It was a most accurate typewritten sheet, giving age, pedigree, description and detailed action in every race; but the point that caught Wallingford’s eye was the name of the owner.
“One of Jake Block’s horses, by George!” he said, and fell into silent musing from which he was interrupted by the girl, who was laughing.
“Here’s your party,” she said to Blackie, handing him an envelope. “This twenty’s in it, and I think it’s bad money.”
Blackie passed the bill to Wallingford, who slipped it through experienced fingers.
“You couldn’t pass this one on an organ-grinder’s monkey,” he said, chuckling. “But that’s all right; just put ’em on the wiring-list, anyhow. Make ’em lose their money. It’s the only way you can get even.”
The girl looked to Blackie for instructions, and he nodded his head.
“Who sent it?” asked Wallingford idly.
“Peters is the name signed here,” replied Blackie. “That means Harry Phelps. I gave Tillie all the aliases this bunch of crimples carry around with them, knowing they’d probably send it in that way.”
Wallingford nodded comprehendingly.