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Title: Tales of the turf

Author: Hugh S. Fullerton

Release date: February 1, 2025 [eBook #75271]

Language: English

Original publication: New York, NY: A. R de Beer, 1922

Credits: David E. Brown and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES OF THE TURF ***





  TALES
  OF THE
  TURF

  _By_
  HUGH S. FULLERTON

  [Illustration]

  A. R. DE BEER
  PUBLISHER
  New York City




  Copyright, 1922
  by
  A. R. DE BEER

  _All Rights Reserved_




FOREWORD


The publisher feels highly honored at being able, at this time, to
present to the American public, from the pen of America’s foremost
sports-writer and recognized authority, Hugh S. Fullerton, these
stories of the American Turf, feeling sanguine that these tales,
saturated with human interest, will be digested with as much pleasure
and delight as the author took in writing and the publisher in
publishing them.




AUTHOR’S PREFACE


All men love a horse who know a horse. The love of contest and struggle
forms a kinship between man and horse that exists between no others. It
is the gameness, the courage, the fighting spirit of the thoroughbred
which arouses in man the finest instincts, and it is these qualities
that cause the love of man for the thoroughbred. It is noticeable too,
that the thoroughbred horse loves only those human beings who possess
those same qualities.

On the race-track we find the only pure democracy of the world, a
democracy which includes all classes, all strata of society. It is more
liberal, more forgiving of human frailties and human weakness, than any
other place, because men who know racing understand how hearts break
when the weight cloths are too heavy and the distance too great.

These little tales of the turf are based upon real incidents and real
characters. Perhaps those lovers of racing who have lived the life will
recognize the characters, and to those I would plead that they extend
to them the same broad understanding and forgiveness that they give to
the tout, the cadger, and the down and outer in real life.

                                                              THE AUTHOR




To Morvich

_SON OF RUNNYMEAD AND HYMIR_

_who has demonstrated to the world that handicaps of birth and breeding
are not insurmountable--that the offspring of a sprinter can carry
weight over a distance if he has the heart, that neither straight
stifles, weight cloths nor distance counts against gameness and
courage--this little volume is dedicated._
                                                           _THE AUTHOR._




“HARDSHELL” GAINES


“Hardshell” Gaines was the only name we knew him by, although had
anyone been sufficiently interested to look through the list of
registered owners of race-horses, he would have learned that Hardshell
had been christened James Buchanan Gaines. The name might also have
furnished a clue as to his age.

Tradition was that he came from somewhere in Pennsylvania, as he spoke
sometimes of the horses “up the valley”; but beyond the fact that
he had a farm in Tennessee, where he bred and trained the horses he
raced, nothing was set down in the “Who’s Who” of the turf. He was
called Hardshell because he had once explained the difference between
the Hardshell Baptists, to which denomination he belonged, and the
Washfoots.

He was an old man, thin and poorly dressed in baggy garments which
carried the odor of horses and were covered with horse hairs. He loved
horses, lived with them and for them and by them. In those days he
emerged from his hibernation on the Tennessee farm when racing started
at New Orleans and moved northward to Memphis, Louisville, Cincinnati,
St. Louis, and Chicago, and in the fall he retraced the route and
disappeared. He usually could be found working with some horse and
humming an old hymn, and occasionally, when forgetful, he sang hymns
aloud while brushing the horses.

He was honest, which fact set him apart from the majority of the
persons who follow horse-racing. According to the unwritten law of the
turf, it was all right for a millionaire to race horses for sport and
the purses, but a poor man was expected to do the best he could, dodge
the feed man’s bill when possible, get a shade the best of the odds,
keep under cover the fact that one of his horses was fit for a race
until the odds were right, and, if possible, sell one or two colts to
the wealthy owners at a fancy price to even the losses on the season.

Hardshell Gaines violated all these rules. He was poor. He bred and
raced horses because he loved them and loved the sport. He wagered two
dollars on each horse he entered in a race, never more or less. He
depended upon winning purses to meet expenses, and he refused to sell
his best colts at any price. Each year he emerged from Tennessee with
three or four fair selling-platers, a string of two-year-olds from
which he hoped to develop a champion, and Sword of Gideon, better known
as Swored at Gideon, his alleged stake horse and the pride of the Big
Bend stables.

Some of the race followers believed Hardshell to be rich. The
suspicious ones (and suspicion has its breeding place on race-tracks)
thought the old man laid big bets through secret agents whenever he was
ready to win a race. When, at not too frequent intervals, one of his
horses won, the wise ones nodded and whispered that old Hardshell had
made another killing. Others of us who knew how many of the purses
offered in selling races must be won to feed, care for, and transport
eighteen or twenty horses, estimated his financial rating more closely.
I knew there were times when second or third money in cheap races was
welcome to help pay feed bills and jockey fees, and that in several
lean times colts had disappeared from the Big Bend stables, having been
sold secretly at low prices.

No one ever heard Hardshell complain. His health was always “tol’able,”
his horses were always “tol’able fast,” his luck was “tol’able,” and
after replying thus to inquiries he hummed a hymn and went away. He
never was with the crowd of owners and bookmakers around hotels or
restaurants, but lived in the stables; and when little Pete, the
diminutive negro jockey, rode out of the paddock, Hardshell, a timothy
straw in his mouth and trousers laced into the tops of disreputable
boots, sauntered into the betting ring, went to the stand of a
bookmaker who had been his friend for years, wagered two dollars that
his horse would win, and, without looking to see what the odds were,
went down to the rail to root for his horse.

Few knew that Hardshell cherished either an ambition or an enmity--but
he did. His ambition was to breed and train a champion colt, and the
object of his hatred was Big Jim Long, gambler, bookmaker, sure thing
man, and the head of the Long Investment Company--and the ambition and
the hatred were associated.

Long was the Long Investment Company so far as advertising and general
knowledge went, but the real head sat at a desk in a suite of offices
in the lower Broadway district in New York, and, so far as anyone
knew, never had been near a race-track. Not even his name was to be
found in connection with the Long Investment Company. All letters,
remittances, and transfers from branch offices were addressed to James
Long, but the man who opened them was Thomas J. Kirtin, whose business,
according to the modest lettering on the door of the back room, which
opened upon an entirely different corridor from that upon which the
Long Investment Company fronted, was “Investments.”

Kirtin’s brain had evolved the idea of applying the all Tontine game
to betting upon horse-races, and he had organized the Long Investment
Company. In addition to the promise of certain dividends, the company
added the appeal to the gambling instinct in human beings. It claimed
that the reason persons who bet upon horse-races fail to beat the
bookmakers is that the bookmakers have the preponderance of capital.
The small bettor could not withstand a run of losses and the gamblers
could. It proposed to turn the tables: all bettors were to pool their
capital with the Long Investment Company, which, with its elaborate
system of doping horse-races, its exclusive sources of information
from owners and jockeys who were “interested,” and its perfect system
of laying bets which would assure investors of the best odds on each
race, would beat the game. Further, it was not as if a bettor wagered
all on one race; the company would bet on three, four, possibly six,
races a day on different tracks, betting only on inside information,
and the winnings would be pooled and divided. One hundred per cent was
guaranteed, and more if the winnings were larger.

The public had shied at the proposition at first. Then those who had
been lured by golden promises commenced to draw ten, fifteen, even
twenty-five, per cent a month on their investments. On one occasion a
“dividend” of seventy per cent was declared. The first investors had
their money back and still were credited with the original investment.
The news was received with incredulity, but as more and greater
dividends were declared hundreds and then thousands had flocked to
invest. Branch offices of the company, lavishly furnished and equipped
with telegraph and telephone communications with all tracks, were
established in a score of cities. Money poured into the Long Investment
Company by tens of thousands, then almost by millions. Each month
the “investors” received astonishing dividends. Some perhaps knew or
suspected that the dividends were being paid out of the fresh capital,
but, being gamblers, they threw their money into the gamble, betting
that they would draw out their principal and more before the bubble
burst.

In New York, Kirtin waited, watching the expansion of the bubble and
timing almost to the hour when the crash must come. In his safe nearly
fifty per cent of the money received, changed into bills of large
denominations, was packed in cases, and in his desk were reservations
of staterooms on every vessel departing for Europe in the next
fortnight. The bubble had endured longer than he expected. There was
more than a million dollars packed in the cases, and more than that
amount already had been transferred and deposited in various European
banks. He hesitated, undecided as to whether to risk another week of
delay--and decided that the time had come to reap the last harvest and
permit the gleanings to remain.

On the race-tracks Big Jim Long swaggered and continued his rôle
as head of the company spending thousands and talking millions. He
was a huge man, with a huge laugh, a round, ruddy face pink from
much massage. He wore clothing of striking cut and colors, and his
diamonds dazzled the eyes of jockeys and touts. He maintained an air
of condescending familiarity with some and patronizing good fellowship
with others, and he treated money as dross. Judges, stewards, and club
officials watched Long closely and with some disappointment. Rumors
that he had bribed jockeys, had influenced owners, that he had fixed
races and engineered great killings, were whispered around the tracks,
yet the officials could not discover any evidences of his guilt. Big
Jim made no denials of the whispered accusations, but blatantly defied
the officials to “get anything on him.” Moreover, the bookmakers, who
watched his movements even more closely than the racing officials did,
knew that he never had bet any large sums at the track, and Big Jim
had sarcastically inquired if they thought him a fool to make bets for
the company at the tracks, where the odds were made, when the company
system was to scatter the bets over a score of cities and get better
odds. Such bets as he made at the tracks were for his own account, and
generally he lost, so that the small bettors who spied upon him, hoping
to learn which horses the company were backing, suspected that he bet
to blind them to the real identity of the horses the “killings” were
made on. They believed that the Long Investment Company was winning
vast sums. As a matter of fact, the Long Investment Company did not bet
at all. Kirtin did not believe in gambling. Yet, oddly enough, Big Jim
Long believed firmly and unshakably that, if he had complete control of
the finances of the company, he could beat the races. He was convinced
that with the capital of the Long Investment Company he could corrupt
enough jockeys and owners to pay dividends legitimately and make a
fortune for himself. Long would have been an easy victim of the game
which he was helping perpetrate upon the public. Kirtin had no such
illusions. Long had once argued the point with Kirtin in the privacy
of the back room in New York, and Kirtin had called him a fool, with
variations, prefix and addenda. And, as Kirtin sent him five thousand
dollars a week with which to keep up the front of the Long Investment
Company, Long had not pressed the point. Neither had he been convinced.

It was against Big Jim Long that Hardshell Gaines cherished the one
hatred of his life. It had started when Long sought to amuse himself
and his friends by ridiculing Gaines and his stable. He had joked at
the old man’s clothes, at his stable, his colors, and his jockey--and
then had made the fatal blunder of ridiculing Sword of Gideon, calling
him a “hound.”

Perhaps nothing else would have aroused vengeful hate in the bosom
of Hardshell, but to speak scornfully of Sword of Gideon was the
unbearable insult. The Sword was Hardshell’s weakness, the consummation
of his life’s ambition gone wrong. It was as if he had reared a
strong, handsome son and seen him crippled and then laughed at.

Hardshell had bred and reared the colt and named him, as he did all his
other colts, from the Bible. As a two-year-old, racing against the best
of the baby thoroughbreds of the West, the Sword had shown stamina,
gameness, a racing instinct, and a dazzling burst of speed. He was
royally sired, and even the millionaire owners agreed that Hardshell
had at last produced a great colt. In mid-season he was rated as one of
the two best two-year-olds of the year, and offers of large sums were
made for him. He was eligible to race in all the big three-year-old
stake races the next season, and Hardshell had refused to listen to any
offer or set any price. He had set out to develop a champion racer down
there on the little farm in the Big Bend of the Tennessee, a champion
which would outrun and outgame the best of the country and win the
American derby--then the greatest of all turf prizes.

Late in August the thing happened. The colt was at the starting post in
a six-furlong dash on the Hawthorne track when the barrier, a band of
elastic, was broken by the lunging of another colt. The elastic band
struck Sword of Gideon in the eye and maddened him with fright and
pain. The accident seemed trivial, but the effect was the destruction
of Hardshell’s life dream. Never thereafter would Sword of Gideon
face the barrier without a fight. The memory of the stinging agony of
that flying elastic was not to be effaced. A dozen times exasperated
starters ordered him out of races and sent him back for further
schooling at the barrier. Schooling was useless. He refused to face the
thing which had hurt him. The only way in which he could be handled at
the start of a race was for the jockey to turn his head away from the
barrier, wait until the other horses started, then throw him around
and send him after the flying field. Occasionally when the jockey
swung him at the right second he had a chance to win. The majority of
times he was handicapped five or six lengths on every start, and not
infrequently when he heard the swish of the barrier he bolted the wrong
way of the track. Look in the guide and after his name in many races
you will find the brief record of a tragedy in the words, “Left at
post.”

The champion was ruined. But in the heart of Hardshell Gaines Sword
of Gideon still was the champion. He worked over him as tenderly as a
mother over a crippled child, and for him he sang his favorite hymns,
as if striving to comfort the horse when he had behaved badly at the
post. The newspapers, on account of his bad acting at the start, wrote
of him as “Swored at Gideon.”

Big Jim Long had called the Sword a “hound,” and thereafter Hardshell
never spoke to him but passed him unseeing. At the bar one day Big
Jim had noisily invited everyone to drink with him, and Hardshell had
thrown away his beer and spat before walking away--and the open insult
stung even Big Jim Long.

All this was three years prior to the day when the affairs of the Long
Investment Company reached their climax. In his New York offices,
Kirtin realized that the finish was at hand. The bags filled with
money had been removed from the safe in the luxurious offices of the
Long Investment Company, carried through the door connecting them with
the little office of Thos. J. Kirtin, Investments, and the door locked
on both sides. Then Kirtin did the one decent thing of his career. He
sent a code telegram to Long and to every agent of the company over the
ganglia of leased wires, warning them that the jig was up and it was
time to disappear.

Probably it was not until he read that message that Big Jim Long
understood the full significance of the situation. He never had stopped
to ask himself why Kirtin had bestowed rank and titles upon him, why
he had elected him president, and why all the ornate stationery and
the many messages bore his name, or even why he had been paid five
thousand dollars a week. Perhaps he thought he earned it by virtue
of his influence among racing people. He understood now that he, Jim
Long, would be held accountable to the law, that he would be fugitive
or prisoner while Kirtin, with the millions of dollars looted from the
public, could not be connected with the swindle and would be safe in
Europe.

He cursed Kirtin, and, strangely, not because Kirtin was a thief and
worse. He cursed him because he considered Kirtin a fool. Had Kirtin
followed his plan and advice, the scheme would have worked. With that
almost unlimited capital behind him he could have fixed enough races
and won enough money to pay the dividends.

Long knew that within a day or two, three at the longest, the
authorities would descend upon the company offices. With a sudden
determination, Long sent a code order to every agent of the company to
ignore Kirtin’s message and prepare for a killing.

Let Kirtin go his cowardly way. He, Big Jim Long, would face the
situation, pay the dividends, and handle the big money himself. He
knew that at least a half million dollars remained in the hands of
the agents of the company in different cities--the gleanings which
Kirtin had not considered worth the risk to remain and collect. Long
telegraphed, ordering the agents to hold all funds subject to his order
instead of forwarding them to New York.

Kirtin, busy clearing the desk in his office and destroying the last
papers that would reveal any connection between Kirtin, Investments,
and the Long Investment Company, heard the news and shrugged his
shoulders. He had tried to save the fools, and if they refused to be
saved it was none of his affair. An hour later he and his suitcases
were in the stateroom of a liner.

At the Fair Grounds track in St. Louis, Big Jim Long set to work
hastily to stave off disaster and revive the investment company. He
had considered telegraphing the authorities to hold Kirtin, but had
rejected the plan as unbecoming one in his profession. Long’s plan
of procedure was simple and direct. He would fix a race, pay the
horse owners well, and win enough money to declare another dividend,
restoring the faith of the investors, who already had begun to show
signs of uneasiness as rumors spread. It was not a problem of morals
but of mathematics.

The chief obstacle to his plan was lack of time, and he knew he must
act rapidly. Already the rumors that the Long Investment Company was
in trouble had spread through the uneasy ranks of the gamblers, and
Long knew the first one who informed a district attorney of the affairs
of the company would bring the avalanche. By rapid work he completed
his preliminary plans during the races that afternoon. An overnight
handicap was carded for the next day’s races, and Long selected eight
owners whose morals he knew were below the par even of racing and each
agreed to enter a horse in the race. The chief problem was to prevent
other owners from naming their horses to start, and to avoid this one
owner agreed to enter Attorney Jackson, a high-class racer, to frighten
owners of slower horses out.

That evening a caucus was held. Besides Long, eight owners were
present. It was agreed that with Attorney Jackson the favorite, the
odds against Mildred Rogers would be at least fifteen to one, therefore
by simple arithmetic Mildred Rogers should win, because fifteen times
one is fifteen, whereas two times one is two. Long intended to bet the
remnants of the capital of the investment company, and, figuring the
price would recede from fifteen or twenty to one to ten to one before
the money was placed, he estimated that he would win close to five
million dollars. Not a cent was to be wagered at the track.

The caucus, after nominating Mildred Rogers to win, decided that
Attorney Jackson was to make the early running, cutting out a terrific
pace to the head of the stretch, while Betty M. and Pretty Dehon were
to come up fast, crowd the leader far outside on the turn, allowing
Mildred Rogers to come through along the rail, after which the entire
field was to bunch behind her and shoo her home a winner, while
Attorney Jackson pulled up as if lame.

The rehearsal was progressing satisfactorily and each owner was
receiving instructions as to the way his horse should run. The caucus
was pleased. Long had agreed that he would bet at least four hundred
thousand dollars, and that he would give twenty-five per cent of the
total winnings to the owners. The eight who were playing deuces wild in
the sport of kings were calculating that they would divide at least a
million dollars among themselves when the disquieting news arrived.

“What the hell do you think of that?” Sorgan, owner of Patsy Frewen,
demanded. “Old Hardshell Gaines has entered old Swored at Gideon.”

There were a chorus of curses.

“That hound of his ain’t got a chanst,” declared Kinsley. “It’s ten to
one he runs the wrong way of the track.”

“He’s the worst actor at the post on the circuit,” said Stanley.

“He’s liable to bust up the start.”

“Better pick one of our horses to bump him and put him over a fence,”
snarled McGuire. “He ain’t got any business in this. He knows Attorney
Jackson can beat him.”

It was a testimonial to his reputation for honesty that not one
of the assembled crooks even suggested asking Gaines to enter the
conspiracy. They cursed him for an interfering old fool, they cursed
his stubbornness, they cursed his idiocy in still insisting that Sword
of Gideon was a stake horse, they cursed his supposed parsimony and
believed he had entered his aged racer in the hope of winning a few
dollars by getting the place or show money. Not one suspected that
anything excepting blind chance had caused him to enter his horse in
the race.

They were wrong. Hardshell Gaines, with an unsullied record of fifty
years on the turf, had heard something. He had seen Long in conference
with some owners, and when the same owners rushed to enter their horses
in the overnight handicap Gaines’ suspicion had become certainty. He
had entered Sword of Gideon in the handicap, and for an hour afterward
had rubbed and stroked the old campaigner, and as he rolled bandages
around the bad leg of the old horse and applied liniment to his throat,
he had hummed a hymn.

Occasionally his voice rose in song and he sang of the time when “the
wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.” It was after
dark when he entered the Laclede downtown and sought out the assistant
starter.

“Joe,” he said solemnly, “I have been in this game, man an’ boy, clost
to fifty year and tried to run straight and do right as a hossman and a
Baptist. No man can say James Buchanan Gaines owes him a cent or ever
done a dishonest thing. I’ve done had a wrastle with my conscience, and
consarn me if I believe it’s wrong to skin a skunk!”

Joe nodded approval.

“There’s something doing, Joe,” said Hardshell. “Eight of them owners
and that slick crook Jim Long is holdin’ a caucus. Nary a word to old
Hardshell, and the Sword is entered.”

Joe nodded understandingly.

“Lissen, Joe,” said Hardshell, lowering his voice. “Long is planning a
big killing, and it’s up to me and the Sword and you to stop him. The
Sword is good for once, if that nigh left leg don’t overheat. He can
beat any hoss in that race, ’ceptin’ Attorney Jackson, and I reckon
they ain’t plannin’ to have no favorite win.”

Joe nodded again and reserved speech, waiting for the proposition.

“I ain’t asking no man to do anything dishonest, Joe,” the old man went
on--“it’s agin my religion and my conscience too--but something’s _got_
to be done.”

Hardshell waited expectantly and hummed “When temptation sore assails
me,” hoping that Joe would indicate his attitude or show receptivity,
but the assistant starter nodded and smoked in silence.

“’Tain’t as if I was trying to bribe anyone,” Hardshell explained
painfully. “I don’t want no one to do anything that is agin his
conscience.”

“What do you want me to do?” Joe asked, breaking his silence.

“All I ask is that you help the Sword get off straight, and me and you
and the Sword’ll spile the crookedest plan ever hatched.”

“Ain’t any law against my helping a bad actor get off right,” said Joe.

Hardshell said no more. He gripped Joe’s hand hard, and, after buying
him a cigar, strolled away, humming “Come, Holy Spirit, Heavenly Love,
with all thy quickening powers.”

There was an air of uneasiness hanging over the betting ring at the
Fair Grounds track as the horses hand-galloped to the starting post in
the fourth race. The air was surcharged with expectancy. Judges, always
alert and watching for signs of dishonesty, stared at the horses and
received frequent bulletins from the betting ring. Bookmakers, fearful
of a sudden attack by betting commissioners backing a certain horse,
held their chalk and erasers ready for rapid use. Bettors, hearing
vague whispers of “something doing,” asked each other excitedly what
was being played. Yet everything in the betting ring, paddock, and
stand seemed tranquil. The betting was light. Attorney Jackson was
favorite at seven to five, Patsy Frewen the second choice, at two to
one, the others at odds of from four to twenty, with Mildred Rogers
ranging from fifteen to twenty to one and only a few scattered bets
registered on her. Yet from a score of cities all over America came
frantic telegrams to gamblers, bookies, and owners, asking for track
odds and inquiring the meaning of the terrific plunging on Mildred
Rogers. Big Jim Long, using the efficient organization of the company,
was betting the remaining funds of the concern. More than fifty
thousand was bet in Chicago, thirty thousand in Louisville, twenty
thousand in Cincinnati, then twelve thousand or more in other cities in
which the Long Investment Company had offices.

There was a last minute plunge on Mildred Rogers at St. Louis by
gamblers who had heard the news from outside, and the odds dropped
quickly from fifteen to four to one.

As he tightened the girth for the last time, Hardshell Gaines
whispered to Pete, his jockey:

“Take a toe holt and a tooth holt, Pete. Joe’ll git you off a-runnin’,
and I got a pill in him that’d blow up a bank. It’s timed to go off
about the half-mile if you ain’t too long at the post. All you got to
do is sit still and hold on.”

Humming, he went to the book of his friend and wagered two dollars that
Sword of Gideon would win. He was still humming when he went down to
the rail to watch the horses start, and the hymn he hummed was, “Oh,
for a thousand tongues to sing my great Redeemer’s praise.”

Out by the barrier a perspiring starter was beseeching, swearing,
threatening, and scolding, while a row of horses milled and maneuvered
for position. In the midst of the mêlée of milling horses, Joe, the
assistant starter, a buggy whip in one hand, sweated and swore as he
appeared to be striving to make Sword of Gideon line up with the other
horses. Out of the corner of his eye Joe watched the starter for the
telltale movement which revealed the second that the starter would
spring the barrier.

When that movement came Joe held the bridle bit of Sword of Gideon, and
before the barrier flashed he threw the horse’s head around, leaped
aside, and slashed him sharply across the quarters with the whip.

Sword of Gideon, stung into forgetfulness of fear, leaped forward. The
barrier flashed past his nose and he leaped into full stride, two full
lengths in the lead of the field before the others were under way.

Big Jim Long, his florid face mottled, hurled his chewed cigar against
the ground and swore viciously. Sword of Gideon, running like a wild
horse, opened up a gap of eight lengths between himself and the nearest
pursuer in the first eighth of a mile. In vain Attorney Jackson’s
jockey, remembering his instructions, spurred and urged his mount,
striving to catch the flying leader and set the pace. At the half
Attorney Jackson dropped back, beaten and out of it. Mildred Rogers’
rider, seeing the conspiracy going wrong, made a desperate effort to
overtake the flying Sword. The nitroglycerine pellet had acted and the
aged horse was running as he had run when he seemed destined to be
champion. Length by length he increased his lead over the staggering,
wabbling field, and tore down the stretch fifteen lengths ahead of
Patsy Frewen.

Big Jim Long, his heavy jaws sagging, his face mottled red and white,
his big, soft hands clenched, watched until the horses were within
a few yards of the finish. Then he turned and walked rapidly across
through the edge of the betting ring toward the exit. At the back of
the betting ring he met Hardshell Gaines moving toward the paddock to
greet the victorious Sword of Gideon. Big Jim’s pent up wrath exploded.

“You--and your blank blanked spavined hound!” he raged. “You blanked
old fool, if it hadn’t been for you--”

Hardshell Gaines looked straight ahead, unseeing, unhearing, and as he
walked past the furious gambler he hummed contentedly; and even Big Jim
recognized the long metre doxology.




“JAUNDICE’S” LAST RACE




“JAUNDICE’S” LAST RACE


There remains some of the Christ-spirit in the worst of us, perhaps,
but the most optimistic of missionaries would hardly have assayed
the soul of “Jaundice” O’Keefe with the hope of discovering even a
trace of that quality. Jaundice was a product, or by-product, of the
race-track. He had run away from his home in St. Louis at the age of
eleven, to escape the beatings administered by a drinking father and a
sodden mother, and had found refuge in a freight car loaded with horses
which were being shipped to a race-meeting in New Orleans. Two hostlers
were drinking from a bottle when not sleeping on a pile of hay. They
welcomed the boy, gave him a drink, fed him, and allowed him to burrow
into the hay for warmth. Perhaps it was kindness, perhaps they saw in
him a means of escaping the work of feeding and watering horses during
the long journey.

Jaundice was happy. He loved horses. Perhaps that was the remaining
trace of good after the rest had been bred or beaten out of him. He
had loved the horses which drew the coal wagon his father drove when
sober, and the sight of the trim thoroughbreds filled him with awed
admiration. Arrived in New Orleans, he followed the horses to the
race-track, found refuge in the stables, and was adopted into the army
of those who follow the races. A year later he had acquired a master’s
degree in profanity and obscenity and developed a ratlike viciousness
in fighting when cornered. He was undersized and undernourished, with
the remnants of a fighting spirit from generations of Irish sustaining
him. Stable-boys learned to fear the savageness of his methods and left
him alone. Occasionally a trainer or stable boss beat him with a whip
and cursed him.

Instinctively horses loved him. In one year he was an exercise boy. At
fourteen, with all the wickedness and viciousness of the race-track and
stable concentrated in him, he could ride and was awarded a jockey’s
license and a suit of gay-colored silks.

He rode winners. Winning, with Jaundice, was unselfish. He rode not for
personal glory or for money, but for the honor of the horse on which he
was mounted. When he was beaten he gulped dry sobs and went away with
his mount to console it.

For four years he rode races on the flat, at tracks all over America.
During these four years he made as much money as the average man makes
in a lifetime, and at the end of it had nothing. To him money meant
only expensive meals, clothes remarkable for colors and patterns,
wine, women of a sort, and large yellow diamonds. At eighteen he was
an old man. His face was yellow and drawn; he had ceased to be “Kid”
O’Keefe and become “Jaundice.” He was gaining weight and beginning to
pay the penalty of the carouses which followed each temporary period
of prosperity. For a year he fought to hold his standing. His mounts
became fewer and fewer. When the owners ceased to employ him to ride on
the flat, he became a steeplechase jockey.

Riding steeplechasers in races means in the majority of cases moral and
physical suicide. Jaundice had no fear of physical consequence, nor
any conception of morality. With two drinks of whisky poured into his
outraged body, he would have tried to make his mount jump the Grand
Cañon, had the course led in that direction. Falls and broken bones
failed to break his nerve, but his subconscious honesty was shattered.
On the flat he never had ridden a crooked race. He was restrained by
no consciousness of right or wrong. He tried always to win because
he loved the horses he rode. Over the jumps he had no such scruples.
The steeplechase horses were “has-beens” like himself and entitled to
no consideration. He commenced to ride queer-looking races. He was
nineteen when he fell off the favorite in a steeplechase race to permit
an outsider to win and the stewards ruled him off the tracks for one
year.

What Jaundice did in that year of banishment he alone knew in detail.
Barred from the only home and the only associates he had ever known,
the great loneliness came upon him. He was broke. He stole and was sent
to prison. When the suspension was lifted he went back to the tracks.
He had grown heavier and his eyes and his mind were blurred by drink.
He lived with the horses, attaching himself to the stable for which he
had been a star jockey, and lived in the stalls and the cars. His love
of the animals themselves had waned. Drudgery and vicious living had
warped even that instinct. When he dared he became a tout, whispering
information to petty gamblers at the edge of the betting ring. When
he left the tracks at night it was to betray stable information to
bartenders in return for drinks.

When he was twenty-two there remained two loves by which it was proved
that all good can not be smelted out of a human being. One was for Doc
Grausman, the gallant bay stake horse of the stable, whose dam he had
ridden to victory many times. The other was for Lord James.

On race-tracks there is something in a name. Jaundice received his
because his complexion had become a dirty yellow. Lord James was
so called because the one spark of decency remaining in him caused
him to conceal his family name. It was reputed that he was the son
of an English nobleman and that he could have a title and estate if
he returned to England. Rags of an old pride and remnants of decent
breeding restrained Lord James from mentioning the family name as his
own or from returning home to disgrace them. He had come to America,
a younger son, with a stable of race-horses and high hopes. Robbed,
fleeced, he had “quit.” Jaundice can not be spoken of as having
degenerated. His original height permitted but a slight fall. But Lord
James had sunk to even lower levels. He was a cadger, a tout, and a
sneak-thief at such times when no risk was involved.

No one around the tracks hated either Lord James or Jaundice. They
pitied Jaundice, but the touts themselves despised Lord James. He had
lost all his courage, if he ever possessed any, and drink had sapped
his health and his brain. Of the trio, only Doc Grausman bore his name
honestly. His names were those of his sire and his granddam, and he was
of royal blood and three years old.

When Lord James and Jaundice had become friends no one knew. Probably
it was during Jaundice’s career as a winning jockey, while he scattered
money recklessly after every winning race. Upon such boys Lord James
had preyed for years. These two had nothing in common. Race, religion,
birth, breeding, and education made them different, but they met in the
thick scum of vice and became inseparable. For Lord James, Jaundice
stole and betrayed stable secrets, pulled race-horses, bought drinks,
and furnished food and lodging. It is not recorded that Lord James ever
did anything for Jaundice.

These two sank lower and lower together. When the majority of the
race-tracks of the country were closed, they disappeared from the
world of sport, starved, and served prison terms together. When racing
reopened, they reappeared. Jaundice had developed a cough. His wasted
body revealed the ravages of tuberculosis. Lord James was wearing, with
a pitiful effort to maintain an air of decency, a suit purchased with
his last remittance money two years before.

The horses were racing at Jamaica and the weather was raw and rainy.
They experienced difficulty in gaining an entry to the track and were
compelled to remain outside, shivering and wet, until the day’s sport
ended. Then a negro stable-boy allowed them to sleep with him in a
stall, and Jaundice procured food from the camp-fires, where no one
ever is refused.

Lord James did not get up the next morning. He had crawled into the hay
with wet clothing and in the morning he had a fever. Jaundice brought
him food, but he did not eat. All day he remained huddled in the hay,
covered with horse blankets, his face turned to the board wall. He was
thinking and his mind was Gethsemane.

During the night Lord James touched Jaundice with his hand and waked
him. Very quietly and with a return of long-forgotten dignity, he
entrusted to Jaundice an envelope upon which was written an address in
England, charging him to mail it and allow no one to see it. He asked
Jaundice to see the boys and ask them to bury him decently. Then he
gripped Jaundice’s hand and died gamely, sustained by the traditions of
his race and class. Jaundice alone wept. It was the first time in many
years he had wept, and he was ashamed of his tears.

Around the race-track no man connected with the game dies and lacks a
decent funeral, but there was scant sympathy for Lord James. The hat
was passed, bookmakers, jockeys, trainers, owners, grafters, even the
pickpockets, contributing, but their contributions were small. The
whole amounted to eighty dollars. Jaundice was not satisfied. Had he
been satisfied, there would have been no story to tell.

On the day following the horses moved to Belmont Park to open the
racing season on that track, and Doc Grausman was entered to start in
a high-weight handicap. Doc Grausman belonged to a wealthy man whose
colors Jaundice had often carried to victory. This owner had not
entered the horse in the handicap with any expectation of winning. The
colt needed work, and he wanted to see how well the three-year-old
could carry weight racing against all aged horses.

Jaundice had not slept. His clothing still was damp and he was
coughing. For the time his abiding love for Doc Grausman was put in the
background while he went from man to man begging money to give Lord
James what he considered a proper and fitting funeral. The undertaker
wanted one hundred and fifty dollars. Jaundice was determined to raise
the sum before the afternoon’s sport ended.

Shortly before the bugle sounded, calling the horses from the paddock
for the first race, a fractious colt lashed out with his feet and
kicked the jockey who had been employed to ride Doc Grausman in the
fourth. Jaundice heard of the accident within a few minutes. It was he
who hurried to the club-house and informed the owner.

“Thanks, Jaundice,” the owner said carelessly. “I wanted the colt to
have the workout. Now, I suppose I’ll have to scratch him. I don’t want
to put a strange boy up.”

“Mister Phil,” said Jaundice, inspired with a sudden idea, “let me ride
Doc Grausman. I’m down to weight, Mister Phil. I only weigh a hundred
and twenty-eight now. Let me ride him, Mister Phil, and I’ll win.”

His voice was pleading, his eyes and manner appealing, and he coughed
harder. The owner was surprised and laughed slightly. “I’m afraid it
can not be fixed, Jaundice,” he said lightly. “How do you stand with
the stewards?”

“I’m clean with them now, Mister Phil. They ain’t got nothin’ on me.
They never could prove I pulled Lady Rose. I’m down to weight, Mister
Phil, and that Doc Grausman horse likes me.”

His eagerness and the truth of the final statement decided the matter.

“I’ll see the stewards and explain,” said the owner. “He’s only in
for the workout, and perhaps they’ll stand for it. Sure you’re strong
enough to handle the colt?”

The owner had observed the cough, and Jaundice checked it with an
effort.

“Yes, Mister Phil, I’m all right. Just caught a cold. Get this mount
for me, Mister Phil. I’ve got to plant Lord James decent.”

“That old bum dead at last?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve got to get a hundred and fifty to plant him, and the
boys ain’t kicking in fast. Let me ride this Doc Grausman hoss and I’ll
plant Lord James swell, like his family would want him.”

The owner passed over a twenty-dollar banknote. What he told the track
officials no one knows, but when the fourth race was called, Jaundice,
carefully hiding his cough, rode forth for the first time in four years
wearing the colors of his old stable.

The bookmakers were laying thirty to one against Doc Grausman, and a
wit in the ring said it was ten to one the colt, twenty to one the boy.
What was not known was that Jaundice had taken the money that had been
contributed to bury Lord James and wagered it three ways, straight,
place, and show, on Doc Grausman. A new generation of jockeys faced
the start, a generation that knew nothing of the skill of the boy who
had ridden champions. The new boys, with the contempt that youth holds
for the “has-been,” jeered at Jaundice, and hurled insulting epithets
at him as they wheeled and maneuvered for the advantage of the break.
Jaundice did not retort with oaths and vilifications as he would have
done in other days. He was afraid he would start to cough.

