"Let's have a picnic. Wilbur, get on the job and skid out the liquids. Alla, you may bring out what is left of the crackers. If that woman hasn't paraded over them biscuits until there isn't a piece there big enough to make a nice comfortable mouthful for a young flea.
"Throw 'em away, we don't want to overload our stomachs anyhow. Can you surpass that for a man. Here we've come all these weary miles carefully nursing these bottles to our bosoms and then that excuse there has the crust to speak up and say, 'I forgot the corkscrew.' Can you beat it? Wilbur, you just get on the job and pull them out with your teeth. Get away, you big standup and fall down, I'll show you how to get them out. What do you think us fair sex wear hat pins for, hey, shover? Want some of this jig juice for your tire? Right-o! Ain't I the English scamp? Got her fixed all right? Climb in, folks, and we will journey homeward, for I am beginning to feel thirsty and you certainly don't get the same treatment here that you do in town. Sadie, now that the crackers are gone I wish you would please remember that that is my foot. Say, you can never learn some of these dolls nothing. Nothing personal, my dear, though your hair is light.
"Don't you dish me out any hectic language, for I am a lady. I might forget myself and smear one all over you. Wilbur, are you going to sit up there and see your near-bride insulted by a woman? If you don't come back here and make her stop abusing me I'll take and bump your two hearts together. Now that goes if you hear it and I am speaking in no whisper.
"Can that fight talk even if this is a pleasure party. My, how time does fly! We are nearly home now. Let's all go down the street and see what's doing. Must you leave us? Don't rush away in the heat of the forenoon. So long. My, I am glad that man's out of the machine!"
Sabrina, in spite of the anti-betting law, goes to the race track and returns with money. She also drops a few remarks concerning gentlemen who claim their scarf-pins have been purloined by ladies.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"Them Senators that put the kibosh on that racetrack bill can consider themselves as personal friends of every chorus Fluff that ever scanned a dope sheet," remarked Sabrina, the Show Girl, as she alighted from a new big automobile. "Pipe the ferry-boat. It's all mine; name on every piece. And I am personally thankful to those gents that I am the proud possessor of the same.
"Did I catch? Well, I should hope so, dear. I landed this buzz wagon out of a ten dollar pike bet. Can you surpass it? Talk about playing in luck. Wait until I touch wood. Wilbur says betting on the races beats trifling with the affections of an expense account all to pieces.
"You know that, though I lead a simple and uneventful existence, the inheritance that was left me was pretty near all in, and it was either up to me to get married, get a job on one of the roofs or catch a live one, and I thought the best of all the evils was to catch the aforementioned live one. I am not one of these Janes that goes dotty over the pit-i-pats, and though I always sit up until The Morning Telegraph comes out on the street, the racing news is not the first thing I turn to.
"Wilbur's show closes in a couple of weeks and he is going to the island for the summer. Can that old stuff. I mean Coney, not Blackwell's. I been piking around for a hunch for some time, and just the other evening I was out with a party who is interested in the bet placing business at all of the big tracks, and he said he was hep to a few killings, and any time I would come out he would give them to me and I could play the other books.