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diff --git a/75271-h/75271-h.htm b/75271-h/75271-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7f3c80b --- /dev/null +++ b/75271-h/75271-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2508 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + Tales of the turf | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2 { + text-align: center; + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} +@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +.pagenum { + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-indent: 0; +} + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 17.5%; + margin-right: 17.5%; +} + +.x-ebookmaker .blockquot { + margin-left: 7.5%; + margin-right: 7.5%; +} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.right {text-align: right;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.ph1 {text-align: center; font-size: large; font-weight: bold;} +.ph3 {text-align: center; font-size: x-large; font-weight: bold;} + +div.titlepage {text-align: center; page-break-before: always; page-break-after: always;} +div.titlepage p {text-align: center; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: 2em;} + +.antiqua { + font-family: Blackletter, Fraktur, Textur, "Old English Text MT", "Olde English Mt", "Olde English", "Old English", "Engravers Old English BT", + "Collins Old English", "New Old English", Gothic, serif, sans-serif;} + +.large {font-size: 125%;} + +.x-ebookmaker .hide {display: none; visibility: hidden;} + +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; +} + +p.drop-cap { + text-indent: -0.35em; +} +p.drop-cap2 { + text-indent: -0.75em; +} +p.drop-cap:first-letter, p.drop-cap2:first-letter +{ + float: left; + margin: 0em 0.15em 0em 0em; + font-size: 250%; + line-height:0.85em; + text-indent: 0em; +} +.x-ebookmaker p.drop-cap, .x-ebookmaker p.drop-cap2 { + text-indent: 0em; +} +.x-ebookmaker p.drop-cap:first-letter, .x-ebookmaker p.drop-cap2:first-letter +{ + float: none; + margin: 0; + font-size: 100%; +} + +.poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} +.poetry-container {text-align: center;} +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} +.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} +.poetry .verse {text-indent: -2.5em; padding-left: 3em;} +.poetry .verseright { text-align: right;} + +.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:smaller; + margin-left: 17.5%; + margin-right: 17.5%; + padding: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; } + + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75271 ***</div> + +<div class="figcenter hide"><img src="images/coversmall.jpg" width="450" alt=""></div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_title.jpg" alt="title page"></div> +</div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="titlepage"> +<h1>TALES<br> +<small>OF THE</small><br> +TURF</h1> + +<p><i>By</i><br> +<span class="large">HUGH S. FULLERTON</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_titledeco.jpg" alt=""></div> + +<p><span class="large">A. R. DE BEER</span><br> +PUBLISHER<br> +New York City</p> +</div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="center">Copyright, 1922<br> +by<br> +A. R. DE BEER<br> +<br> +<i>All Rights Reserved</i></p> +</div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak">FOREWORD</h2> +</div> + +<p class="drop-cap">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.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak">AUTHOR’S PREFACE</h2> +</div> + + +<p class="drop-cap2">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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p class="right"><span class="smcap">The Author</span></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<div class="blockquot"> +<p class="ph1"><span class="antiqua">To Morvich</span></p> + + +<p class="center"><i>SON OF<br> +RUNNYMEAD AND HYMIR</i></p> + +<p><i>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.</i></p> + +<p class="right"><i>THE AUTHOR.</i></p> +</div></div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[7]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">“HARDSHELL” GAINES</h2> +</div> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span> +found working with some horse and humming +an old hymn, and occasionally, when forgetful, +he sang hymns aloud while brushing the horses.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span> +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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span> +to risk another week of delay—and decided that +the time had come to reap the last harvest and +permit the gleanings to remain.</p> + +<p>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”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span> +gone wrong. It was as if he had reared a +strong, handsome son and seen him crippled and +then laughed at.