"Well," said Busyday, "I came down to play Banastar, and I think I'll have to stay with that hunch, if you're agreeable."
"Cert'nly," said the shifty-eyed, with an expression more of sorrow than of anger on his lined face. "Go ahead. Help yourself. Have all th' fun that's comin' t' you."
"Why, what's the matter?" inquired Busyday. "Ain't Banastar the play?"
"And he looks like a duck with a purty good top-knot on him, at that," said the freckle-faced, dreamily, paying no attention to Busyday's question, and apparently addressing empty air.
"What's the matter with Banastar?" repeated Busyday.
"I'm not queerin' yer fun, Cap," went on the shifty-eyed. "You come down wit' th' Banastar bug in yer nut, like all the rest, and I'm not a-switchin' you."
"Look a-here," said Busyday, "what the dickens are you giving us, anyhow? Don't you think Banastar'll win the Suburban?"
"Cap," said the aged youth, spitting dryly and for the first time looking Busyday squarely in the eye, "there's a mare in this bunch that'll run things around all the Banastars from here to Hoboken an' back. She kin fall down, an' win. She kin take naps between poles an' walk. She's a piperino, if ever one was pushed up fer geezers to nibble at. But I'm not a-switchin' you, un'stand?"
"Mare, hey?" said Busyday, looking over his program. "You mean that Imp?"
"Ain't it?" said the freckle-faced. "Well, I guess yah. She win th' last time out with' 126 up, eatin' peanuts down th' stretch, from a bunch purty near as good as this. Banastar? Cap, I ain't no hog, an' you've passed along what coin was a-comin' to me. I'll lay you 2 t' 1 Banastar won't git one, two, t'ree."