"Yes. Haven't you ever heard of Tapwater?"
"Oh, sure! That drip's running all the time!"
Joyce tossed me a reproving glance.
"This is a matter of gravity, Donald," she stated, "and you keep treating it with levity. Sandy, do you really own Tapwater? He's the colt who won the Monmouth Futurity, isn't he?"
"That's right. And four other starts this season. That's been our big trouble. He shows such promise that the judges have placed him under a terrific weight handicap. To run in next week's Gold Stakes, for instance, he would have to carry 124 pounds. I was hesitant to enter him because of that. But with Pat's new invention—" She turned to Pat, eyes glowing—"he could enter and win!"
Pat said uncertainly, "I don't know. I don't like gambling. And it doesn't seem quite ethical, somehow—"
I asked Sandy, "Suppose he ran carrying 124. What would be the probable odds?"
"High," she replied, "Very high. Perhaps as high as forty to one."
"In that case," I decided, "it's not only ethical, it's a moral obligation. If you're opposed to gambling, Pat, what better way can you think of to put the parimutuels out of business?"
"And besides," Sandy pointed out, "this would be a wonderful opportunity to display your new discovery before an audience of thousands. Well, Pat? What do you say?"