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span> +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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Long knew that within a day or two, three at +the longest, the authorities would descend upon<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The chief obstacle to his plan was lack of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“What the hell do you think of that?” Sorgan, +owner of Patsy Frewen, demanded. “Old +Hardshell Gaines has entered old Swored at +Gideon.”</p> + +<p>There were a chorus of curses.</p> + +<p>“That hound of his ain’t got a chanst,” declared +Kinsley. “It’s ten to one he runs the +wrong way of the track.”</p> + +<p>“He’s the worst actor at the post on the circuit,” +said Stanley.</p> + +<p>“He’s liable to bust up the start.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>Joe nodded approval.</p> + +<p>“There’s something doing, Joe,” said Hardshell. +“Eight of them owners and that slick +crook Jim Long is holdin’ a caucus. Nary a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span> +word to old Hardshell, and the Sword is entered.”</p> + +<p>Joe nodded understandingly.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Joe nodded again and reserved speech, waiting +for the proposition.</p> + +<p>“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 +<i>got</i> to be done.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“’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.”</p> + +<p>“What do you want me to do?” Joe asked, +breaking his silence.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Ain’t any law against my helping a bad +actor get off right,” said Joe.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>As he tightened the girth for the last time,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span> +Hardshell Gaines whispered to Pete, his jockey:</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Big Jim Long, his florid face mottled, hurled +his chewed cigar against the ground and swore<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“You—and your blank blanked spavined +hound!” he raged. “You blanked old fool, if it +hadn’t been for you—”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span> + +<p class="ph3">“JAUNDICE’S” LAST<br> +RACE</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span></p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span> +<h2 class="nobreak">“JAUNDICE’S” LAST RACE</h2> +</div> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span> +and he wanted to see how well the three-year-old +could carry weight racing against all aged +horses.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“I’m clean with them now, Mister Phil. They<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span> +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.”</p> + +<p>His eagerness and the truth of the final statement +decided the matter.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>The owner had observed the cough, and Jaundice +checked it with an effort.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“That old bum dead at last?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span> +was glad to see me and inquired how I liked +Lord James’ funeral.</p> + +<p>“Great class to that, Jaundice; best I ever +attended.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“You’re looking better,” I lied. “Be back +on the track pretty soon?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>I strove to explain, without much success.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Everyone has a chance,” I said feebly.</p> + +<p>“Me?” he asked in surprise.</p> + +<p>“Sure; the Book says everyone has who repents.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“The Judges up there know it all.”</p> + +<p>“Know everything? Then, say, what chanst +has a guy got?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span> + +<p class="ph3">TOUTIN’ MISTAH FOX</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span></p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span> +<h2 class="nobreak">TOUTIN’ MISTAH FOX</h2> +</div> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span> +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.</p> + +<p>Slowly a light broke over his face—as sun +striving to shine through thunder clouds.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Visibly affected by a process of triumph of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span> +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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Mistah Prosias Trimble! Mistah Prosias +Trimble!”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Tellygraft foh yoh, niggah,” the page announced +disgustedly, as he tossed the yellow +envelope toward Pro and abandoned all hope +of a tip.</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>“What does he say, Pro?”</p> + +<p>“What who say?” demanded Pro, his lips<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span> +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.</p> + +<p>“What Mist’ Jim Robin say?” responded Mr. +Fox, scowling.</p> + +<p>“How come yoh knows so much?”