“Whipsaw!” scorned Phelps. “Say, do you see that horse out there?”—and he pointed to a selling-plater, up at the head of the stretch, which was being warmed up by a stable-boy. “Well, that’s Whipsaw, just coming in from yesterday’s last race.”
Wallingford chuckled.
“They’re bound, you know, to land on a dead one once in a while,” he grunted; “but I’m strong for their game, just the same. You remember what that Razzoo thing that they tipped off did for me the other day.”
“Yes?” admitted Phelps with a rising inflection and a meaning grin. “Nice money you won on him. It spends well.”
“Enjoy yourselves,” invited Wallingford cordially. “I’ve no kick coming. I’m through with stud poker till they quit playing it with a hole-card.”
“I don’t blame you,” agreed Short-Card Larry solemnly. “Anybody that would bet a four-flush against two aces in sight, the way you did when Billy won that three-thousand-dollar pot from you, ought never to play anything stronger than ping-pong for the cigarettes.”
Wallingford nodded, with the best brand of suavity he could muster under the irritating circumstances.
“I suppose I did play like a man expecting his wife to telephone,” he admitted. “Excuse me a minute; I want to get a bet down on this race.”
“Whom do you like?” asked Pickins.
“Rosey S.”