Part 7

"A couple of months after this accident Kelley, somewhat pale, turned up in the paddock at the Gut one morning and announced that he was fit to ride again. His services were immediately in demand, and Mike Daly got him to ride his horse Gloster in the first race on the card. Gloster was the best horse in the race and was certain to be favorite. The bookie, who had used Kelley before his accident and afterward turned him down, got to Kelley by the underground process, through an agent, with the inquiry as to whether a little business couldn't be done on Gloster. Kelley, with all the good nature in life, sent word that there could, certainly; that he could get Gloster beaten by an eyelash.

"The betting opened and Gloster was the favorite all over the ring at odds of 1 to 2 on. Then Kelley's bookmaker began to shoot the price up--first to 3 to 5 on, then to 4 to 5 on, then to even money, and then right up to 6 to 5 and even 7 to 5 against. The way that bookie hauled in the money on Gloster was a caution. It seemed that every plunger and casual bettor in the inclosure wanted a piece of Gloster at Kelley's bookmaker's odds--all the rest of the pencillers still held Gloster at 1 to 2 on--and the bookmaker took in thousands of dollars on the horse. When they were still whacking him with Gloster bets he became somewhat nervous and sent his agent to Kelley again for reassurance. Kelley told the agent again that Gloster wasn't going to win.

"'He's taking in billions on Gloster,' said the agent to Kelley.

"'Let him handle the whole mint on the nag,' replied Kelley. 'Gloster will just about get the place--maybe.'

"In the meantime the judges, who occasionally made a bluff at getting haughty and virtuous, got next to the big odds that one bookmaker--Kelley's bookmaker--was offering against Gloster, and, naturally enough, they became suspicious. Five minutes before the horses were due to go to the post, therefore, they called Kelley into the stand and asked him squarely if there was anything doing by which Gloster was going to get beat.

"'If Gloster doesn't win this race,' replied Kelley, 'you can rule me off for life.'

"Kelley had put every man, woman, child and dog that he knew at the track on to the fact that he was going to win by a Philadelphia block on Gloster, and the bookmaker who had turned him down when he was on the flat of his back with a broken stilt in the middle of winter got the play of all of them. Dollar bets and $1,000 bets all looked alike to the bookmaker. He took all the money that came along without rubbing. He thought he had a corked-up good thing.

"When the bugle sounded and the horses emerged from the paddock, the bookmaker, with his glasses in his hand, was leaning against the rail, and he looked up with a grin to catch Kelley's eye as the jockey rode by on Gloster. He caught Kelley's eye, but there was no responsive grin. There was, instead, a dirty sneer on Kelley's drawn, pale mug, and, as he caught sight of the leering bookie he drew Gloster up for just an instant and spat viciously in the direction of the man who had treated him with such ingratitude.

"The bookmaker saw in that instant that he was ditched. His face went white, and he clutched the rail, and he was still digging his fingernails into the rail when, a few minutes later, the victorious Gloster, who had won by about half a furlong, was led into the paddock, with Kelley walking alongside of him. When that bookie got through paying off the Gloster bets he had taken in he was out of business, and when the story of how it all came about leaked out, there wasn't a man in the game that didn't say that the bookie got all that was coming to him."

THE MAN WHO KNEW ALL ABOUT TOUTS.

_And the Evaporation of His Resolution to Have Nothing to Do With Them._

"Touts," said Busyday, oracularly, to his companion on a train bound for the Bay on Suburban day, "are the derned nuisances of the racing game. You want to watch out for them. If by chance you should get separated from me in the crowd, don't you let any of the sharp-eyed, soft-voiced ducks talk you into playing this or that one. Just you stick to those selections I wrote out for you on that piece of paper. They're the logical winners. A friend of mine, whose brother is a bookmaker, handicapped 'em for me, and I'm going to play every one of 'em myself. That's the only way to win; stick to your selections, and don't let yourself be touted. The man who listens to touts smokes a pipe. Understand?"

"Uh, huh," replied Busyday's friend, who was from Busyday's native town out West. He had never seen a horse race in his life, whereas Busyday was an old-timer and learned at the game, having seen three Handicaps and two Suburbans ran.

"They make kind of a lukewarm effort to keep the touts off the tracks," went on Busyday, disparagingly; "but the touts are too smooth for 'em, and they're always around, looking for good things like you, old man. All you've got to do is just to flout 'em from the jump, as soon as they edge up to you, and they'll shoo-fly instantly, rather than take chances on being spotted by the Pinkerton people. Tell 'em to go to the devil, that's all."

"Uh, huh," answered Busyday's friend and guest, once more.

It came to pass that Busyday and his visiting townsman were separated before they had got off the train. The car was jammed, and in the confusion of getting off they made their exits by different doors. Busyday frantically yelled out his friend's name as soon as he found himself alone on the platform, but, of course, he got no reply. His friend was engulfed in the crowd.

"I s'pose I ought to have held hold of his hand, like a fellow does when he takes his sister's kids out for a walk," he reflected. "This is blasted mean luck from the go-off. The touts'll get hold of him now, sure as shootin', and they'll strip him. Good thing he's got his ticket back to the little old slab of a town where we used to play shinny together."

Busyday roamed around the grand-stand and the betting ring for ten minutes before the slates went up for the first race, trying to catch sight of his friend, but it was no use. His townsman wasn't visible anywhere. Then a sudden swirling and eddying in the betting ring told him that the prices were up for the first race.