</p> + +<p>“Reckon Ah doan’ know he promise’ you a +tip?”</p> + +<p>“How come yoh knows?”</p> + +<p>“Reckon yoh didn’t infohm a certain lady +frien’ o’ mine?”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span>“’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.”</p> + +<p>“Dat all right, Mistah Trimble,” said Clarence, +responding to politeness with greater politeness. +“Ah respects yoh sentiments. Reckon +dat a wahm tip?”</p> + +<p>“Ah ’low she ’bout ninety-eight in de shade,” +Pro responded.</p> + +<p>“Ah doan’ ’low dat yoh ’tends to bet enuff +foh to cover all de han’-books in Noo ’Leans?” +Clarence inquired flatteringly.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“Ah ’low dat Ah kin. Yoh ’low dat tip look +good?”</p> + +<p>“Look good?” Pro’s voice quivered with outraged +indignation. “Yoh ’low Mist’ Jim done +tellygraft a niggah lessen it good?”</p> + +<p>“Nevah kin tell,” commented Mr. Fox cynically.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Reckon yoh do the right thing if Ah tell +yoh de name ob de hoss?” he said tentatively.</p> + +<p>“Yoh knows me, Pro. Ah always does de +right thing, doan’ Ah?”</p> + +<p>“Dat yoh repitation, Clarence,” said Pro, +vaguely conscious of the fact that he knew +nothing of Clarence’s reputation.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span>“Always aims to do de right thing, Pro.”</p> + +<p>“Hyah she go, den,” said Pro, with sudden +determination, as he tore open the envelope.</p> + +<p>“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:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Shoot the roll on the filly in the fourth.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verseright">ROBIN.</div> +</div></div></div> + +<p>Mr. Fox wrinkled the end of his broad nose +and looked puzzled.</p> + +<p>“De roll on de filly!” said Prosias, his eyes +rolling.</p> + +<p>“Wha’ hoss he mean?” inquired the less informed +Mr. Fox.</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>“Ivory Gahter—I’m gwine!” exclaimed Mr. +Fox excitedly. “Niggah, yoh play de books +’roun’ hyar. Ah’ll slaughtah dem Rampaht +Street gamblahs.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Ah’s sorry to be ’bliged to notify yoh Ah +resigns,” he announced. “Ah’s called No’th.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Howdy, Clarence?” he exclaimed, under +forced draught. “We suah slip dat one over!”</p> + +<p>“Suah did,” assented Mr. Fox, without enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>“We ’mos’ ruin dis hyah town, Ah reckon,” +observed Pro, inviting information. “Ah suah +clean mah end.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“How come, Clarence?” asked Pro, with a +sudden sinking suspicion. “Didn’ yoh plunge?”</p> + +<p>“Hadn’ no faith a-tall,” asserted Clarence.</p> + +<p>“Didn’ yoh win <i>nothin’</i>?” asked Pro, unbelief, +suspicion, crushed hopes, all concentrated +in his voice.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span>“Yoh win nuffin a-tall?” Pro reiterated, his +voice expressing his ebbing hope.</p> + +<p>“Ah win jes’ twenty dollah,” said Mr. Fox +positively. “Niggah on’y lay me ten to one, +an’ Ah bet on’y two dollah.”</p> + +<p>He hesitated, waiting as if expecting passionate +contradiction, and added:</p> + +<p>“Hyah yoh bit foh de tip.”</p> + +<p>He peeled a five-dollar bill from a huge roll +extracted carelessly from a trousers pocket and +flipped it toward Pro.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Prosias, speechless, pocketed the bill and +turned. At the door he paused.</p> + +<p>“Yas, sah, Clarence,” he said slowly. “Ah +ain’ done fohgit. Ah’ll ’membah yoh, Clarence.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Three days later Clarence Fox, arrayed in a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span> +glory which neither Solomon nor the lilies ever +could have rivaled, descended into the St. +Charles baths.</p> + +<p>“Why, howdy, Pro?” he exclaimed, with well +simulated surprise. “Ah thought yoh done +gone Baltimo’.”</p> + +<p>“Not yit, Clarence, not yit.”</p> + +<p>His cheerful aspect and his failure to express +either anger or sorrow puzzled Clarence.</p> + +<p>“How come?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Frien’ ast me would Ah remain foh a few +days an’ ack ez his bettin’ c’missioner.”</p> + +<p>“Whafoh of a frien’?”</p> + +<p>“Same frien’ ez sen’ me that last tip.”</p> + +<p>Clarence Fox’s manner changed with startling +suddenness. From a patronizing familiarity +and superior condescension, he descended +instantly to solicitous friendship.</p> + +<p>“Hear anythin’?” he inquired.</p> + +<p>“Ain’ ’spectin’ anythin’ foh a day er two.”</p> + +<p>“Gwine tell me when he wiahs yoh, Pro?”</p> + +<p>“Ain’ slippin’ no tips to niggahs da won’ +bet no coin.” Pro’s contempt was impersonal.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Reckon maybe yoh won’ hab no faith dis +hyah time,” Pro remarked disinterestedly. “Ah +sabes mah tips foh gamblahs, not pikahs.”</p> + +<p>The term stung, but Mr. Fox, while writhing +under the insult, chose to pretend dignity and +ignored it.