“Pompadour,” Winthrop objected, “she’s one of those winter track favorites.”
“I know, but today,” declared Mannie, “she win, sure!” Carried away by his enthusiasm, and by the sympathy of his audience, he rushed, unheeding, to his fate. “If you’d like to put a little on,” he said, “I can tell you where you can do it.”
The District Attorney stared and laughed. “You mustn’t tell me where you can do it,” he said.
Mannie gave a terrified gasp and, for an instant, clapped his hands over his lips. “That’s right,” he cried. “Gee, that’s right! I’m such a crank on all kinds of sport that I clean forgot!”
He gazed at the much-dreaded District Attorney with the awe of the new-born hero-worshipper. “I guess you are, too, hey?” he protested admiringly. “Vera was telling me you used to be a great ball tosser.”
In the face of the District Attorney there came a sudden interest. His eyes lightened.
“How did she—”
“She used to watch you in Geneva,” said Mannie, “playing with the college lads. I—I,” he added consciously, “was a ball player myself once. Used to pitch for the Interstate League.” He stopped abruptly.
“Interstate?” said Winthrop encouragingly. “You must have been good.”
The enthusiasm had departed from the face of the boy. “Yes,” he said, “but—” he smiled shamefacedly, “but I got taking coke, and they—” He finished with a dramatic gesture of the hand as of a man tossing away a cigarette.