“I don’t know. Where’s the dope on Whipsaw, Tillie?”
A girl with a freckled face and a keen eye and a saucy air went over to the filing-case and searched out a piece of cardboard a foot square. Blackie glanced over it with an experienced eye.
“Maiden,” said he; “been in four races, and the best he ever did was fourth in a bunch of goats that only ambled all the way around the track because that was the only way they could get back to the stable.”
The mail carrier just then came in with a huge bundle of letters.
“New York mail,” observed Blackie. “After that Razzoo thing it ought to be rich pickings.”
“Pickings!” exclaimed J. Rufus, struck by a sudden idea. “See if Pickins or Teller or any of that crowd have contributed. Pickins said they were going to try it out, just to see if lightning could really strike twice in the same place.”
Blackie wrote a number of names on a slip of paper and handed it to Tillie.
“Look for these names in the mail,” he directed, “and if a subscription comes in from any one of them let me know it.”
Wallingford had idly picked up the card containing Whipsaw’s record.