</p> + +<p>“Ah ain’ int’rusted in five-dollah bettahs,” +Pro added, rubbing salt into the hurt.</p> + +<p>“Five dollah?” Mr. Fox exclaimed indignantly.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span> +“Pro, when Ah’s got faith Ah bets five +hundred dollah.”</p> + +<p>“Mebbe so,” Pro commented in unconvinced +accents. “Wha’ dat git me?”</p> + +<p>“Dat,” asserted Mr. Fox, with emphasis, “git +yoh twenty-fibe pussent ob all Ah wins.”</p> + +<p>“Ah ain’ int’rusted,” said Pro, proceeding +about his duties with an air of finality.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Fifty neahrer right,” commented Pro, still +busy.</p> + +<p>“Fifty an’ me takin’ all de chanst? Fohty +am gen’rous.”</p> + +<p>“An’ show me de tickets?” Pro’s tone was +an ultimatum.</p> + +<p>“Doan yoh trus’ me, Pro?” Mr. Fox registered +indignant surprise.</p> + +<p>“Suah Ah trust yoh, Clarence,” said Pro +sulkily. “Didn’t yoh han’ me fibe dollah last +time?”</p> + +<p>“Dat mah reg’lar twenty-fibe pussent,” responded +Mr. Fox humbly, choosing to ignore +the insinuation. “It fohty dis time.”</p> + +<p>“Undah dem circumstances, Clarence, Ah’m +int’rusted,” said Pro. “Ah’m expectin’ de +glad tidin’s ’bout day aftah to-morrah.”</p> + +<p>“Lemme know, Pro?”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span>“Dat niggah done broke!” he muttered, as +his inward merriment subsided. “Dat niggah +broke right now, on’y he doan’ know it.”</p> + +<p>His plot was working.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“Kunnel Campbell,” he repeated. “Dat mah +s’lection foh Mistah Fox in de fust race.”</p> + +<p>He yelled with inward laughter for a moment +and resumed his work on the dope sheet.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Prosias went off into another spasm of inward +mirth.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span>He laughed until near apoplexy and chuckled +to himself.</p> + +<p>“Irene W.: dat man gran’ extra special tip +foh Mistah Fox in de las’ race.”</p> + +<p>Then he said to himself solemnly:</p> + +<p>“Mistah Clarence Fox, yoh done broke. Yoh +broke, on’y yoh doan’ know it.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Mistah Prosias Trimble!” he paged. “Mistah +Prosias Trimble!”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Clarence Fox was two steps behind the +bell-boy when the telegram was delivered to Pro.</p> + +<p>“Wha’ he say dis time, Pro?” he demanded +eagerly.</p> + +<p>“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’.”</p> + +<p>“Yoh ain’t gwine t’row me down now, is yoh, +Pro?” Mr. Fox’s voice was tremulous with +surprised disappointment.</p> + +<p>“Ain’ sayin’ Ah is, is Ah?”</p> + +<p>“Ain’ hearin’ yoh sayin’ yoh ain’t,” retorted +Mr. Fox. “’Membah yoh done mek a ’greement +’bout dat tip.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span>“Ain’t suah dis de tip,” Pro countered. +“Reckon Ah bettah read it.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Wha’ yoh make ob dat?” Pro exclaimed as +in surprise. “Mist’ Jim suah gittin’ good, hittin’ +’em hahd.”</p> + +<p>“Wha’ he say?”</p> + +<p>“He say plenty,” said Pro mysteriously. +“Dis clean-up day.”</p> + +<p>“Wha’ hoss he name?” quavered Mr. Fox.</p> + +<p>“Hoss? He done name three hosses—two hot +tip an’ a gran’ special extra br’ilin’ hot one.”</p> + +<p>“Gimme dem names, Pro.” Mr. Fox, feeling +the urge of excitement, reached as if to take the +telegram from Pro.</p> + +<p>“Han’s off, niggah, han’s off!” Pro warned, +scowling belligerently.</p> + +<p>“Ain’t us pahtners in dis?” quavered Mr. +Fox.</p> + +<p>“Um. Ain’ so suah ’bout dat yit,” said Pro, +exasperatingly cool.</p> + +<p>“But us made a ’greement.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Wha’ de fust, den?” pleaded Mr. Fox humbly.</p> + +<p>“How much yoh ’low yoh bet on dat fust +hoss?”</p> + +<p>“Depen’s.”</p> + +<p>“Ain’ tippin’ nuffin’ on no ‘depen’s’.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span>“Ef it look good, Ah bet fifty dollah.” Mr. +Fox stated the figure tentatively.</p> + +<p>“Fifty dollah? Ah ain’ tippin’ no pikahs.”</p> + +<p>“Ah bets a hunnerd ef de price look right.”</p> + +<p>“Ain’ tippin’ nuffin’ on no ‘ifs.’”</p> + +<p>“Ah bets a hunnerd dollah on dat fust hoss.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Fox had surrendered, and he stated the +figure with the air of a man paying through +the nose.</p> + +<p>“An’ fohty pussent foh me?”</p> + +<p>“Dat ouh ’greement, Pro.”</p> + +<p>“Dat hoss’ name,” said Pro, opening the message +and stopping in maddening deliberation—“dat +hoss’ name—how Ah know yoh play +faih?”</p> + +<p>“Yoh knows me, Pro.”</p> + +<p>“Uh—reckon Ah do, Clarence.”</p> + +<p>“Den, what dat hoss’ name?”</p> + +<p>Mr. Fox’s voice bore a note of irritation, and +Pro hastened to ease the situation.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Kunnel Campbell,” repeated Mr. Fox. +“Ah’s gwine. Ah’ll be back atter dat race.”</p> + +<p>“Ah’ll be waitin’ wif de second hoss,” Pro +promised.