The freckle-faced screwed the whole left side of his face up into one prodigious wink.
"Not this cage," said he. "Try the next. Lambent?" and he put one large, white, freckled hand over his face, as if to hide his confusion, and grinned through his fingers.
"Well, Lambent figures to win, doesn't she?" asked Busyday weakly.
"Who, Lambent?" and the shifty-eyed smiled some more. "I'm goin' t' match her in a sweepstakes against me old aunt, and back me aunt off th' boards fer a hog-killin'. There's on'y one in this. Skinch. You can tap on it."
"Which one?" asked Busyday in a wabbly tone.
Again the aged youth bent over until his mouth was within a quarter of an inch of Busyday's ear.
"Swiftmas," he replied. "Been saved up for a good thing, right. If he don't buck-jump in, here's me lid," and once more he extended his half-dollar straw hat for Busyday's mastication.
"Well," said Busyday to himself between his teeth as he made his way through the jostling crowd to one of the bookmakers' stands, "I guess I'm a weak and erring brother, all right, but danged if I don't play that redhead once more, anyhow," and he got $40 for his $20 on Swiftmas to win. Swiftmas won by a head.
"They were too foxy t' win too far off," Busyday was informed by means of a buzz in his ear, by this time well known, as he was elbowing his way again to the cashing line. "Boy drew it fine so's not t' spoil th' price next time out."
The freckle-faced old youth got $15 out of Busyday's $40 winning, and then he looked Busyday over carefully and inquired: