The victim squirmed and wriggled and twisted and would have broken away but for the Kid's compelling eye. At last he thought of something to say:
"If this here Bismallah is such a hell-clinkin' good race horse, how come they ain't all bettin' on him?"
"Why ain't they?" the Kid fairly squealed. "Because we've been lucky enough to keep him under cover from everybody! That's why! Nobody knows what he can do; the stable money won't even be bet here for fear of tipping him off; it'll be bet in the pool rooms all over the Coast. He'll walk in, I tell you—just walk in! Why, say! You don't think I'd tell you this if I didn't know it was so? Here comes the owner. I'll go talk with him. You wait right here!"
It was really the owner of Bismallah, who, speaking out of the corner of his mouth, told the Bald-faced Kid to go to a warmer clime. The hustler returned to his victim instead.
"He says it's all fixed up; everything framed; play him across the board. Come on!"
The victim allowed himself to be dragged in the direction of the betting ring, and Old Man Curry watched the proceedings with a whimsical light in his eye. Later he found a chance to discuss the matter with the Kid. The last race was over, and Frank was through for the day.
"You're persuadin' 'em pretty strong, ain't you, son?" asked the old man. "You used to give advice; now you're makin' 'em take it whether they want to or not."
"Where do you get that stuff?" demanded the Kid, bristling immediately.
"Why, I saw you working on that big fellow in the grey suit. I was afraid you'd have to hit him on the head and go into his pocket after it. Looked to me like he wasn't exackly crazy to gamble."
"Oh, him!" The tout spat contemptuously. "Do you know what that piker wanted to bet? Six dollars, across the board! I made him loosen up for fifteen, and he howled like a wolf."