^^r-.^i;-<:'. ^■&i<«l 
 
V i\ yLt> 
 
 /y- ^2. 
 
 JOHNA.SEAVERNS 
 
TUFTS UNIVERSITY LIBRARIES 
 
 3 9090 013 420 175 
 
 IS Schooi of Veterinary Medicine at 
 
 Webster Family Library of Veterinary Medicine 
 Gumming^ 
 Tutts University 
 200 Westboro Road 
 
TALES 
 
 OF THE 
 
 TURF 
 
 By 
 
 HUGH S. FULLERTON 
 
 A. R. DE BEER 
 
 PUBUSHER 
 
 New York City 
 
Copyright, 1922 
 
 by 
 
 A. R. DE BEER 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
FOREWORD 
 
 T^HE 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 writ- 
 ing 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, be- 
 cause 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 
 
€o iinorbitli 
 
 SON OF 
 
 RUNNYMEAD AND HYMIR 
 
 who has demonstrated to the world 
 that handicaps of birth and breeding 
 are not insurmountable — that the off- 
 spring 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 vol- 
 ume is dedicated, THE AUTHOR. 
 
''HARDSHELL" GAINES 
 
 "Hardshell" Gaines was the only name we 
 knew him by, although had anyone been suffi- 
 ciently interested to look through the list of reg- 
 istered 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 
 
 7 
 
8 TALES OF THE TURF 
 
 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 colt3 
 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 
 
'* HARDSHELL'' GAINES 9 
 
 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, esti- 
 mated 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 ** tollable, '* his horses were 
 always ** tollable fast,^' his luck was *'torable,*' 
 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 ambi- 
 tion 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 
 
10 TALES OF THE TURF 
 
 York, and, so far as anj^one knew, never had 
 been near a race-track. Not even his name was 
 to be found in connection with the Long Invest- 
 ment 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 Invest- 
 ment Company fronted, was *' Investments." 
 
 Kirtin 's brain had evolved the idea of apply- 
 ing 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 book- 
 makers 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 exclu- 
 sive sources of information from owners and 
 jockeys who were *' interested, '* and its perfect 
 system of laying bets which would assure in- 
 vestors 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 dif- 
 ferent 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. 
 
^'HARDSHELL'' GAINES 11 
 
 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 invest- 
 ments. On one occasion a ** dividend '^ of sev- 
 enty per cent was declared. The first investors 
 had their monev 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 commu- 
 nications 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 *' inves- 
 tors" received astonishing dividends. Some per- 
 haps knew or suspected that the dividends were 
 being paid out of the fresh capital, but, being 
 gamblers, they threw their money into the gam- 
 ble, betting that they would draw out their prin- 
 cipal 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 reserva- 
 tions 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 
 
12 TALES OF THE TURF 
 
 to risk anotlier 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 role 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 dia- 
 monds 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 offi- 
 cials could not discover any evidences of his 
 guilt. Big Jim made no denials of the whis- 
 pered accusations, but blatantly defied the offi- 
 cials 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, hop- 
 ing to learn which horses the company were 
 backing, suspected that he bet to blind them to 
 the real identity of the horses the "killings'* 
 
t< 
 
 HARDSHELL'' GAINES 13 
 
 were made on. They believed that the Long 
 Investment Company was winning vast sums. 
 As a matter of fact, the Long Investment Com- 
 pany 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 ambi- 
 
14 TALES OF THE TURF 
 
 tion 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 pro- 
 duced 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 out- 
 run 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 
 
*' HARDSHELL'' GAINES 15 
 
 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 com- 
 fort the horse when he had behaved badly at the 
 post. The newspapers, on account of his bad act- 
 ing 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 imseeing. 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 
 
16 TALES OF THE TURF 
 
 bags filled with money had been removed from 
 the safe in the luxurious offices of the Long In- 
 vestment 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 Ijong 
 and to every agent of the company over the 
 ganglia of leased Tvdres, warning them that the 
 jig was up and it was time to disappear. 
 
