Tales of the turf
Date: 2025-02-02T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Short stories; American; Horse racing -- Fiction

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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

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:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.

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Table of Contents

- TALES OF THE TURF
- FOREWORD
- AUTHOR’S PREFACE
- “HARDSHELL” GAINES
- “JAUNDICE’S” LAST RACE
- TOUTIN’ MISTAH FOX
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE