“Yes.”
“Well, just lay it off. You can do so now at a profit.”
“You don't want to back Diablo, then? Shall I lay against him further?”
“If you like—in your own book. I don't want to have anything to do with him, one way or the other. I always thought he was a bad horse, and—and—well, never mind, just lay that bet off. I shall probably want to back The Dutchman again shortly.”
When Faust had gone, Crane opened the little drawer which held his betting book, took it out, and drew a pencil through the entry he had made opposite Allis's name.
“That's off for a few days, thanks to Mr. Faust,” he thought. Then he ran his eye back over several other entries. “Ah, that's the man—Hummel; he'll do.”
Next he consulted his telephone book; tracing his finger down the “H” column he came to “Ike Hummel, commission broker, Madison 71184.”
Over the 'phone he made an appointment for the next day at eleven o'clock with Hummel; and the result of that interview was that Crane backed Diablo to win him a matter of seventy-five thousand dollars at the liberal odds of seventy-five to one; for Jakey Faust, feeling that he had made a mistake in backing the Black, had laid off all his own bets and sent the horse back in the market to the longer odds. Crane had completely thrown him of his guard.
No sooner had Faust congratulated himself upon having slipped out of his Diablo bets than he heard that a big commission had been most skillfully worked on this outsider for the Brooklyn. In his new dilemma he went to Crane, feeling very much at sea.
“They're backin' your horse again, sir,” he said.