The place was crowded with men and boys of high and low degree, all half crazed with the gambling spirit.
The time was early in the afternoon.
From his position behind a large desk a tough-looking clerk was drawling out the names of horses with the odds which the proprietor of the place would bet against them.
It is generally supposed by the public that these pool-rooms merely conduct a commission business, and that the odds[{8}] offered there are the ones posted at the race track.
But this is by no means the case. The proprietors of the places bet according to their private ideas of the proper odds.
The rustling of greenbacks and the clinking of gold and silver were heard throughout the place as the detective entered.
“The race in which Denver Bay is entered takes place the day after to-morrow,” mused the detective, “and I’ll just see how he stands in this locality.”
“Say, podner,” he said, advancing toward a heavily-built man behind the railing, whom he knew to be the proprietor, “what odds d’ye give on Denver Bay?”
“Guess you’re from the West,” was the answer.
“Right from the West, and any time you want to know about the price o’ cattle just drop a line to Sol White to the Denver post-office.”