The barrier flashed. Jaundice had been holding Doc Grausman steady
during the milling of the others. Out of the corner of the eye he had
caught the betraying arm movement of the starter an instant before the
barrier flashed upward, had shot Doc Grausman at the starting line
just the instant it flickered past his nose, had beaten the start a
length and a half while the others were taking the first jump and sent
him roaring down the long straight-away for four and a half furlongs.
Riding him out desperately at the end, he held the lead by half a
length over the favorite.

As the horses paraded back past the stands, he held his lips tightly
pressed together. He staggered a little as he weighed out, and in the
paddock his lips were reddened. The strain of the ride had opened the
old wounds in his lungs.

An hour later he ordered the undertaker to give Lord James the best
funeral he could for one thousand two hundred dollars and paid over the
money. There remained for his share of the victory just twenty-seven
dollars.

The news spread around the track that evening that Jaundice was to
give Lord James a “swell funeral.” Curiosity was aroused. Touts,
stable-boys, bookmakers’ helpers, a few jockeys, attended. It
happened that Jaundice came to me to consult as to the minister, and
I had secured the services of a wonderful little rector who is much
interested in all human beings.

The funeral was the strangest one I ever attended. The little minister
was doing his best to comfort the mourners, but plainly was at a
disadvantage because Jaundice was the only mourner. Jaundice, through
some instinctive sense of respect for the dead, was standing very
awkwardly and tears were rolling down his cheeks. He was weeping for
the second time in his life. Finally the little rector read from the
service: “He is not dead, but sleeping.”

Jaundice started, then stared, reached instinctively for his pocket,
and sobbed in a whisper: “Ten dollars will win you twenty-seven if you
think old Lord James is only sleeping.”

His reversion to instinct raised a laugh. For the first time the
assemblage was getting its money’s worth. The little rector was
very much shocked. He could not understand that Jaundice meant no
disrespect. He argued that no man could live in the United States and
be so completely ignorant of religion. I said that Jaundice thought
Jesus Christ was a cuss word and that his only knowledge that he
possessed an immortal soul was from hearing it God damned by trainers
and others.

A week later I heard that Jaundice was in a Brooklyn hospital and in
bad shape. I went to see him to get for a newspaper the story of a
jockey who, while sick to death, rode in a race to win money enough
to bury a friend. He was propped up in bed, coughing. The doctor had
told me he had but a little time to live. He was glad to see me and
inquired how I liked Lord James’ funeral.

“Great class to that, Jaundice; best I ever attended.”

“No one can’t say that I piked,” he responded, beaming at the praise.
“I planted Lord James swell, and his folks can’t ever say I didn’t.”

“You’re looking better,” I lied. “Be back on the track pretty soon?”

“Lord James won’t beat me more than a neck,” he said without emotion.
“Something busted inside me during that race. Have you heard how Doc
Grausman is comin’ along? He sure ought to win that stake this week.”

Presently he spoke of the little rector. “What do you think of that
guy?” he asked, rather contemptuous of the ignorance of the minister.
“He thought Lord James was only sleeping, but he wouldn’t back his
opinion with coin.”

I strove to explain, without much success.

“That little guy is all right,” said Jaundice. “Did you hear what he
said about Lord James havin’ a chanst on that track he was talking
about? Say, Lord James has about as much chanst as I have.”

“Everyone has a chance,” I said feebly.

“Me?” he asked in surprise.

“Sure; the Book says everyone has who repents.”

“I ain’t got nothin’ to repent of exceptin’ pullin’ three or four of
them bum chasers. The stewards couldn’t get nothin’ on me at that.”

“The Judges up there know it all.”

“Know everything? Then, say, what chanst has a guy got?”

As a religious prospect the case was too hard, so I telephoned the
little rector and gave it over to him. He called upon Jaundice several
times, and the following week I went to the hospital again. Jaundice
was weak but smiling.

“Say,” he whispered hoarsely, “I got a chanst. That little man says
that them Judges up there knows I was carryin’ too much weight to run
true and that you can’t blame anyone for losin’ when he is handicapped
out of it. I told him about pulling them chasers and lyin’ and
stealin’, and he said that didn’t make no difference, that the Judges
don’t set a guy down forever if he is sorry he done wrong.” He remained
thinking for a time.

“He didn’t have to tell me to be sorry,” he whispered. “Honest, I
always was sorry when I pulled one of them bum chasers when he was
trying. It wasn’t square to the horse. This is the softest bet I ever
had,” he whispered. “I’m going to play it. Them’s good odds--a chanst
to win all them things he told me about and only be sorry. It’s like
writing your own ticket.”

I found the little rector very thoughtful and amazed at this new manner
of man he had discovered, and when he buried Jaundice the next week he
got right down among us and talked about handicaps and weights, and
keeping on trying all the time. He talked just as if he had been in the
paddock half his life, and the last thing he said was: “If I were a
bookie, I’d lay odds that Jaundice cashes that last bet.”




TOUTIN’ MISTAH FOX




TOUTIN’ MISTAH FOX


Prosias Trimble’s protuberant lower lip drooped dejectedly, his eyes
shifted in a scowl until the pupils were dots in the corners of
expanses of white, his russet shoes, rapier-pointed and uncomfortably
overcrowded with feet, dragged laggingly along the marble floor of the
St. Charles Hotel Turkish baths. He went about his task of distributing
towels with the air of one who has suffered great wrong.

In the private rooms and on cots ranged in the dormitory, white men
snored, gurgled, choked, strangled. The sounds of sixty fat men snoring
in sixty keys filled the rooms. Even the snore of the man in room six,
which was a combination of shifting gears, a cut-out muffler, and a
slipping clutch, passed unheard by “Pro.” Even the cheery whistle of
his fellow rubber was unnoticed. The world was a place of darkness, and
Pro’s mood was two shades darker than his skin, the color scheme of
which was that of the ace of spades.

It was a dull night. The St. Charles Hotel Turkish baths were but
half filled with patrons, although overcrowded with snores. The light
patronage and the dejected mood of Prosias were due to the same cause:
the winter meeting at the Fair Grounds race-track in New Orleans had
ended two days before, the army of men and horses that had encamped
in the Crescent City during the winter, and the swarm of plump patrons
which nightly had crowded the St. Charles, had moved northward to
Baltimore, and Prosias Trimble, top sergeant in that army, with the
rank of tout, was left behind, to eke out a livelihood by working
as rubber in the bath-house. The pearl-colored spats, the pointed
russet shoes, the fawn waistcoat checkerboarded in green, the massive
watch-chain draped in two graceful curves from buttonhole to pockets,
the four-carat near-diamond which glistened with fading brilliancy in
the purple necktie, were of the vanities vain: the “hosses” were gone,
and Pro, compelled to return to the profession he had disowned when he
became a race-follower, was not with them.

Two days before this night of gloom Prosias had strutted the streets
of New Orleans--the envy of colored men, the admired of many colored
women. His shining countenance, which reflected joy and happiness, had
added color to the throngs in paddock and betting ring. In the evenings
his presence had graced social affairs of the negro eight hundred, and
Miss Luck had smiled consistently upon him. He had spent three evenings
bidding farewell to the friends he had accumulated during the winter,
had lightly promised half a dozen of his newly acquired lady friends
to see them when the horses came back, and had created envy and dark
hatred among the men by the casual carelessness with which he bade them
polite farewells and expressed hopes of seeing them at Baltimore or
Louisville or even at Saratoga during the meetings.

