“Not on your life!” returned Blacked calmly, and pulled Wallingford around toward him by the shoulder. “I shall have great pleasure in turning over to Mr. Wallingford the combined bets of the Broadway Syndicate against that lovely little record-breaker, Whipsaw.”
“It’s a good horse,” said Wallingford with forced calmness, and then he began to chuckle, his broad shoulders shaking and his breast heaving; “and it was well named. I fawncy the Broadway Syndicate book will now go out of business—and with no chance to welch.”
“All we wise people knew about it,” Blackie condescendingly explained to the quartet. “You see, I am running the National Clockers’ Association.”
Before the voiceless Broadway Syndicate was through gasping over this piece of news, Jake Block came stalking through the grand-stand. Though elated over his victory and flushed with his winnings, he nevertheless had time to cast a bitter scowl in the direction of Beauty Phillips.
“The next time I hand any woman a tip you may cut my arm off!” he declared. “I’m through with you!”
“Who’s that?” asked Larry Teller, glaring after the man who had mentioned the pregnant word “tip.”
“Jake Block, the owner of Whipsaw,” Wallingford was pleased to inform him.
“It’s a frame-up!” shouted Billy Banting.
A strong left hand clutched desperately at Blackie Daw’s coat and tore the top button off, and an equally strong right hand grabbed into Blackie Daw’s inside coat-pocket. It was empty, Pickins found, just as a stronger hand than his own gripped him until he winced with pain.