“Fine work. Well, just you string him along till he gives you the name of a sure winner in advance; jolly it out of him.”
“Not on your three-sheet litho!” negatived the Beauty. “I never yet worked one mash against another. I guess you’d expect to play even on that tip, eh?”
“Sure, we’ll play it,” admitted Wallingford; “but better than that, I’ll shred this Harry Phelps crowd so clean they’ll have to borrow car fare.”
She thought on this possibility with sparkling eyes. She was against the “Phelps crowd” on principle. Also—well, Wallingford had always been a perfect gentleman.
“Are you sure you can do it?” she wanted to know.
“It’s all framed up,” he asserted confidently; “all I want is the name of that winner.”
The Beauty considered the matter seriously, and in the end silently shook hands with him. The pro tem. Mrs. Phillips sniffed.
This was on a Saturday, a matinée day, and Wallingford went out to the track alone, contenting himself with extremely small bets, merely to keep his interest alive. The day’s racing was half over before he ran across the Broadway Syndicate. They were heartily glad to see him. They greeted him with even effervescent joy.
“Where have you been, J. Rufus?” asked Phelps. “We were looking for you all over yesterday. We thought sure you’d be out at the track playing that Boston Gouge Company’s tips.”
“Your dear chum was in the country, resting up,” replied Wallingford, with matter-of-fact cheerfulness. “By George, I never had wine put me down and out so in my life”—whereat the cadaverous Short-Card Larry could not repress a wink for the benefit of Yap Pickins. “What was the good-thing they wired yesterday?”