One day before the race Chester went to the bank and inquired the amount of his 380 balance. It was shown him: one hundred and six dollars and some odd cents. He drew a cheque for the amount, and thrust the bills into his pocket. From the bank he walked straight up Main Street for three blocks, then turned in at a well-kept brick house.
“Mr. Richards in?” he asked of the servant-girl.
“Yes, sir. Right upstairs––second door to the left. He’s got company now.”
The junior nevertheless resolutely mounted the stairs and knocked upon the door. The noise inside resembled a pocket-edition of the Chicago Board of Trade, so Chester hammered again, louder.
“Come!” some one yelled, and the noise subsided.
He opened the door and stepped inside. A half-dozen young fellows were scattered about, but as he knew none of them, except by name, he ignored their presence and walked directly up to Richards.
“I’ve come on business,” he said; “can I speak with you a moment?”
“Sure!” Richards removed his feet from a 381 chair, kicking it at the same time toward his visitor. “These fellows know more about my business now than I do myself, so get it off of your chest, Chester.”
The company laughed, but Chester remained wholly unmoved.
“All right,” said he, calmly. “You’re in the Marathon: want to risk anything on it?”