“Suah Ah trust yoh, Clarence,” said Pro sulkily. “Didn’t yoh han’ me fibe dollah last time?” “Dat mah reg’lar twenty-fibe pussent,” responded Mr. Fox humbly, choosing to ignore the insinuation. “It fohty dis time.” “Undah dem circumstances, Clarence, Ah’m int’rusted,” said Pro. “Ah’m expectin’ de glad tidin’s ’bout day aftah to-morrah.” “Lemme know, Pro?” “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. “Dat niggah done broke!” he muttered, as his inward merriment subsided. “Dat niggah broke right now, on’y he doan’ know it.” His plot was working. 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. “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. “Kunnel Campbell,” he repeated. “Dat mah s’lection foh Mistah Fox in de fust race.” He yelled with inward laughter for a moment and resumed his work on the dope sheet. “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.” Prosias went off into another spasm of inward mirth. 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. “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.” He laughed until near apoplexy and chuckled to himself. “Irene W.: dat man gran’ extra special tip foh Mistah Fox in de las’ race.” Then he said to himself solemnly: “Mistah Clarence Fox, yoh done broke. Yoh broke, on’y yoh doan’ know it.” 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. “Mistah Prosias Trimble!” he paged. “Mistah Prosias Trimble!” “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.” Mr. Clarence Fox was two steps behind the bell-boy when the telegram was delivered to Pro.