 Probably it was not until he read that mes- 
 sage that Big Jim Long understood the full sig- 
 nificance 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 under- 
 stood now that he, Jim Long, would be held 
 accountable to the law, that he would be fugi- 
 tive 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 Kir- 
 tin 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 divi- 
 dends. 
 
 Long knew that within a day or two, three at 
 the longest, the authorities would descend upon 
 
''HARDSHELL'' GAINES 17 
 
 the company offices. With a sudden determina- 
 tion, Long sent a code order to every agent of 
 the company to ignore Kirtin's message and pre- 
 pare for a killing. 
 
 Let Kirtin go his cowardly way. He, Big 
 Jim Long, would face the situation, pay the divi- 
 dends, and handle the big money himself. He 
 knew that at least a half million dollars re- 
 mained in the hands of the agents of the com- 
 pany 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 disas- 
 ter 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 proce- 
 dure 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 be- 
 gun 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 
 
 2— July 22. 
 
18 TALES OF THE TURF 
 
 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 ava- 
 lanche. By rapid work he completed his pre- 
 liminary 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 At- 
 torney 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 Eogers 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 esti- 
 mated 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 
 
''HARDSHELL'' GAINES 19 
 
 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 win- 
 nings to the owners. The eight who were play- 
 ing deuces wild in the sport of kings were cal- 
 culating that they would divide at least a mil- 
 lion dollars among themselves when the dis- 
 quieting news arrived. 
 
 "What the hell do you think of thatT' Sor« 
 gan, 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,'' de- 
 clared Kinsley. *'It's ten to one he runs the 
 wrong way of the track." 
 
 "He's the worst actor at the post on the cir- 
 cuit," 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 con- 
 spiracy. They cursed him for an interfering old 
 fool, they cursed his stubbornness, they cursed 
 
 
20 TALES OF THE TURF 
 
 his idiocy in still insisting that Sword of Gideon 
 was a stake horse, they cursed his supposed par- 
 simony 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 sus- 
 pected 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 confer- 
 ence with some owners, and when the same own- 
 ers rushed to enter their horses in the overnight 
 handicap Gaines' suspicion had become cer- 
 tainty. 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 hynm. 
 
 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 down- 
 town 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 con- 
 science, and consarn me if I believe it's wrong 
 to skin a skunk!" 
 
 Joe nodded approval. 
 
 ''There's something doing, Joe," said Hard- 
 shell. "Eight of them owners and that slick 
 crook Jim Long is holdin' a caucus. Nary a 
 
''HARDSHELL'' GAINES 21 
 
 •word to old Hardshell, and the Sword is en- 
 tered. ' ' 
 
 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 boss in that 
 race, 'ceptin' Attorney Jackson, and I reckon 
 they ain't plannin' to have no favorite win." 
 
 Joe nodded again and reserved speech, wait- 
 ing for the proposition. 
 
 "I ain't asking no man to do anything dis- 
 honest, Joe," the old man went on — *'it's agin 
 my religion and my conscience too — but some- 
 thing's got to be done." 
 
 Hardshell waited expectantly and hummed 
 *'When temptation sore assails me," hoping 
 that Joe would indicate his attitude or show re- 
 ceptivity, but the assistant starter nodded and 
 smoked in silence. 
 
 " 'Tain't as if I was trying to bribe any- 
 one," Hardshell explained painfully. "I don't 
 want no one to do anything that is agin his 
 
 conscience." 
 
 What do you want me to doT' Joe asked, 
 breaking his silence. 
 
 * ' All I ask is that you help the Sword get off 
 straight, and me and you and the Sword '11 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. 
 
 > > 
 
22 TALES OF THE TURF 
 
 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 tran- 
 quil. 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 or- 
 ganization of the company, was betting the re- 
 maining 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 23 
 
 Hardshell Gaines whispered to Pete, his jockey : 
 
 *'Take a toe holt and a tooth holt, Pete. Joe '11 
 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, *'0h, 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 melee 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 move- 
 ment 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 quar- 
 ters 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 
 
24 TALES OF TEE TURF 
 
 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 go- 
 ing 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 
 w^alked 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, un- 
 seeing, unhearing, and as he walked past the 
 furious gambler he hummed contentedly; and 
 even Big Jim recognized the long metre doxology. 
 
c? 
 
