“But you think it’s safe to bet on horse racin’, don’t you, Tom Flannery?”
“Well, it’s safer’n what spekerlatin’ is, that’s what I think, Bob Hunter.”
“Humph! You know a lot, don’t you, Tom Flannery?”
“No, I don’t know a lot about them Wall Street schemes, ef that’s what you mean; but I guess I can pick a winner at racin’.”
“Well, ef you don’t know nothin’ about spekerlatin’, how are you goin’ to use any judgment? Tell me that now, Tom Flannery.”
“You kinder want to bulldoze me, don’t you, Bob Hunter? You’ve got your head sot on spekerlatin’, and you want to make me think jest like you do.”
“You tire me, Tom Flannery,” said Bob, with a great show of disgust. “I’d try and have some sense, ef I was you.”
“All right, Bob, then I’ll try ’n’ have some sense—I’ll do jest as you say, and spekerlate till my five dollars is all blowed in. Now, does that satisfy you, Bob?”
Tom Flannery had almost always yielded readily to Bob’s judgment. This sudden independence of opinion, therefore, was a surprise to young Hunter.
“Why, that’s all right, Tom,” said he, instantly changing his attitude. “I don’t care nothin’ about your spekerlatin’ ef you don’t want to; but I want to make some money, that’s what I do, and I thought you did too, Tom.”