all aged horses. + +Jaundice had not slept. His clothing still was damp and he was +coughing. For the time his abiding love for Doc Grausman was put in the +background while he went from man to man begging money to give Lord +James what he considered a proper and fitting funeral. The undertaker +wanted one hundred and fifty dollars. Jaundice was determined to raise +the sum before the afternoon’s sport ended. + +Shortly before the bugle sounded, calling the horses from the paddock +for the first race, a fractious colt lashed out with his feet and +kicked the jockey who had been employed to ride Doc Grausman in the +fourth. Jaundice heard of the accident within a few minutes. It was he +who hurried to the club-house and informed the owner. + +“Thanks, Jaundice,” the owner said carelessly. “I wanted the colt to +have the workout. Now, I suppose I’ll have to scratch him. I don’t want +to put a strange boy up.” + +“Mister Phil,” said Jaundice, inspired with a sudden idea, “let me ride +Doc Grausman. I’m down to weight, Mister Phil. I only weigh a hundred +and twenty-eight now. Let me ride him, Mister Phil, and I’ll win.” + +His voice was pleading, his eyes and manner appealing, and he coughed +harder. The owner was surprised and laughed slightly. “I’m afraid it +can not be fixed, Jaundice,” he said lightly. “How do you stand with +the stewards?” + +“I’m clean with them now, Mister Phil. They ain’t got nothin’ on me. +They never could prove I pulled Lady Rose. I’m down to weight, Mister +Phil, and that Doc Grausman horse likes me.” + +His eagerness and the truth of the final statement decided the matter. + +“I’ll see the stewards and explain,” said the owner. “He’s only in +for the workout, and perhaps they’ll stand for it. Sure you’re strong +enough to handle the colt?” + +The owner had observed the cough, and Jaundice checked it with an +effort. + +“Yes, Mister Phil, I’m all right. Just caught a cold. Get this mount +for me, Mister Phil. I’ve got to plant Lord James decent.” + +“That old bum dead at last?” + +“Yes, sir. I’ve got to get a hundred and fifty to plant him, and the +boys ain’t kicking in fast. Let me ride this Doc Grausman hoss and I’ll +plant Lord James swell, like his family would want him.” + +The owner passed over a twenty-dollar banknote. What he told the track +officials no one knows, but when the fourth race was called, Jaundice, +carefully hiding his cough, rode forth for the first time in four years +wearing the colors of his old stable. + +The bookmakers were laying thirty to one against Doc Grausman, and a +wit in the ring said it was ten to one the colt, twenty to one the boy. +What was not known was that Jaundice had taken the money that had been +contributed to bury Lord James and wagered it three ways, straight, +place, and show, on Doc Grausman. A new generation of jockeys faced +the start, a generation that knew nothing of the skill of the boy who +had ridden champions. The new boys, with the contempt that youth holds +for the “has-been,” jeered at Jaundice, and hurled insulting epithets +at him as they wheeled and maneuvered for the advantage of the break. +Jaundice did not retort with oaths and vilifications as he would have +done in other days. He was afraid he would start to cough. + +The barrier flashed. Jaundice had been holding Doc Grausman steady +during the milling of the others. Out of the corner of the eye he had +caught the betraying arm movement of the starter an instant before the +barrier flashed upward, had shot Doc Grausman at the starting line +just the instant it flickered past his nose, had beaten the start a +length and a half while the others were taking the first jump and sent +him roaring down the long straight-away for four and a half furlongs. +Riding him out desperately at the end, he held the lead by half a +length over the favorite. + +As the horses paraded back past the stands, he held his lips tightly +pressed together. He staggered a little as he weighed out, and in the +paddock his lips were reddened. The strain of the ride had opened the +old wounds in his lungs. + +An hour later he ordered the undertaker to give Lord James the best +funeral he could for one thousand two hundred dollars and paid over the +money. There remained for his share of the victory just twenty-seven +dollars. + +The news spread around the track that evening that Jaundice was to +give Lord James a “swell funeral.” Curiosity was aroused. Touts, +stable-boys, bookmakers’ helpers, a few jockeys, attended. It +happened that Jaundice came to me to consult as to the minister, and +I had secured the services of a wonderful little rector who is much +interested in all human beings. + +The funeral was the strangest one I ever attended. The little minister +was doing his best to comfort the mourners, but plainly was at a +disadvantage because Jaundice was the only mourner. Jaundice, through +some instinctive sense of respect for the dead, was standing very +awkwardly and tears were rolling down his cheeks. He was weeping for +the second time in his life. Finally the little rector read from the +service: “He is not dead, but sleeping.” + +Jaundice started, then stared, reached instinctively for his pocket, +and sobbed in a whisper: “Ten dollars will win you twenty-seven if you +think old Lord James is only sleeping.” + +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. + +“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. + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75271 *** |