There was a knock at the door, and Carter opened it to the elevator boy with the morning mail. The letters, save one, Carter dropped upon the table. That one, with clumsy fingers, he tore open. He exclaimed breathlessly: “It’s from PLYMPTON’S MAGAZINE! Maybe—I’ve sold a story!” He gave a cry almost of alarm. His voice was as solemn as though the letter had announced a death.
“Dolly,” he whispered, “it’s a check—a check for a HUNDRED DOLLARS!”
Guiltily, the two young people looked at each other.
“We’ve GOT to!” breathed Dolly. “GOT to! If we let TWO signs like that pass, we’d be flying in the face of Providence.”
With her hands gripping the arms of her chair, she leaned forward, her eyes staring into space, her lips moving.
“COME ON, you Dromedary!” she whispered.
They changed the check into five and ten dollar bills, and, as Carter was far too excited to work, made an absurdly early start for the race-track.
“We might as well get all the fresh air we can,” said Dolly. “That’s all we will get!”
From their reserve fund of twenty-seven dollars which each had solemnly agreed with the other would not be risked on race-horses, Dolly subtracted a two-dollar bill. This she stuck conspicuously across the face of the clock on the mantel.
“Why?” asked Carter.