Prosias, speechless, pocketed the bill and turned. At the door he paused. “Yas, sah, Clarence,” he said slowly. “Ah ain’ done fohgit. Ah’ll ’membah yoh, Clarence.” His brain was dazed, but his heart seethed with bitter resentment. He knew that Clarence Fox had profited largely and had swindled him out of his just share. He walked slowly, bitterly regretting the generosity of the morning, but for which he still would have had enough money to reach the race-track. He went humbly back to the St. Charles baths and petitioned to be restored to his position. That night, while working upon the super-fattened carcasses of patrons, thoughts of Clarence Fox and his perfidy came to his mind, and he struck hard, eliciting howls of protest. And during that long night his brain slowly evolved a plan of vengeance. Three days later Clarence Fox, arrayed in a glory which neither Solomon nor the lilies ever could have rivaled, descended into the St. Charles baths. “Why, howdy, Pro?” he exclaimed, with well simulated surprise. “Ah thought yoh done gone Baltimo’.” “Not yit, Clarence, not yit.” His cheerful aspect and his failure to express either anger or sorrow puzzled Clarence. “How come?” he asked. “Frien’ ast me would Ah remain foh a few days an’ ack ez his bettin’ c’missioner.” “Whafoh of a frien’?” “Same frien’ ez sen’ me that last tip.” Clarence Fox’s manner changed with startling suddenness. From a patronizing familiarity and superior condescension, he descended instantly to solicitous friendship. “Hear anythin’?” he inquired. “Ain’ ’spectin’ anythin’ foh a day er two.” “Gwine tell me when he wiahs yoh, Pro?” “Ain’ slippin’ no tips to niggahs da won’ bet no coin.” Pro’s contempt was impersonal. “Ah’s a bettin’ fool when Ah got faith,” asserted Mr. Fox earnestly, fitting the shoe to himself. “Las’ time Ah ain’ got no faith a-tall.” “Reckon maybe yoh won’ hab no faith dis hyah time,” Pro remarked disinterestedly. “Ah sabes mah tips foh gamblahs, not pikahs.” The term stung, but Mr. Fox, while writhing under the insult, chose to pretend dignity and ignored it. “Ah ain’ int’rusted in five-dollah bettahs,” Pro added, rubbing salt into the hurt. “Five dollah?” Mr. Fox exclaimed indignantly. “Pro, when Ah’s got faith Ah bets five hundred dollah.” “Mebbe so,” Pro commented in unconvinced accents. “Wha’ dat git me?” “Dat,” asserted Mr. Fox, with emphasis, “git yoh twenty-fibe pussent ob all Ah wins.” “Ah ain’ int’rusted,” said Pro, proceeding about his duties with an air of finality. “Lissen at reason, Pro,” Mr. Fox argued in quick alarm. “Twenty-fibe am mah reg’lar pussent, but ’tween frien’s lak yoh an’ me, it’s forty pussent.” “Fifty neahrer right,” commented Pro, still busy. “Fifty an’ me takin’ all de chanst? Fohty am gen’rous.” “An’ show me de tickets?” Pro’s tone was an ultimatum. “Doan yoh trus’ me, Pro?” Mr. Fox registered indignant surprise.