“Ah’s sorry to be ’bliged to notify yoh Ah resigns,” he announced. “Ah’s called No’th.” With light heart and faith in Miss Luck restored, he went forth to the Royal Crescent Palace barber shop by a devious route. At his first stop he remarked casually that he wouldn’t be surprised if he and Mr. Fox had cleaned up five hundred dollars, at the second stop he opined he and Mr. Fox had won seven hundred, and by the time he reached Canal Street his estimate of probable winnings had passed twelve hundred dollars and his cash capital had dwindled to eight dollars, due to sudden generosity in lending and to purchasing cigars for less fortunate acquaintances. His mental estimate of the amount won exceeded the figures he dared express openly. There was no limit to his imagination. Mr. Fox had money. A hundred dollars should yield fifteen hundred at proper pool-room odds. Mr. Fox rated himself a sport. Pro calculated that a proper sport, with money, would bet at least five hundred dollars on a tip straight from an owner, which at twelve to one--the lowest possible odds he figured Mr. Fox would accept--would be six thousand dollars, fifty per cent of which was three thousand dollars. Pro pictured himself riding into the track at Baltimore in an open automobile. He even determined to pay admission instead of soliciting an employee’s badge. He reached the Royal Crescent Palace barber shop in a state of excited anticipation. Mr. Fox, at ease, was draped over the cigar counter, and his very nonchalant calmness sent a shiver through Pro’s optimism. “Howdy, Clarence?” he exclaimed, under forced draught. “We suah slip dat one over!” “Suah did,” assented Mr. Fox, without enthusiasm. “We ’mos’ ruin dis hyah town, Ah reckon,” observed Pro, inviting information. “Ah suah clean mah end.” “Ah’s glad yoh hit ’em hahd, Pro,” said Mr. Fox, without warming. “Ah wah jest a-wishin’ Ah done had ez much faith in yoh frien’ ez yoh did.” “How come, Clarence?” asked Pro, with a sudden sinking suspicion. “Didn’ yoh plunge?” “Hadn’ no faith a-tall,” asserted Clarence. “Didn’ yoh win _nothin’_?” asked Pro, unbelief, suspicion, crushed hopes, all concentrated in his voice. “Jes’ li’l’ pikin’ bet, Pro,” said Mr. Fox resignedly. “Ah bin kickin’ mahsef. Ah mought a-win ’nuff to be goin’ norf wif yoh. But Ah lack faith. Ah lack faith perdigious.” “Yoh win nuffin a-tall?” Pro reiterated, his voice expressing his ebbing hope. “Ah win jes’ twenty dollah,” said Mr. Fox positively. “Niggah on’y lay me ten to one, an’ Ah bet on’y two dollah.” He hesitated, waiting as if expecting passionate contradiction, and added: “Hyah yoh bit foh de tip.” He peeled a five-dollar bill from a huge roll extracted carelessly from a trousers pocket and flipped it toward Pro. “Dat a good tip, Pro,” he said in conciliatory tones. “Ah thanks yoh foh it. Wish Ah’d had moah faith. Ef yoh git any good ones in Baltimo’, wiah me.”