</p> + +<p>When Mr. Fox disappeared with more haste +than dignity, Pro threw back his head and indulged +in prolonged laughter.</p> + +<p>“Mistah Fox,” he repeated, “yoh done broke—yoh +broke, on’y yoh doan’ know it yit.”</p> + +<p>For an hour and a half Pro tasted the sweets +of vengeance.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Did—did—did he win?” Pro’s eyes were +bulging.</p> + +<p>“Did he win? We kill’m, Pro!” panted Mr. +Fox. “Done clean up Rampaht Street. Gimme +dat nex’ tip.”</p> + +<p>“Wha’—wha’—what odds yoh git?” Pro, +dazed with the unexpectedness of developments, +managed to gasp.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Wha’ dem ticket?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Pro saw the uselessness of argument.</p> + +<p>“Two hunnerd—dat mah share,” he stated, +after an arithmetical parturition. “Gimme dat +money.”</p> + +<p>“Ah ain’ c’lect yit.”</p> + +<p>“Bettah c’lect foh Ah tell yoh dat nex’ hoss.”</p> + +<p>“Ain’ got time befoh de next race.”</p> + +<p>“Den pay me yohsef.”</p> + +<p>“An’ take chances dat niggah welch?”</p> + +<p>“Reckon’ Ah keep dat nex’ tip foh mahsef.”</p> + +<p>“Ah’ll take de chanst,” Mr. Fox decided.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span> +“Ah low dat niggah pay, lessen he done +broke.”</p> + +<p>He counted two hundred dollars off a huge +roll of bills and passed them to Pro reluctantly.</p> + +<p>“How much yoh ’low yoh bet dis time?” +demanded Pro, recounting the money.</p> + +<p>“Reckon Ah shoot another hunnerd.”</p> + +<p>“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’.”</p> + +<p>“Ah’s gamblin’,” Mr. Fox declared shortly. +“What his name?”</p> + +<p>“An’ mek de bets whar dey writes de tickets?” +Pro added, imposing a new condition.</p> + +<p>“Ah knows a place.”</p> + +<p>“An’ fohty pussent foh me?”</p> + +<p>“Dat ouh ’greement.”</p> + +<p>“Dat nex’ hoss”—Pro studied the telegram +tantalizingly—“dat nex’ hoss J-a-k-m-i-n-o.”</p> + +<p>“See yeh latah,” said Mr. Fox, dashing for +the exit.</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>The two hundred dollars suddenly decreased +in value by comparison with Clarence’s supposed +winnings. Then Pro’s face lighted.</p> + +<p>“Ah’s <i>got</i> mine,” he reflected, “an’ Ah gwine +keep it. Wait twell Clarence done git de bad +news ’bout dat Jakmino race! Dat hoss ain’<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span> +got no moah chanst ob winnin’ dan a niggah +has bein’ ’lected gubonor ob Louisiana.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Did—did—did—did dat one win, too?” +Pro’s eyes rolled wildly and amazement was +portrayed on every feature.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“What odds yoh git, niggah?” demanded +Pro, suddenly stern.</p> + +<p>“Ah git seben,” Mr. Fox lied cautiously. +“What yoh git?”</p> + +<p>“Ah git nine foh mine,” Pro lied. “Show +me dem ticket.”</p> + +<p>“Ah git nine foh paht o’ mine, too,” declared +Mr. Fox, weakening.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Pay me, niggah!” said Pro sternly. “Pay +me six hunnerd an’ forty dollar.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Pro counted his share, feeling the money as +if striving to make certain he was awake. His<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span> +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.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Run ’long an’ <i>guess</i>, niggah, <i>guess</i>,” he said +witheringly. “Ah’s done tippin’ lyin’, stealin’, +cheatin’ niggahs.”</p> + +<p>“What yoh mean?” demanded Mr. Fox, but +weakly. “Ain’ Ah done slip yoh eight hunnerd +an’ forty dollah?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Laboriously he checked off his bets and strove +to strike the total.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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—”</p> + +<p>His reverie was interrupted by the man at +the telegraph instrument calling aloud what the +clicking instrument told him.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span>There was a pause.</p> + +<p>“Hyar come Irene,” said Pro softly to himself, +seeing with the eyes of desire.</p> + +<p>“Stretch, the same,” said the caller wearily. +“The winner—”</p> + +<p>There was another long pause, and Pro, swallowing +hard, said:</p> + +<p>“Come on, yoh Irene W.!”</p> + +<p>“The winner—Mayor Behrmann, Chicago +Fritz second, Vicksburg Sal third.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“Irene W.?” said the operator disdainfully. +“Bah! She ran last.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Ah done touted mahsef!”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<div class="transnote"> +<p class="ph1">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:</p> + +<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.</p> + +<p>Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.</p> + +<p>Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.</p> +</div></div> + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75271 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + |