“They’d rather do even the square thing crooked. Well, you know what to do.”
“I’ll send them special picks,” declared Blackie with a grin. “Nothing but a list of crabs that would come in third in a two-horse race. But come on outside; we’re too far from cracked ice,” and grabbing an uncounted handful of bills from the drawer of his desk, Blackie stuffed them in his pocket and led the way out.
It was at luncheon that Blackie made his first protest.
“What’s the matter with you, J. Rufus?” he demanded. “I never saw you insult food and drink before.”
“I’m thinking,” returned Wallingford solemnly. “I hate to do it, for it interferes with my appetite; but here’s a case where I must. I have got to put one over on that Broadway bunch or lose my self-respect.”
That evening, on the way down to the boat, their feet cocked comfortably on the opposite seat of a cab, Wallingford formulated a more or less vague plan.
“Tell you what you do, Blackie,” he directed; “you send to Phelps and to me, until I give you the word, a daily tip on sure losers. In the meantime, bank all your money, and don’t make a bet on any race.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Blackie curiously.
“Land a sure winner for us and a loser for the Broadway Syndicate. Hold yourself ready when I wire you to take a quick train for my hotel, loaded down with all the money you can grab together.”