“Wha’ he say dis time, Pro?” he demanded eagerly. “Ain’t open it yet,” said Pro carelessly, moving as if to place the telegram in his pocket. “Ain’t openin’ tellygrafs while folks is pesticatin’ ’roun’.” “Yoh ain’t gwine t’row me down now, is yoh, Pro?” Mr. Fox’s voice was tremulous with surprised disappointment. “Ain’ sayin’ Ah is, is Ah?” “Ain’ hearin’ yoh sayin’ yoh ain’t,” retorted Mr. Fox. “’Membah yoh done mek a ’greement ’bout dat tip.” “Ain’t suah dis de tip,” Pro countered. “Reckon Ah bettah read it.” He ripped open the envelope and held the inclosed message at a tantalizing angle so that no craning of the neck of Mr. Fox sufficed to give him a glimpse of the contents. “Wha’ yoh make ob dat?” Pro exclaimed as in surprise. “Mist’ Jim suah gittin’ good, hittin’ ’em hahd.” “Wha’ he say?” “He say plenty,” said Pro mysteriously. “Dis clean-up day.” “Wha’ hoss he name?” quavered Mr. Fox. “Hoss? He done name three hosses--two hot tip an’ a gran’ special extra br’ilin’ hot one.” “Gimme dem names, Pro.” Mr. Fox, feeling the urge of excitement, reached as if to take the telegram from Pro. “Han’s off, niggah, han’s off!” Pro warned, scowling belligerently. “Ain’t us pahtners in dis?” quavered Mr. Fox. “Um. Ain’ so suah ’bout dat yit,” said Pro, exasperatingly cool. “But us made a ’greement.” “Ah ’membahs dat,” Pro admitted, as if reluctantly. “Le’s see, dey’s a hoss in de fust race, dey’s a hoss in de third race, an’ de gran’ special suah thing in de las’. Reckon Ah tip yoh one at a time.” “Wha’ de fust, den?” pleaded Mr. Fox humbly. “How much yoh ’low yoh bet on dat fust hoss?” “Depen’s.” “Ain’ tippin’ nuffin’ on no ‘depen’s’.” “Ef it look good, Ah bet fifty dollah.” Mr. Fox stated the figure tentatively. “Fifty dollah? Ah ain’ tippin’ no pikahs.” “Ah bets a hunnerd ef de price look right.” “Ain’ tippin’ nuffin’ on no ‘ifs.’” “Ah bets a hunnerd dollah on dat fust hoss.” Mr. Fox had surrendered, and he stated the figure with the air of a man paying through the nose. “An’ fohty pussent foh me?” “Dat ouh ’greement, Pro.” “Dat hoss’ name,” said Pro, opening the message and stopping in maddening deliberation--“dat hoss’ name--how Ah know yoh play faih?” “Yoh knows me, Pro.” “Uh--reckon Ah do, Clarence.” “Den, what dat hoss’ name?” Mr. Fox’s voice bore a note of irritation, and Pro hastened to ease the situation. “K-u-n-n-e-l C-a-m-p-b-e-l-l,” Pro spelled from the message. “Kunnel Campbell--dat good hoss. Mist’ Jim bin hol’in’ him foh a killin’. Ought git a good price on dat hoss, Clarence.” “Kunnel Campbell,” repeated Mr. Fox. “Ah’s gwine. Ah’ll be back atter dat race.” “Ah’ll be waitin’ wif de second hoss,” Pro promised. When Mr. Fox disappeared with more haste than dignity, Pro threw back his head and indulged in prolonged laughter. “Mistah Fox,” he repeated, “yoh done broke--yoh broke, on’y yoh doan’ know it yit.” For an hour and a half Pro tasted the sweets of vengeance.