"Never mind that," I told him. "Just you hold on to that rod until the race is over. And when you come back, give it to Pat immediately. Understand?"
"Yes. But I feel so—so lightheaded—"
"That's because you're featherbrained," I advised him. "Now, get going. Giddyap, Dobbin!"
I patted Tapwater's flank, and so help me Newton, I think that one gentle tap pushed the colt half way to the starting gate! He pattered across the turf with a curious bouncing gait as if he were running on tiptoe. We hastened to our seats in the grandstand.
"Did you get all the bets down?" asked Joyce.
I nodded and displayed a deck of ducats. "It may not have occurred to you, my sweet," I announced gleefully, "but these pasteboards are transferrable on demand to rice and old shoes, the sweet strains of Oh, Promise Me! and the scent of orange blossoms. You insisted I should have a nest egg before you would murmur, 'I do'? Well, after this race these tickets will be worth—" I cast a swift last glance at the tote board's closing odds, quoting Tapwater at 35 to 1—"approximately seventy thousand dollars!"
"Donald!" gasped Joyce. "You didn't bet all your savings?"
"Every cent," I told her cheerfully. "Why not?"
"But if something should go wrong! If Tapwater should lose!"
"He won't. See what I mean?"