“He say he bet a hunnerd,” he soliloquized. “Dat mean he bet two hunnerd, mebby two hunnerd an’ fifty, an’ lie me outen mah share ef he win. When he lose he ’low he bet foah hunnerd.” He was rehearsing reasons for the defeat of Colonel Campbell and additional reasons for increasing the size of the next bet, when the door opened and Mr. Fox, wildly agitated and with shining face, hurtled into the bath-house. “Did--did--did he win?” Pro’s eyes were bulging. “Did he win? We kill’m, Pro!” panted Mr. Fox. “Done clean up Rampaht Street. Gimme dat nex’ tip.” “Wha’--wha’--what odds yoh git?” Pro, dazed with the unexpectedness of developments, managed to gasp. “Niggah on’y lay me five to one,” lied Mr. Fox breathlessly. “Ah bets a hunnerd at five to one. We win five hundred dollah.” “Wha’ dem ticket?” “Dat a s’picious niggah gamblah, Pro,” said Mr. Fox. “He done say he ain’ makin’ no ticket, foh fear de p’lice git evidence.” Pro saw the uselessness of argument. “Two hunnerd--dat mah share,” he stated, after an arithmetical parturition. “Gimme dat money.” “Ah ain’ c’lect yit.” “Bettah c’lect foh Ah tell yoh dat nex’ hoss.” “Ain’ got time befoh de next race.” “Den pay me yohsef.” “An’ take chances dat niggah welch?” “Reckon’ Ah keep dat nex’ tip foh mahsef.” “Ah’ll take de chanst,” Mr. Fox decided. “Ah low dat niggah pay, lessen he done broke.” He counted two hundred dollars off a huge roll of bills and passed them to Pro reluctantly. “How much yoh ’low yoh bet dis time?” demanded Pro, recounting the money. “Reckon Ah shoot another hunnerd.” “A hunnerd, an’ all dat gravy in de bowl!” Pro registered indignant protest. “Yoh gwine shoot two hunnerd or nothin’. Dat’ll leave yoh on velvet, an’ de special extra comin’.” “Ah’s gamblin’,” Mr. Fox declared shortly. “What his name?” “An’ mek de bets whar dey writes de tickets?” Pro added, imposing a new condition. “Ah knows a place.” “An’ fohty pussent foh me?” “Dat ouh ’greement.” “Dat nex’ hoss”--Pro studied the telegram tantalizingly--“dat nex’ hoss J-a-k-m-i-n-o.” “See yeh latah,” said Mr. Fox, dashing for the exit. “Wha’ yoh think ob dat?” Pro asked himself wonderingly, as he felt the money to make certain it was real. “Dat hoss ain’t got a chanst, an’ he win!” “Miss Luck she suah smile!” he continued. “Ah kain’t lose, an’ Ah still break dat niggah. Ah bets dat niggah bet three hunnerd dollar, an’ git eight to one an’ pay me dis.” The two hundred dollars suddenly decreased in value by comparison with Clarence’s supposed winnings. Then Pro’s face lighted. “Ah’s _got_ mine,” he reflected, “an’ Ah gwine keep it. Wait twell Clarence done git de bad news ’bout dat Jakmino race! Dat hoss ain’ got no moah chanst ob winnin’ dan a niggah has bein’ ’lected gubonor ob Louisiana.” An hour later his comforting reflections were interrupted by the second avalanche descent of Clarence Fox into the bath-house. His eyes were protruding and his face shining, and money bulged from every pocket.