CHAPTER XVI
IN WHICH WALLINGFORD AND BLACKIE DAW ENJOY
THEMSELVES
On Monday, nearing noon, Wallingford dropped into a flashy café just off Broadway, where he knew he would be bound to find some one of his quartet. He found Short-Card Larry there alone, his long, thin fingers clasped around a glass of buttermilk.
“Hello, Wallingford,” he said, grinning. “Going out to the track to-day?”
“I’m not going to miss a race till the meeting closes,” asserted Wallingford. “I’ve a good one to-day that I’m going to send in a couple of hundred on.”
“What is it?” asked Larry.
“Governor.”
“Governor!” snorted Larry. “Who’s in the race with him?” He drew a paper to him and turned to the entries. “Why,” he protested, “there isn’t a plug in that race that can’t come back to hunt him.”