Tales of the turf

by Hugh S. Fullerton

He cursed Kirtin, and, strangely, not because Kirtin was a thief and worse. He cursed him because he considered Kirtin a fool. Had Kirtin followed his plan and advice, the scheme would have worked. With that almost unlimited capital behind him he could have fixed enough races and won enough money to pay the dividends.

Long knew that within a day or two, three at the longest, the authorities would descend upon the company offices. With a sudden determination, Long sent a code order to every agent of the company to ignore Kirtin’s message and prepare for a killing.

Let Kirtin go his cowardly way. He, Big Jim Long, would face the situation, pay the dividends, and handle the big money himself. He knew that at least a half million dollars remained in the hands of the agents of the company in different cities—the gleanings which Kirtin had not considered worth the risk to remain and collect. Long telegraphed, ordering the agents to hold all funds subject to his order instead of forwarding them to New York.

Kirtin, busy clearing the desk in his office and destroying the last papers that would reveal any connection between Kirtin, Investments, and the Long Investment Company, heard the news and shrugged his shoulders. He had tried to save the fools, and if they refused to be saved it was none of his affair. An hour later he and his suitcases were in the stateroom of a liner.

At the Fair Grounds track in St. Louis, Big Jim Long set to work hastily to stave off disaster and revive the investment company. He had considered telegraphing the authorities to hold Kirtin, but had rejected the plan as unbecoming one in his profession. Long’s plan of procedure was simple and direct. He would fix a race, pay the horse owners well, and win enough money to declare another dividend, restoring the faith of the investors, who already had begun to show signs of uneasiness as rumors spread. It was not a problem of morals but of mathematics.

The chief obstacle to his plan was lack of time, and he knew he must act rapidly. Already the rumors that the Long Investment Company was in trouble had spread through the uneasy ranks of the gamblers, and Long knew the first one who informed a district attorney of the affairs of the company would bring the avalanche. By rapid work he completed his preliminary plans during the races that afternoon. An overnight handicap was carded for the next day’s races, and Long selected eight owners whose morals he knew were below the par even of racing and each agreed to enter a horse in the race. The chief problem was to prevent other owners from naming their horses to start, and to avoid this one owner agreed to enter Attorney Jackson, a high-class racer, to frighten owners of slower horses out.

That evening a caucus was held. Besides Long, eight owners were present. It was agreed that with Attorney Jackson the favorite, the odds against Mildred Rogers would be at least fifteen to one, therefore by simple arithmetic Mildred Rogers should win, because fifteen times one is fifteen, whereas two times one is two. Long intended to bet the remnants of the capital of the investment company, and, figuring the price would recede from fifteen or twenty to one to ten to one before the money was placed, he estimated that he would win close to five million dollars. Not a cent was to be wagered at the track.

The caucus, after nominating Mildred Rogers to win, decided that Attorney Jackson was to make the early running, cutting out a terrific pace to the head of the stretch, while Betty M. and Pretty Dehon were to come up fast, crowd the leader far outside on the turn, allowing Mildred Rogers to come through along the rail, after which the entire field was to bunch behind her and shoo her home a winner, while Attorney Jackson pulled up as if lame.

The rehearsal was progressing satisfactorily and each owner was receiving instructions as to the way his horse should run. The caucus was pleased. Long had agreed that he would bet at least four hundred thousand dollars, and that he would give twenty-five per cent of the total winnings to the owners. The eight who were playing deuces wild in the sport of kings were calculating that they would divide at least a million dollars among themselves when the disquieting news arrived.

“What the hell do you think of that?” Sorgan, owner of Patsy Frewen, demanded. “Old Hardshell Gaines has entered old Swored at Gideon.”