Until the morning of “Get Away Day” Miss Luck had smiled, and on that
morning she beamed. Prosias and his bankroll had prospered, waxed
fat, and flourished. The customary rumors had circulated on that
morning--the old, old story of the “Get Away Killing” and the feed
man’s bill--and straight from the oats-box the rumor had come to Pro,
alighted upon him, and stung him. It was a hot tip--so hot that it
singed and burned. The tip was to the effect that Centerdrink had been
nominated to win--that he was to be shooed in at long odds, and that
all the grievances of the bettors against the bookmakers were to be
evened up in one great killing.

Pro had it from a jockey, who had it right out of the conference
at which Centerdrink had been chosen to win. Pro had hurled his
bankroll--the fortune accumulated during the entire winter--at the
bookmakers, who, instead of breaking in panic, had handed him back
smiles and bits of pasteboard with cabalistic charcoal characters on
them. Pro had stood to win more than twelve thousand dollars--and he
had stood dazedly while he watched Centerdrink finish eighth. When
the truth dawned upon his benumbed brain he had reached one hand into
the now vacant pocket, seeking car-fare, and, finding it not, had
sought the bath-house and work--his dream of a summer jaunt around the
race-courses wrecked.

Pro completed his task of distributing towels and stood thinking.
Daylight was commencing to show through the little windows just under
the ceiling of the bath-house, and daylight brought with it fresh,
bitter thoughts. He knew that a few hundred miles to the northward the
sun was rising on a stretch of level land, a circular ribbon of loam
laid upon a field of green. Birds were singing in the trees, meadow
larks were rising from the infield. Rows of fires were springing up
along the front of the circular line of low, whitewashed stables.
Slender, graceful horses, blanketed to the knees, were being led around
and around in little circles, the odor of frying bacon was in the
air, the rhythmic drumming of the feet of a speedy colt was sounding
from the track. Far across the velvet infield, near where the spidery
pillars of the stand stood black against the lightening sky, men with
watches in their hands were on the rail, timing in fractions of seconds
the movements of the flying colt. He pictured one vacant spot on the
pickets of the fence--a spot which, but for the fickleness of Miss Luck
and the hot tip on Centerdrink, he would have been occupying.

Slowly a light broke over his face--as sun striving to shine through
thunder clouds.

“Reckon as how maybe Ah’ll be dar yit,” he muttered to himself. “Mist’
Jim Robin he say to me yistaddy mahnin’: ‘Pro, yuh wuthless niggah,
gimme good rub dis mahnin’ an’ when Ah gits to Baltimo’ Ah’ll sen’ yoh
a good thing.’ Yassah, dat ’zackly what he done say, an’ Ah done rub
him till he yell ’nuff. Mist’ Jim Robin he done keep his promise. He’ll
sen’ me dat good thing, den Ah’ll show dese Noo ’Leans shines a classy
niggah. Ah’ll ride in Mistah Pullman’s cahr ’stid o’ Mistah Burton’s
cahr--nothward. Yassah.”

Visibly affected by a process of triumph of mind over condition, Pro
achieved a more cheerful countenance. The happy smile which was his
trademark, and the ingratiating grin which made him welcome among
race-track followers, returned by degrees, and by the time the snorers
aroused themselves and shuddered at the cold plunge before coming to
the rubbing tables his ready laugh and the seductive manner in which he
wielded the solicitous whisk-broom upon each departing guest won reward.

“Um-um, Miss Luck comin’ back,” he muttered hopefully, as he counted
his tips. “Um-um. Dis niggah in Baltimo’ foah Sattaday suah--jes’ in
time foh to see de handicap. Wisht Mist’ Jim’d sen’ me dat tip he done
promise me.”

As if in answer to the wish, the page in the hotel under which the St.
Charles baths are located was passing through lobbies and writing-rooms
paging:

“Mistah Prosias Trimble! Mistah Prosias Trimble!”

“Hyah, boy,” the captain of the bell-boys called. “Doan’ be a-pagin’
dat name ’roun’ de house. Prosias Trimble he dat buxom black niggah
Pro, down in de baf-house.”

“Tellygraft foh yoh, niggah,” the page announced disgustedly, as he
tossed the yellow envelope toward Pro and abandoned all hope of a tip.

“Miss Luck, favor me!” Pro pleaded devoutly as he held the envelope in
his hand. “Miss Luck, bring de good news--doan’ betray me now. Ah needs
yoh!”

“What does he say, Pro?”

“What who say?” demanded Pro, his lips suddenly bulging outward
belligerently, as he swung about to face Mr. Clarence Fox, who had
pursued the telegram from the lobby down into the bath-house.

“What Mist’ Jim Robin say?” responded Mr. Fox, scowling.

“How come yoh knows so much?”

“Reckon Ah doan’ know he promise’ you a tip?”

“How come yoh knows?”

“Reckon yoh didn’t infohm a certain lady frien’ o’ mine?”

“Dat yaller gal too brash wif her mouf!” Pro muttered regretfully, as
he recalled the fact that the lady in question was manicurist in the
Royal Crescent Palace barber shop, Clarence Fox owner.

In spite of his appearance of displeasure, Pro was not displeased. His
mind was working, and Mr. Fox was included in the thoughts. Mr. Fox
possessed money. Pro’s cash capital consisted of the two dollars and
twenty cents secured in tips during the night’s work. Further, he was
aware that in order to turn even a sure thing on a race tip into money,
working capital is required. His acquaintance with Mr. Clarence Fox
had been incidental to his friendship for Miss Susie, the manicurist,
and Pro recalled, with some regret, the fact that during the more
prosperous times of the winter he had been inclined to treat Clarence
Fox condescendingly. But Mr. Fox, proprietor of the five-chair barber
shop catering to the swelldom of the negro district, he viewed in a
different light now. If Mr. Fox could be persuaded to finance certain
illegal but delectable operations, Pro saw a way to overcome lack of
working capital.

“’Scuse me, Mistah Fox, if Ah seem discurtous,” he said, “but a
gennelman gotta be careful when he gits straight tips from gennelman
white owners.”

“Dat all right, Mistah Trimble,” said Clarence, responding to
politeness with greater politeness. “Ah respects yoh sentiments. Reckon
dat a wahm tip?”

“Ah ’low she ’bout ninety-eight in de shade,” Pro responded.

“Ah doan’ ’low dat yoh ’tends to bet enuff foh to cover all de
han’-books in Noo ’Leans?” Clarence inquired flatteringly.

“Don’t ’low as Ah can,” said Pro regretfully. “You ’low ef Ah tell yoh
wha’ hoss Mist’ Jim done name’, kin yoh wait till Ah gits my bets down,
so’s not influence de odds?”

“Ah ’low dat Ah kin. Yoh ’low dat tip look good?”

“Look good?” Pro’s voice quivered with outraged indignation. “Yoh ’low
Mist’ Jim done tellygraft a niggah lessen it good?”

“Nevah kin tell,” commented Mr. Fox cynically.

Prosias hesitated. His mind was in panic for fear of losing the
opportunity to secure working capital, yet the situation was
embarrassing. He found it difficult to approach a business proposition
without revealing the fact that he was embarrassed financially.

“Reckon yoh do the right thing if Ah tell yoh de name ob de hoss?” he
said tentatively.

“Yoh knows me, Pro. Ah always does de right thing, doan’ Ah?”

“Dat yoh repitation, Clarence,” said Pro, vaguely conscious of the fact
that he knew nothing of Clarence’s reputation.

