Realising Chucky's low spirits by virtue of present beer, I suavely made query of his unknown grief and tendered sympathy.
“I've been done for me dough,” replied Chucky, softening sulkily. “You minds d' races at d' Springs? That's it; I gets t'run down be d' horses. I get d' gaff for fifty plunks. Now, fifty plunks ain't all d' money in d' woild; but it was wit' me. It was me fortune.”
Chucky ruminated bitterly.
“Oh, I'm a good t'ing!” he ejaculated, as he tilted his chair against the wall with an air of decision. “I'll play d' jumpers agin, nit!
“W'at's d' use? I can't beat nothin'. Say! I couldn't beat a drum! I'm a mut to ever t'ink of it! I ought to give meself up to d' p'lice right now an' ast 'em to put me in Bloomin'dale or some other bug house. I'm nutty, that's what I am; an' that's for fair! Now, I'd as lief tell you. It's d' boss hard luck story, an' that ain't no vision!
“In d' foist place, I was a rank sucker to d' point of deemin' meself a wise guy about d' horses. An' it so follows, bein' stuck on meself about horses, as I says, that when Skinny Mike blows in wit 'd' idee that he can pick d' winner of d' big event, I falls to d' play, an easy mark.
“Mike is an oldtime tout; an' wit' me feelin', as I says, dead fly, it ain't a minute before I'm addin' me ignorance to Mike's, an' we're runnin' over d' dopes in d' papers seein' what d' horses has done. To make a long story short, we settles it for a finish that War Song's out to win. Which, after all, ain't such a sucker t'eory.
“'It's a cinch!' says Skinny Mike; 'War Song's got a pushover. Dey can't beat him; never in a t'ousand years!'
“It looks a sure tip to me, too; so I digs for me last dollar an' hocks me ticker besides, an' makes up d' fifty plunks I mentions. Mike sticks in fifty an' then takes d' whole roll an' screws his nut for d' Springs to get it up on War Song. Naw; I don't go. Mike's plenty to make d' play; an' besides I had me lamps on a sure t'ing for a tenner over on d' Bowery.
“Of course, while Mike's gone, I ain't doin' a t'ing but read d' poipers all to pieces. War Song's a 20-to-1 shot; I stan's to make a killin'—stan's to win a t'ousand plunks, see!