“Don’t ’low as Ah can,” said Pro regretfully. “You ’low ef Ah tell yoh wha’ hoss Mist’ Jim done name’, kin yoh wait till Ah gits my bets down, so’s not influence de odds?” “Ah ’low dat Ah kin. Yoh ’low dat tip look good?” “Look good?” Pro’s voice quivered with outraged indignation. “Yoh ’low Mist’ Jim done tellygraft a niggah lessen it good?” “Nevah kin tell,” commented Mr. Fox cynically. Prosias hesitated. His mind was in panic for fear of losing the opportunity to secure working capital, yet the situation was embarrassing. He found it difficult to approach a business proposition without revealing the fact that he was embarrassed financially. “Reckon yoh do the right thing if Ah tell yoh de name ob de hoss?” he said tentatively. “Yoh knows me, Pro. Ah always does de right thing, doan’ Ah?” “Dat yoh repitation, Clarence,” said Pro, vaguely conscious of the fact that he knew nothing of Clarence’s reputation. “Always aims to do de right thing, Pro.” “Hyah she go, den,” said Pro, with sudden determination, as he tore open the envelope. “Miss Luck, be mine!” he breathed, as he unfolded the yellow paper. With Mr. Fox craning his neck to see over his shoulder, he read: Shoot the roll on the filly in the fourth. ROBIN. Mr. Fox wrinkled the end of his broad nose and looked puzzled. “De roll on de filly!” said Prosias, his eyes rolling. “Wha’ hoss he mean?” inquired the less informed Mr. Fox. “Wha’ hoss?” Pro repeated disdainfully. “Why, dat Ivory Gahter filly, dat who: Mist’ Jim’s filly, an’ she good. She ripe, niggah, she win suah, an’ de odds--um-um! Niggah, we rich!” “Ivory Gahter--I’m gwine!” exclaimed Mr. Fox excitedly. “Niggah, yoh play de books ’roun’ hyar. Ah’ll slaughtah dem Rampaht Street gamblahs.” The convinced Mr. Fox, hesitating at the barber shop only long enough to sweep the till clean, dashed toward Rampart Street, while Pro, waiting until his financial backer disappeared, ascended to the second story of the pool-room nearest the hotel, and, after considerable haggling, persuaded the handbook keeper to wager twenty dollars against two against the chances of Ivory Garter’s winning. Pro mourned because he knew that at the track the odds would be twenty to one. Instead of retiring for the day, Pro promenaded, ostensibly for pleasure, but always with a view of borrowing capital to wager. Several times he tentatively opened negotiations, but, meeting with scant encouragement, he contented himself with remarking airily that he had remained in New Orleans to consummate a betting commission for an owner, and was leaving to join the horses that evening, after the killing. His probably were the first eyes to read the ticker that afternoon, when in jerks and clicks the tape recorded the fact that Ivory Garter had won. Thirty minutes later, with twenty-two dollars in his pocket, Pro entered the bath-house.