“Did--did--did--did dat one win, too?” Pro’s eyes rolled wildly and amazement was portrayed on every feature. “He roll home, Pro!” cried Mr. Fox. “Win all de way, by foah length. Ah lef’ a trail o’ bankrupt niggahs from de Levee to de basin.” “What odds yoh git, niggah?” demanded Pro, suddenly stern. “Ah git seben,” Mr. Fox lied cautiously. “What yoh git?” “Ah git nine foh mine,” Pro lied. “Show me dem ticket.” “Ah git nine foh paht o’ mine, too,” declared Mr. Fox, weakening. “Ah git seben foh a hunnerd, an’ nine foh a hunnerd. Hyar de ticket foh de nine. Dat othah niggah de one dat doan’ write no ticket.” “Pay me, niggah!” said Pro sternly. “Pay me six hunnerd an’ forty dollar.” “Count it yohsef,” said Mr. Fox, suddenly reckless in his prosperity as he dragged money from pockets and tossed it in scrambled heaps on the cigar counter. “Count dat triflin’ six hunnerd an’ fohty dollah, an’ tell me dat special. Ah gwine staht an epidemic ob bankruptcy ’mongst dem niggah gamblahs from de levee to de lake.” Pro counted his share, feeling the money as if striving to make certain he was awake. His eyes rolled, and he blinked. He knew Mr. Fox had won more than he admitted winning, but in his amazement he failed to feel even resentment. “Git a move on, niggah,” commanded Mr. Fox. “Doan’ be all day countin’ dat triflin’ money. Le’s go git de real coin. What dat las’ hoss’ name?” Pro arose, stuffed his share of the loot into his pockets, shoved the remainder back toward Mr. Fox, and suddenly gave voice to long pent feelings. “Run ’long an’ _guess_, niggah, _guess_,” he said witheringly. “Ah’s done tippin’ lyin’, stealin’, cheatin’ niggahs.” “What yoh mean?” demanded Mr. Fox, but weakly. “Ain’ Ah done slip yoh eight hunnerd an’ forty dollah?” “Yoh suah done so,” admitted Pro, “an’ yeh done win twicet ez much ez yoh ’mit yoh win. Ah mean yoh done cheat an’ lie an’ steal. Ah say Ah’s done, an’ Ah mean Ah’s done. Hyah whar yoh an’ me paht. Ah do mah own bettin’, an’ Ah doan’ tip no pikah.” He strode indignantly from the bath-house, leaving Mr. Fox crushed. Presently he rallied and pursued, striving to learn what horse Prosias was betting on. Up narrow stairways and down narrower steps into basements, into rooms behind pool parlors and rooms behind barber shops, into cigar stands, Pro dashed and dodged, leaving behind him a trail of quaking, alarmed colored men. The word spread over New Orleans that Prosias Trimble was plunging, but the bookmakers, anxious to lay off the bets, were close-mouthed and Clarence Fox strove in vain to discover which horse Pro was playing. By fifties, twenty-fives, and hundreds, Pro wagered his discounted share of Clarence Fox’s winnings, and slowly the odds on Irene W. to win the last race at Baltimo’ were driven downward from forty to one to six to one.