Down the line with John Henry

by George V. Hobart

Carlo! you're a bad dog—lie down!

I pointed out the favorite as the one I had my bundle on, and explained to Clara Jane that the only way it could lose was for some sore-head to get out and turn the track around.

Sure enough the favorite galloped into port and dropped anchor six hours ahead of the other clams.

I win over $2,200—conversation money—and Bonnie Brighteyes was in a frenzy of delight.

She wanted to know if I wasn't going to be awfully careful with it and save it up for a rainy day.

I told her yes, but I expected we'd have a storm that afternoon.

I had a nervous chill for fear she'd declare herself in on the rake-off.

But she didn't, so I excused myself and backed down the ladder to cash in.

The boys were all out in the inquest room trying to find out what killed the dead ones.

Then they stopped apologizing to themselves and began to pick things out of the next race and push them up their sleeves.