 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 discov- 
 ering 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 adminis- 
 tered 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. Per- 
 haps 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 admira- 
 tion. Arrived in New Orleans, he followed the 
 horses to the race-track, found refuge in the 
 
 27 
 
28 TALES OF THE TURF 
 
 stables, and was adopted into the army of those 
 who follow the races. A year later he had ac- 
 quired 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 expen- 
 sive 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 tem- 
 porary period of prosperity. For a year he 
 
''JAVNDICE'S'' last race 29 
 
 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 Canon, 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 con- 
 sciousness 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 steeple- 
 chase 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 
 
20 TALES OF THE TURF 
 
 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 remain- 
 ing 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 fam- 
 ily 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 degen- 
 erated. 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, 
 
'JAUNDICE'S" LAST RACE 31 
 
 and drink had sapped his health and his brain. 
 Of the trio, only Doe 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 se- 
 crets, pulled race-horses, bought drinks, and fur- 
 nished 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 reap- 
 peared. 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. 
 
32 TALES OF THE TURF 
 
 Lord James did not get up the nest 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 Jaun- 
 dice with his hand and waked him. Very 
 quietly and with a return of long-forgotten dig- 
 nity, 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 w^as scant sympathy for Lord James. The 
 hat was passed, bookmakers, jockeys, trainers, 
 owners, grafters, even the pickpockets, contrib- 
 uting, 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 Doe Grausman was entered to start 
 in a high-weight handicap. Doc Grausman be- 
 longed 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, 
 
i( 
 
 J A UN DICE 'S ' ' LAST RACE 33 
 
 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 con- 
 sidered a proper and fitting funeral. The un- 
 dertaker 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 care- 
 lessly. **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 stew- 
 ards?" 
 
 I 'm clean with them now. Mister Phil. They 
 
 ( ( 
 
34 TALES OF THE TURF 
 
 ain't got nothin' on me. They never could 
 prove I pulled Lady Kose. I'm down to weight, 
 Mister Phil, and that Doc Grausman horse likes 
 me." 
 
 His eagerness and the truth of the final state- 
 ment 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 Jaun- 
 dice 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 boss and 
 I'll plant Lord James swell, like his family 
 would want him." 
 
 The owner passed over a twenty-dollar bank- 
 note. What he told the track officials no one 
 knows, buj; when the fourth race was called. 
 Jaundice, carefully hiding his cough, rode forth 
 for the first time in four years wearing the col- 
 ors 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 Jaun- 
 dice had taken the money that had been contrib- 
 uted to bury Lord James and wagered it three 
 ways, straight, place, and show, on Doc Graus- 
 man. A new generation of jockeys faced the 
 start, a generation that knew nothing of the skill 
 
''JAUNDICE'S" LAST RACE 35 
 
 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 hold- 
 ing 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 up- 
 ward, 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 des- 
 perately 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 eve- 
 ning that Jaundice was to give Lord James a 
 *' swell funeral." Curiosity was aroused. Touts, 
 stable-boys, bookmakers' helpers, a few jockeys. 
 
36 TALES OF THE TURF 
 
 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 at- 
 tended. 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 instinc- 
 tively 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 Jaun- 
 dice 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 
 
''JAUNDICE'S'' LAST RACE 37 
 
 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 re- 
 sponded, 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." 
 
 ** Every one has a chance," I said feebly. 
 
 **Me?" he asked in surprise. 
 
 ''Sure; the Book says every one has who re- 
 pents." 
 
 "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?'* 
 
38 TALES OF THE TURF 
 
 As a religious prospect the case was too hard, 
 60 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 hos- 
 pital 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 stealing 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 re- 
 mained 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 dis- 
 covered, 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.'" 
 
 i> 
 
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 muf- 
 fler, 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 
 
 41 
 
42 TALES OF THE TURF 
 
 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 *' bosses" 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 col- 
 ored 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 af- 
 fairs 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 care- 
 lessness with which he bade them polite fare- 
 wells and expressed hopes of seeing them at 
 Baltimore or Louisville or even at Saratoga dur- 
 ing the meetings. 
 
