The four began to laugh.
“That’s the hot Boston tip,” gasped Phelps. “Say, Wallingford, don’t give your money to the Mets. Let us make a book for you on that skate.”
“You’re on,” agreed J. Rufus, delighted that the proposition should come from them, for he had been edging in that direction himself. “I’ll squander a hundred on the goat at the first odds we see.”
They went into the betting-shed. Rosey S. was quoted at six to one. Even as they looked the price was rubbed, and ten to one was chalked in its place. The laughter of the quartet was long and loud as they pulled money from their pockets.
“The first odds goes, Big Pink,” Banting reminded him.
Wallingford produced his hundred dollars, and quietly noted that the eyes of the quartet glistened as they saw the size of the roll from which he extracted it. They had not been prepared to find that he still had plenty of money. Jake Block passed near them, and Wallingford hailed him.
“Hold stakes for us, Jake, on a little private bet?” he asked.
“Sure thing,” acquiesced Jake. “What is it?”
“These fellows are trying to win out dinner-money on me. They’re giving me six hundred to one against Rosey S.”
Block glanced up at the board and noted the increased odds, but it was no part of his policy to interfere in anything.