“Razzoo!” snorted Short-Card Larry. “Was you in on that assassination? Why, that goat hasn’t won a race since the day before Adam ate the apple, and the jockey he had on to-day couldn’t put up a good ride on a street car. How did you happen to land on it?”
Blandly Wallingford produced the telegram he had received that morning.
“This wire,” he condescendingly explained, “is from the National Clockers’ Association of Boston, Massachusetts, United States of America, who are charitable enough to pass out long-shot winners, at the mere bag-o’-shells service-price of five dollars per day or twenty per week.”
They looked from the magic word “Razzoo” to the smiling face of J. Rufus more in sorrow than in anger.
“And they happened to hand you a winner!” said the cadaverous Mr. Teller, folding the telegram dexterously with the long, lean fingers of one hand, and passing it back as if he hated to see it.
“Winner is right,” agreed J. Rufus. “I couldn’t pick ’em any other way, and I took a chance on this game because it’s just as good a system as going to a clairvoyant or running the cards.”
There was a short laugh from the raw-boned Mr. Pickins.
“I don’t suppose they’ll ever do it again,” he observed, “but I feel almost like taking a chance on it myself.”
“Go to it,” advised J. Rufus heartily. “Go to it, and come home with something substantial in your pocket, like this,” and most brazenly, even in the face of what he knew of them, young Wallingford flaunted before their very eyes an assorted package of orange-colored bank-bills, well calculated to excite discord in this company. “Lovely little package of documents,” he said banteringly; “and I suppose you burglars are already figuring how you can chisel it away from me.”
They smiled wanly, and the smile of Larry Teller showed his teeth.