“Hold on a minute,” said Phelps hastily. “You don’t want to butt in on this, Daw. We’ve been making book for J. Rufus all week, and it’s our money. You hold stakes.”
“Don’t you worry,” snapped Wallingford, suddenly displaying temper; “there will be enough to go around. I’ll cover every cent you four have or can get,” and he pushed his chair back from the table. “This is my last day in the racing game, and I’m going to plunge on Whipsaw. I’ve turned into cash every resource I had in the world. I’ve even soaked my diamonds and watch to get more. Now come on and cover my coin.” From his pocket he produced a thick bundle of bills of large denomination. “What odds do I get? The last time Whipsaw was in a race he opened at twelve to one and I ought to get fifteen at least to-day. Here’s a thousand at that odds.”
“Not on your life!” said Short-Card Larry. “I wouldn’t put up fifteen thousand to win one on any game.”
“What’ll you give me, then? Come on for this easy money. Give me ten?”
No, they would not give him ten.
“Give me eight?”
They hesitated. He immediately slid the money in his pocket.
“You fellows are kidding. You don’t want to make book for me. I’ll take this coin out to the track and get it down at the long odds.”
His display of contemptuous anger decided them.
“I’ll take my share,” asserted Short-Card Larry, he of the quick temper, and among them the four made up the money to cover Wallingford’s bet.