“Whipsaw!” exclaimed Wallingford. “He’s stringing you.”
“No, he isn’t,” she declared positively. “It was one o’clock last night before I got him thawed out enough to give up, and I had to let him hold my hand, at that,” and she rubbed that hand vigorously as if it still had some stain upon it. “He told me all about the horse. He says it’s the one good thing he’s going to uncover for this meeting. He tried Whipsaw out on his own breeding-farm down in Kentucky, clocking him twice a week, and he says the nag can beat anything on this track. Block’s been breaking him to run real races, entering against a lot of selling-platers, with instructions to an iron-armed jockey to hold in so as to get a long price. Friday he intends to send the horse in to win and expects to get big odds. I’m glad it’s over with. We promised to go out to Claremont this afternoon with Block, but that settles him. To-morrow I’m going out with you.”
J. Rufus shook his head.
“No, you mustn’t,” he insisted. “You must string this boy along till after the race Friday. He might change his mind or scratch the horse or something, but if he knows you have a heavy bet down, and he’s still with you, he’ll go through with the program.”
“I can’t do it,” she protested.
He turned to her slowly, took both her hands, and gazed into her eyes.
“Yes, you can, Beauty,” he said. “We’ve been good pals up to now, and this is the last thing I’ll ever ask of you.”
She looked at him a moment with heightening color, then she dropped her eyes.
“Honest, Pinky,” she confessed, “sometimes I do wish you had a lot of money.”