"For a pipe," said the shifty-eyed one. "Say, I don't git out o' me Waldorf bunk at 3 o'clock every mornin' for me health."
"Is that so?" inquired Busyday, just for the sake of saying something.
"Not on yer dinner pail," said the aged youth with the shifty eye. "I light out fer th' tracks t' watch 'em at their early mornin' works. I'm a railbird, all right, but I know where th' dough is. I seen this baby that I'm tellin' you about do the five-eighths in a minute flat th' other mornin', an' if he ain't a moral fer this, here's my lid an' you can eat it," whereupon the shifty-eyed one removed his 50-cent straw hat and offered it to Busyday.
"What's the name of this wonder?" inquired Busyday, trying to work up a superior smile.
The aged youth bent over, placed his mouth within a quarter of an inch of Busyday's ear, and whispered:
"Stuart. He'll walk."
"Oh, well, then, I'll waste a ten-spot on Stuart," said Busyday, trying to say it languidly, as if he didn't take much stock in himself or anybody else. Then he plunged into the vortex around one of the bookmakers' elevated chairs, got his feet trod upon, his hat jammed down over his eyes, and his ribs treated to an all-hands elbow massage, and finally succeeded in passing up his ten-dollar bill on Stuart to win.
"Stuart, thirty-five to ten," droned the bookmaker to the sheet-writer, and then Busyday found himself beaten to the outskirts of the crowd.
"You on?" he heard in his ear, and, turning, he saw the freckle-faced one smiling up at him.
"Yep—dropped ten on it," replied Busyday. "Kind o' liked Stuart myself when I saw him entered."