“Always aims to do de right thing, Pro.”

“Hyah she go, den,” said Pro, with sudden determination, as he tore
open the envelope.

“Miss Luck, be mine!” he breathed, as he unfolded the yellow paper.
With Mr. Fox craning his neck to see over his shoulder, he read:

  Shoot the roll on the filly in the fourth.

                                               ROBIN.

Mr. Fox wrinkled the end of his broad nose and looked puzzled.

“De roll on de filly!” said Prosias, his eyes rolling.

“Wha’ hoss he mean?” inquired the less informed Mr. Fox.

“Wha’ hoss?” Pro repeated disdainfully. “Why, dat Ivory Gahter filly,
dat who: Mist’ Jim’s filly, an’ she good. She ripe, niggah, she win
suah, an’ de odds--um-um! Niggah, we rich!”

“Ivory Gahter--I’m gwine!” exclaimed Mr. Fox excitedly. “Niggah, yoh
play de books ’roun’ hyar. Ah’ll slaughtah dem Rampaht Street gamblahs.”

The convinced Mr. Fox, hesitating at the barber shop only long enough
to sweep the till clean, dashed toward Rampart Street, while Pro,
waiting until his financial backer disappeared, ascended to the second
story of the pool-room nearest the hotel, and, after considerable
haggling, persuaded the handbook keeper to wager twenty dollars against
two against the chances of Ivory Garter’s winning. Pro mourned because
he knew that at the track the odds would be twenty to one.

Instead of retiring for the day, Pro promenaded, ostensibly for
pleasure, but always with a view of borrowing capital to wager.
Several times he tentatively opened negotiations, but, meeting with
scant encouragement, he contented himself with remarking airily that
he had remained in New Orleans to consummate a betting commission for
an owner, and was leaving to join the horses that evening, after the
killing.

His probably were the first eyes to read the ticker that afternoon,
when in jerks and clicks the tape recorded the fact that Ivory Garter
had won. Thirty minutes later, with twenty-two dollars in his pocket,
Pro entered the bath-house.

“Ah’s sorry to be ’bliged to notify yoh Ah resigns,” he announced.
“Ah’s called No’th.”

With light heart and faith in Miss Luck restored, he went forth to the
Royal Crescent Palace barber shop by a devious route. At his first
stop he remarked casually that he wouldn’t be surprised if he and Mr.
Fox had cleaned up five hundred dollars, at the second stop he opined
he and Mr. Fox had won seven hundred, and by the time he reached
Canal Street his estimate of probable winnings had passed twelve
hundred dollars and his cash capital had dwindled to eight dollars,
due to sudden generosity in lending and to purchasing cigars for less
fortunate acquaintances.

His mental estimate of the amount won exceeded the figures he dared
express openly. There was no limit to his imagination. Mr. Fox had
money. A hundred dollars should yield fifteen hundred at proper
pool-room odds. Mr. Fox rated himself a sport. Pro calculated that a
proper sport, with money, would bet at least five hundred dollars on a
tip straight from an owner, which at twelve to one--the lowest possible
odds he figured Mr. Fox would accept--would be six thousand dollars,
fifty per cent of which was three thousand dollars. Pro pictured
himself riding into the track at Baltimore in an open automobile. He
even determined to pay admission instead of soliciting an employee’s
badge.

He reached the Royal Crescent Palace barber shop in a state of excited
anticipation. Mr. Fox, at ease, was draped over the cigar counter, and
his very nonchalant calmness sent a shiver through Pro’s optimism.

“Howdy, Clarence?” he exclaimed, under forced draught. “We suah slip
dat one over!”

“Suah did,” assented Mr. Fox, without enthusiasm.

“We ’mos’ ruin dis hyah town, Ah reckon,” observed Pro, inviting
information. “Ah suah clean mah end.”

“Ah’s glad yoh hit ’em hahd, Pro,” said Mr. Fox, without warming. “Ah
wah jest a-wishin’ Ah done had ez much faith in yoh frien’ ez yoh did.”

“How come, Clarence?” asked Pro, with a sudden sinking suspicion.
“Didn’ yoh plunge?”

“Hadn’ no faith a-tall,” asserted Clarence.

“Didn’ yoh win _nothin’_?” asked Pro, unbelief, suspicion, crushed
hopes, all concentrated in his voice.

“Jes’ li’l’ pikin’ bet, Pro,” said Mr. Fox resignedly. “Ah bin kickin’
mahsef. Ah mought a-win ’nuff to be goin’ norf wif yoh. But Ah lack
faith. Ah lack faith perdigious.”

“Yoh win nuffin a-tall?” Pro reiterated, his voice expressing his
ebbing hope.

“Ah win jes’ twenty dollah,” said Mr. Fox positively. “Niggah on’y lay
me ten to one, an’ Ah bet on’y two dollah.”

He hesitated, waiting as if expecting passionate contradiction, and
added:

“Hyah yoh bit foh de tip.”

He peeled a five-dollar bill from a huge roll extracted carelessly from
a trousers pocket and flipped it toward Pro.

“Dat a good tip, Pro,” he said in conciliatory tones. “Ah thanks yoh
foh it. Wish Ah’d had moah faith. Ef yoh git any good ones in Baltimo’,
wiah me.”

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.

“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.

“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.

“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.

“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.

Just before post time for the final race, Pro, flushed and breathless,
wagered the last ten dollars and stood in a small room where a
telegraph operator clicked away at a key and received the news from the
distant track.

“Two hundred at fohty mek eight thousan’,” he figured, “a hunnerd at
thutty mek three thousan’, a hunnerd at twenty-five mek two thousan’
five hunnerd.”

Laboriously he checked off his bets and strove to strike the total.

“Ah win t’irteen thousan’ fibe hunnerd dollah,” he said dazedly. “Add
dat eight hunnerd an’ fohty, and dat’ll mek me win fo’teen thousan’
t’ree hunnerd an’ fohty dollah.”

“Ah ’low when Ah gits to Baltimo’ Ah staht a stable ob hosses,” he
said. “Ah ’low Ah call it de Miss Luck Stable. Mah colahs will be
scahlet an’ puhple, wif a yaller sash an’ a green cap--”

His reverie was interrupted by the man at the telegraph instrument
calling aloud what the clicking instrument told him.

“Mai-Blanc at the quarter,” he said. “Mayor Behrmann second, Maude
G. third. At the half: Mai-Blanc leads, Chicago Fritz second, Mayor
Behrmann third. The three quarters: Mayor Behrmann by half a length,
Mai-Blanc second, Al Kray third.”

There was a pause.

“Hyar come Irene,” said Pro softly to himself, seeing with the eyes of
desire.

“Stretch, the same,” said the caller wearily. “The winner--”

There was another long pause, and Pro, swallowing hard, said:

“Come on, yoh Irene W.!”

“The winner--Mayor Behrmann, Chicago Fritz second, Vicksburg Sal third.”

Pro stood with his lower lip quivering and his eyes big with
bewilderment. Then he edged slowly toward the operator. “Mistah,” he
said, striving to speak casually, “Irene W. wah scratched in dat race,
wah she?”

“Irene W.?” said the operator disdainfully. “Bah! She ran last.”

Slowly, as if in a trance, Prosias made his way down into the street
and stood staring across toward the barber shop of Clarence Fox. Light
broke upon his bewildered brain, and he muttered:

“Ah done touted mahsef!”




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.





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