"Two dollars!" gasped Little Calamity. "Two dollars?"
"It serves you right for not letting me know about the buzzer! I'd have made him bet more. As it stands, your cut will be seventy-five—if he splits with you, and I think he will. That's a lot of money—when you haven't got it."
"Bah! Chicken feed!" This with an almost lordly scorn. "It's a good thing those judges didn't take off my boots. Then they would have found something!" He fumbled for a moment and produced eight pasteboards. "I had sixteen dollars saved up and one of the boys bet it for me—every nickel of it on the nose. Seventy-five dollars! I'm over eight hundred winner to the race!"
"Holy mackerel!" ejaculated the Kid. "What are you going to do with all that money?"
"I'm goin' to buy a diamond pin and a gold watch and a ring with a red stone in it and a suit of clothes and an overcoat and a derby hat and a pair of silk socks and a porterhouse steak four inches thick and a——"
"E—nough!" said the Kid. "Sufficient! If there's anything left over, you better erect a monument to the guy that discovered electricity!"
This happened long ago. Hopwood's grocery store still does a flourishing business. Over the cash register hangs a crayon portrait of a large yellow horse with four white stockings and a blaze. The original of the portrait hauls the Hopwood delivery wagon. Irritated teamsters sometimes ask Mr. Hopwood's delivery man why he does not drive where he is looking.