The next week saw Alec fairly started on a Randwick tram, with an assistant recommended as clerk by Old Sam. As his pouch was devoid of any money but small silver, he had been provided by the provident old gentleman with a twenty pound note, good enough to look at, but not readily changeable at any bank. With this he was to bluff inquirers for their money if the first race went against him.
“No man,” said Old Sam, “will bustle you for his money if you ask him to change twenty quid. In the first place, it is not likely he has got change, and even if he has, he will be extra soft if he would care to do it on Randwick flat.”
The note, however, was not wanted, and was duly handed back. The day had been skilfully chosen. Alec returned to the Coffee Palace as proud as a hen with a new clutch, with £47 10s. in his pocket. This with childish pride he displayed to Huey.
“Better than wood-cutting, sonny!”
That week all the newspapers that would insert the advertisement on credit contained the following—
“THE TINMAN,
Pronounced by all the prince of turf prophets. The only man in the Colonies that gave three straight-out winners for the last Caulfield meeting; five firsts and two seconds for Randwick, and a record for the year never approached in turf history. We have as good as ever for future events.
“Try the Tinman; Tinman, the turf guide. Tinman is not lucky; Tinman acts on information. Agents all over the Colonies. Tinman is a moral. Why throw your money away on stiff ’uns when you can get the office for a crown, straight as a wire, from the Tinman.
Box ABC, G.P.O.”
The fruit of this “rot,” as Huey denominated the above par that he had inserted at the old man’s directions, astounded him. Letters with money rained on him—in small amounts, it is true; still it rained, and the shower was received as manna from Heaven.