"Don't want it," he wheezed.
"What ails it?" Old Man Curry's voice rose in a high, piping treble, shrill with wrath. "It's good money. I got some of it from you. Your slate says 6 to 5, 'Lisha."
"Don't want it," repeated the bookmaker, his eyes roving over the crowd. "Get it next door."
"That's a fine howdy-do!" snapped the exasperated old man. "I can't bet on my own horse—at a short price, too!"
Word ran around the betting ring that Old Man Curry was trying to bet so much money on Elisha that the bookmakers refused his wagers, and there was an immediate stampede for the betting booths and a demand for Elisha at any figure.
The third bookmaker forestalled all argument by wiping out the prophet's price entirely, while the crowd jeered.
"Does a bet scare you that bad?" asked Old Man Curry with sarcasm.
"Any bet from you would scare me, professor. Any bet at all. Try the next store."
Old Man Curry worked his way around the circle, Elisha's price dropping before his advance. His very appearance in the ring had been enough to encourage play on the horse, and the large roll of bills which he carried so conspicuously added a powerful impetus to the rush on the favourite.