Carter telephoned for a cab, and as they were entering it said guiltily: “I’ve got to stop at the bank.”
“You have NOT!” announced Dolly. “That money is to keep us alive while you write the great American novel. I’m glad to spend another day at the races, and I’m willing to back your dreams as far as ten dollars, but for no more.”
“If my dreams come true,” warned Carter, “you’ll be awfully sorry.”
“Not I,” said Dolly. “I’ll merely send you to bed, and you can go on dreaming.”
When Her Highness romped home, an easy winner, the look Dolly turned upon her husband was one both of fear and dismay.
“I don’t like it!” she gasped. “It’s—it’s uncanny. It gives me a creepy feeling. It makes you seem sort of supernatural. And oh,” she cried, “if only I had let you bet all you had with you!”
“I did,” stammered Carter, in extreme agitation. “I bet four hundred. I got five to one, Dolly,” he gasped, in awe; “we’ve won two thousand dollars.”
Dolly exclaimed rapturously: “We’ll put it all in bank,” she cried.
“We’ll put it all on Glowworm!” said her husband.
“Champ!” begged Dolly. “Don’t push your luck. Stop while——” Carter shook his head.