TOVTIN' MIST AH FOX 43 
 
 Until tlie morning of ''Get Away Day" Miss 
 Luck had smiled, and on that morning she 
 beamed. Prosias and his bank roll had pros- 
 pered, 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 bank- 
 roll — 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 be- 
 numbed 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 
 
44 TALES OF THE TURF 
 
 that a few hundred miles to the northward the 
 sun was rising on a stretch of level land, a cir- 
 cular 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 move- 
 ments 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 occu- 
 pying. 
 
 Slowly a light broke over his face — as sun 
 striving to shine through thunder clouds. 
 
 '* Reckon as how maybe Ah '11 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 '11 sen' yoh a good thing.' 
 Yassah, dat 'zackly what he done say, an' Ah 
 done rub him till he yell 'nuff. Mist' Jim Ro- 
 bin he done keep his promise. He'll sen' me 
 dat good thing, den Ah '11 show dese Noo 'Leans 
 shines a classy niggah. Ah '11 ride in Mistah 
 Pullman's cahr 'stid o' Mistah Burton's cahr — • 
 nothward. Yassah." 
 
 Visibly affected by a process of triumph of 
 
TOUTIN' MIST AH FOX 45 
 
 mind over condition, Pro achieved a more cheer- 
 ful 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 snor- 
 ers 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 mut- 
 tered 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 lo- 
 cated 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 an- 
 nounced 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 
 
46 TALES OF THE TURF 
 
 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 sayT' 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 
 
 i ^ 
 (< 
 
 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 in- 
 clined to treat Clarence Fox condescendingly. 
 But Mr. Fox, proprietor of the five-chair barber 
 shop catering to the swelldom of the negro dis- 
 trict, 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 over- 
 come lack of working capital. 
 
TOUTIN' MI ST AH FOX 47 
 
 i ( fi 
 
 (I 
 
 Scuse me, Mistah Fox, if Ah seem dis- 
 eurtous," he said, ''but a gennelman gotta be 
 careful when he gits straight tips from gennel- 
 man white owners. '* 
 
 ''Dat all right, Mistah Trimble,'' said Clar- 
 ence, responding to politeness with greater po- 
 liteness. "Ah respects yoh sentiments. Keckon 
 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' boss 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 out- 
 raged indignation. **Yoh 'low Mist' Jim done 
 tellygraft a niggah lessen it good?" 
 
 *'Nevah kin tell," commented Mr. Fox cyni- 
 cally. 
 
 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 proposi- 
 tion without revealing the fact that he was 
 embarrassed financially. 
 
 ** Reckon yoh do the right thing if Ah tell 
 yoh de name ob de boss?" 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. 
 
48 TALES OF THE TURF 
 
 11 
 
 *' 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 
 
 jead: 
 
 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 in- 
 formed 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 '11 slaughtah dem Rampaht 
 Street gamblahs." 
 
 The convinced Mr. Fox, hesitating at the bar- 
 ber shop only long enough to sweep the till clean, 
 dashed toward Kampart Street, while Pro, wait- 
 ing until his financial backer disappeared, 
 ascended to the second story of the pool-room 
 nearest the hotel, and, after considerable hag- 
 gling, persuaded the handbook keeper to wager 
 twenty dollars against two against the chances 
 of Ivory Garter's winning. Pro mourned be- 
 cause he knew that at the track the odds would 
 be twenty to one. 
 
TOTJTIN' MI STAR FOX 49 
 
 Instead of retiring for the day, Pro prome- 
 naded, 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 re- 
 mained 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 re- 
 stored, 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 
 fL\Q, 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 dwin- 
 dled to eight dollars, due to sudden generosity 
 in lending and to purchasing cigars for less 
 fortunate acquaintances. 
 
