Narrative of the Red-Haired, Freckle-Faced Tout Who Had a Good Thing up His Sleeve.
When the first line of betting on the fifth race at Gravesend was chalked up shortly after 4 o'clock in the Harlem street poolroom on Wednesday afternoon last, the red-haired, freckle-faced tout gave one swift glance at the figures, clutched his armful of "dope" books and sped over to a corner of the room where two flashy, well-fed looking chaps sat tilted back in chairs, smoking and unconcernedly waiting for the running of a race at Latonia in which they had a good thing.
"Here's the soft spot o' your life," said the red-haired, freckle-faced tout, pulling a chair up alongside the two unconcerned-looking chaps. "This'll be like pullin' th' milk teeth out o' a fox terrier's face. This is a real dill pickle. Are you two comin' out into th' garden, Maud, or are you goin' t' let this one get away from you."
"Back t' your dray," said one of the unconcerned-looking chaps. "Another stiff, hey? T' your dray!"
The red-haired, freckle-faced tout pulled his chair closer to them.
"But this is th' hand-made, copper-coiled mash," said he, earnestly. "It's on'y onct in a while that you get them people that lays th' figures out o' line like they are on this one. This is th' mellow goods. Just send a few aces along on it, that's all. It's 100 to 1."
"Now you stawp, Red!" said the other unconcerned-looking man. "You stawp, you rude thing!"
"He'll come home on th' bit," said "Red." "Lemme show you where he's been landin', an' you can see if he's any 100 t' 1 toss. Lemme pass you th' line, an' if you don't take none o' it, then I'm on a cattle boat by way o' Glasgow," and the red-haired, freckle-faced tout opened up one of his dope books and started to show the pair of flashy looking chaps where Rolling Boer had finished in his previous races.
"Go take a sail with yourself, Red," put in one of the easy-looking chaps. "Nothin' doin'. Rolling Boer, hey? Not with Fenian bonds, good when Ireland's free. Rolling Boer, you say, Red? When did they get that one out o' the cavalry? Rolling Boer, 'll still be jogging down the stretch when you're in bed, Reddy. Say, it's a wonder you don't dig up a live one 'casionally. Stop trekkin. Winter'll be coming on soon, and you'll be nix the price of a doss. Rolling Boer! To the woods!"
The red-haired tout mopped his face with a frayed blue polka-dotted handkerchief.