Pro had it from a jockey, who had it right out of the conference at which Centerdrink had been chosen to win. Pro had hurled his bankroll--the fortune accumulated during the entire winter--at the bookmakers, who, instead of breaking in panic, had handed him back smiles and bits of pasteboard with cabalistic charcoal characters on them. Pro had stood to win more than twelve thousand dollars--and he had stood dazedly while he watched Centerdrink finish eighth. When the truth dawned upon his benumbed brain he had reached one hand into the now vacant pocket, seeking car-fare, and, finding it not, had sought the bath-house and work--his dream of a summer jaunt around the race-courses wrecked. Pro completed his task of distributing towels and stood thinking. Daylight was commencing to show through the little windows just under the ceiling of the bath-house, and daylight brought with it fresh, bitter thoughts. He knew that a few hundred miles to the northward the sun was rising on a stretch of level land, a circular ribbon of loam laid upon a field of green. Birds were singing in the trees, meadow larks were rising from the infield. Rows of fires were springing up along the front of the circular line of low, whitewashed stables. Slender, graceful horses, blanketed to the knees, were being led around and around in little circles, the odor of frying bacon was in the air, the rhythmic drumming of the feet of a speedy colt was sounding from the track. Far across the velvet infield, near where the spidery pillars of the stand stood black against the lightening sky, men with watches in their hands were on the rail, timing in fractions of seconds the movements of the flying colt. He pictured one vacant spot on the pickets of the fence--a spot which, but for the fickleness of Miss Luck and the hot tip on Centerdrink, he would have been occupying. Slowly a light broke over his face--as sun striving to shine through thunder clouds. “Reckon as how maybe Ah’ll be dar yit,” he muttered to himself. “Mist’ Jim Robin he say to me yistaddy mahnin’: ‘Pro, yuh wuthless niggah, gimme good rub dis mahnin’ an’ when Ah gits to Baltimo’ Ah’ll sen’ yoh a good thing.’ Yassah, dat ’zackly what he done say, an’ Ah done rub him till he yell ’nuff. Mist’ Jim Robin he done keep his promise. He’ll sen’ me dat good thing, den Ah’ll show dese Noo ’Leans shines a classy niggah. Ah’ll ride in Mistah Pullman’s cahr ’stid o’ Mistah Burton’s cahr--nothward. Yassah.” Visibly affected by a process of triumph of mind over condition, Pro achieved a more cheerful countenance. The happy smile which was his trademark, and the ingratiating grin which made him welcome among race-track followers, returned by degrees, and by the time the snorers aroused themselves and shuddered at the cold plunge before coming to the rubbing tables his ready laugh and the seductive manner in which he wielded the solicitous whisk-broom upon each departing guest won reward.