 His mental estimate of the amount won ex- 
 ceeded 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 
 
50 TALES OF THE TURF 
 
 a proper sport, with money, would bet at least 
 five hundred dollars ou a tip straight from an 
 owner, which at twelve to one — the lowest pos- 
 sible 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 em- 
 ployee'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 en- 
 thusiasm. 
 
 **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'f' asked Pro, un- 
 belief, suspicion, crushed hopes, all concentrated 
 in his voice. 
 
 **Jes' li'r pikin' bet, Pro," said Mr. Fox re- 
 signedly. ''Ahbinkickin' mahsef. Ah mought 
 a-win 'nuff to be goin* norf wif yoh. But Ah 
 lack faith. Ah lack faith perdigious." 
 
TOUTIN' MI STAR FOX 51 
 
 < ( 
 
 Yoh win nuffin a-tall?" Pro reiterated, his 
 voice expressing his ebbing hope. 
 
 *'Ah win jes' twenty dollah," said Mr. Fox 
 positivel3^ "Niggah on'y lay me ten to one, 
 an' Ah bet on'y two dollah." 
 
 He hesitated, waiting as if expecting pas- 
 sionate 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 '11 'membah yoh, Clar- 
 
 ence." 
 
 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, bit- 
 terly 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 per- 
 fidy came to his mind, and he struck hard, elicit- 
 ing howls of protest. And during that long 
 night his brain slowly evolved a plan of ven- 
 geance. 
 
 Three daj^s later Clarence Fox, arrayed in a 
 
52 TALES OF THE TURF 
 
 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 star- 
 tling suddenness. From a patronizing familiar- 
 ity 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 indig- 
 
 i ( 
 
TOUTIN' MIS TAB FOX 53 
 
 nantly. ''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 pus- 
 sent, but 'tween frien's lak yoh an' me, it's 
 forty pussent." 
 
 "Fifty neahrer right," commented Pro, still 
 busv. 
 
 "'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 reg- 
 istered indignant surprise. 
 
 "Suah Ah trust yoh, Clarence," said Pro 
 sulkily. ** Didn't yoh ban' me fibe dollah last 
 timef" 
 
 "Dat mah reg 'lar twenty-fibe pussent," re- 
 sponded 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 aftali to-morrah." 
 
 "Lemme know, Pro?" 
 
 "Yas, sah, Clarence, Ah suah let you know," 
 Pro promised. And, as Mr. Clarence Fox de- 
 parted, Pro, leaning upon the handle of a mop, 
 suddenly commenced a jellylike flesh quake 
 which concluded with a noisy irruption of 
 laughter. 
 
< ( 
 
 i I 
 
 54 TALES OF THE TURF 
 
 "Dat niggali 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 
 w^as 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 f oh 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 fob to wahm 
 hisse 'f good. He ain 't no runnin ' hoss. He ain ' 
 fas 'nuff fob to pull a disc harrer." He mut- 
 tered over the form sheet a moment, then de- 
 cided. * ' Jakmino — dat mah s 'lection f oh Mistah 
 Fox in de third race." 
 
 Prosias went off into another spasm of inward 
 mirth. 
 
 He studied the entries for the last race, sud- 
 denly 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." 
 
 if 
 
TOUTIN' MI ST AH FOX 55 
 
 He laughed until near apoplexy and chuckled 
 to himself. 
 
 ''Irene W. : dat mah 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 him- 
 self, and early the next afternoon, as Mr. Clar- 
 ence Fox, attired in the gorgeous clothes pur- 
 chased with the illicit profits of the Ivory Gar- 
 ter race, entered the hotel, a negro bell-boy, 
 propelled by the telegraph operator, hastened 
 through the lobby. 
 
 ''Mistah Prosias Trimble!" he paged. "Mis- 
 tah 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* open it yet," said Pro carelessly, mov- 
 ing as if to place the telegram in his pocket. 
 "Ain't openin' tellygrafs while folks is pesti- 
 catin' '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." 
 
 ( < 
 
 
56 TALES OF THE TURF 
 
 ''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, hit- 
 tin' '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 bosses — 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, ban'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 re- 
 luctantly. "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 hum- 
 bly. 
 
 "How much yoh 'low yoh bet on dat fust 
 hoss?" 
 
 Depen's." 
 
 'Ain' tippin' nuffin' on no 'depen's'." 
 
 i i 
 i i 
 
 < ( 
 
TOVTIN' MI ST AH FOX 57 
 
 ( < 
 
 ( I 
 i i 
 
 ( i 
 
 
 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 boss.'* 
 
 Mr. Fox had surrendered, and he stated the 
 
 figure with the air of a man paying through 
 
 the nose. 
 
 An' fohty pussent fob me?" 
 Dat ouh 'greement, Pro." 
 Dat boss' name," said Pro, opening the mes- 
 sage and stopping in maddening deliberation — 
 ''dat boss' name — ^bow Ah know yob play 
 faih?" 
 
 Yob knows me. Pro." 
 Uh — reckon Ah do, Clarence." 
 Den, what dat boss' name?" 
 Mr. Fox's voice bore a note of irritation, and 
 Pro hastened to ease the situation. 
 
 "K-u-n-n-e-1 C-a-m-p-b-e-1-1, " Pro spelled 
 from the message. *'Kunnel Campbell — dat 
 good boss. Mist' Jim bin bol'in' him fob a 
 killin'. Ought git a good price on dat boss, 
 Clarence." 
 
 Kunnel Campbell," repeated Mr. Fox. 
 Ah's gwine. Ah '11 be back atter dat race." 
 Ah '11 be waitin' wif de second boss," Pro 
 promised. 
 
 When Mr. Fox disappeared with more haste 
 than dignity, Pro threw back bis bead and in- 
 dulged in prolonged laughter. 
 
 "Mistah Fox," he repeated, *'yoh done broke 
 — yoh broke, on'y yob doan' know it yit." 
 
 For an hour and a half Pro tasted the sweets 
 of vengeance. 
 
 < i 
 1 1 
 
 
58 TALES OF THE TURF 
 
 i < 
 ( < 
 
 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 in- 
 creasing 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 '11 take de chanst," Mr. Fox decided. 
 
 J f 
 
TOUTIN' MI ST AH FOX 59 
 
 *'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 '11 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 tick- 
 ets?" 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 cer- 
 tain 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' 
 
60 TALES OF THE TURF 
 
 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," de- 
 clared 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 spe- 
 cial. Ah gwine staht an epidemic ob bank- 
 ruptcy '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 
 
 
TOUTIN' MI STAR FOX 61 
 
 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 resent- 
 ment. 
 
 *'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' boss' 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 feel- 
 ings. 
 
 "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 bet- 
 tin', 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 Pro- 
 sias was betting on. 
 
 Up narrow stairways and do^vn 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 book- 
 makers, anxious to lay off the bets, were close- 
 
62 TALES OF THE TURF 
 
 mouthed and Clarence Fox strove in vain to dis- 
 cover 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 dow^nward from 
 forty to one to six to one. 
 
 Just before post time for the final race, Pro, 
 flushed and breathless, wagered the last ten dol- 
 lars 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 f ohty mek eight thousan ', ' ' 
 he figured, "a hunnerd at thutty mek three 
 thousand 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 dol- 
 lah,*' he said dazedly. ''Add dat eight hunnerd 
 an' fohty, and dat '11 mek me win fo'teen thou- 
 san' t'ree hunnerd an' fohty dollah." 
 
 ''Ah 'low when All gits to Baltimo' Ah staht 
 a stable ob bosses," 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." 
 
TOUTIN' MI STAR FOX 63 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 "Hyar come Irene," said Pro softly to him- 
 self, seeing with the eyes of desire. 
 
 "Stretch, the same," said the caller wearily. 
 **The winner — " 
 
 There was another long pause, and Pro, swal- 
 lowing 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 !" 
 
 W. B. C. 
 
Webster Family Library of Veterinary Medicine 
 
 Cummings School of Veterinary Medicine at 
 
 Tutts University 
 
 200 Westboi Road ^ 
 
 North Grafton, MA 01536 " 
 
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