"I'll have to pass the old boy up until I get this bet down," said Busyday to himself, pulling out of his pocket the slip of paper that the handicapper had given him the evening before. "Let's see, what one of 'em have I got to win this? Oh, yes; Peaceful--good name, but it doesn't sound as if a horse with a name like that could run much. I'd rather have a horse called Lightning Express, or Cyclone, or Helen Blazes, or something like that, run for my money. S'pose, though, this handicapping chap knows what he is doing, and so I'll just put my first ten on Peaceful to win. Hey? How's that?"

There was a soft, persuasive buzz right in Busyday's ear.

"D'ye notice all the suckers breakin' their necks t' land on that Peaceful dead one?" were the words that formed the buzz.

Busyday jerked his head around suddenly, and he found within four inches of his ear the countenance of a young-old man with red hair, a freckled skin, and a pale-blue, shifty eye.

"Dead one?" echoed Busyday, the red-haired, young-old man smiling amiably in his face.

"Libster," said he of the pale-blue, shifty eye, looking entirely disinterested. "Out-and-out libster. Crab. Run about a dozen sprints, and still a merry maiden. And look at the chancts th' mutt's had to win! Leads th' percession into th' stretch every whirl, and then chucks it. A proper dog, Cap. That's on the dead. Worst quitter on th' grounds."

"Um," said Busyday, stroking his chin and wondering why his handicapper had picked Peaceful.

"I got th' baby," buzzed the freckle-faced, young-old man, after a silence.

"Hey?" asked Busyday.

"For a pipe," said the shifty-eyed one. "Say, I don't git out o' me Waldorf bunk at 3 o'clock every mornin' for me health."

"Is that so?" inquired Busyday, just for the sake of saying something.

"Not on yer dinner pail," said the aged youth with the shifty eye. "I light out fer th' tracks t' watch 'em at their early mornin' works. I'm a railbird, all right, but I know where th' dough is. I seen this baby that I'm tellin' you about do the five-eighths in a minute flat th' other mornin', an' if he ain't a moral fer this, here's my lid an' you can eat it," whereupon the shifty-eyed one removed his 50-cent straw hat and offered it to Busyday.

"What's the name of this wonder?" inquired Busyday, trying to work up a superior smile.

The aged youth bent over, placed his mouth within a quarter of an inch of Busyday's ear, and whispered:

"Stuart. He'll walk."

"Oh, well, then, I'll waste a ten-spot on Stuart," said Busyday, trying to say it languidly, as if he didn't take much stock in himself or anybody else. Then he plunged into the vortex around one of the bookmakers' elevated chairs, got his feet trod upon, his hat jammed down over his eyes, and his ribs treated to an all-hands elbow massage, and finally succeeded in passing up his ten-dollar bill on Stuart to win.

"Stuart, thirty-five to ten," droned the bookmaker to the sheet-writer, and then Busyday found himself beaten to the outskirts of the crowd.

"You on?" he heard in his ear, and, turning, he saw the freckle-faced one smiling up at him.

"Yep--dropped ten on it," replied Busyday. "Kind o' liked Stuart myself when I saw him entered."

Then Busyday steered for the lawn to see the finish of the race. He was trying to get some sense out of the list of owners' colors on his program, so as to be able to distinguish his horse as they raced under the wire, when a calm man next to him, with a pair of field-glasses to his eyes, mumbled:

"They're off!"

There was a big shout all around.

"Lady Uncas out in front," said the calm man coolly. "She'll curl up. She seems to be staying, though, at that. Nope, she's collared. Stuart's nailed her. He walks," and the calm man put down his glasses as the horses galloped past the sixteenth pole.

Stuart came in all alone, and Peaceful was back in the ruck.

"I had my suspicions about that Stuart horse right along," said Busyday to himself. He had never seen the horse's name until the evening before. "Don't know why, but I kind o' liked him. Probably because the Stuart were a pretty swift bunch," and he chuckled to himself over his humor as he made his way to the bookmaker's line to cash.

"Somethin' easy--like findin' it, hey?" he heard buzzed into his ear as soon as he put his foot into the betting ring, and there was the old-faced young man, grinning complaisantly up at him.

Busyday handed to the shifty-eyed one, who stuck to him right up to the paying-off line, buzzing learnedly all the time about the race just ran, a $10 bill out of his $35 winning.

"Th' next," said the red-haired wiseacre of the rail when Busyday had fought himself away from the cashing crowd, "is what you might call a one-hoss race. A one-hoss race, right."

"Lambent, of course?" said Busyday, looking at his piece of paper with the selections on it. Lambent was his handicapper's selection.

The freckle-faced screwed the whole left side of his face up into one prodigious wink.

"Not this cage," said he. "Try the next. Lambent?" and he put one large, white, freckled hand over his face, as if to hide his confusion, and grinned through his fingers.

"Well, Lambent figures to win, doesn't she?" asked Busyday weakly.

"Who, Lambent?" and the shifty-eyed smiled some more. "I'm goin' t' match her in a sweepstakes against me old aunt, and back me aunt off th' boards fer a hog-killin'. There's on'y one in this. Skinch. You can tap on it."

"Which one?" asked Busyday in a wabbly tone.

Again the aged youth bent over until his mouth was within a quarter of an inch of Busyday's ear.

"Swiftmas," he replied. "Been saved up for a good thing, right. If he don't buck-jump in, here's me lid," and once more he extended his half-dollar straw hat for Busyday's mastication.

"Well," said Busyday to himself between his teeth as he made his way through the jostling crowd to one of the bookmakers' stands, "I guess I'm a weak and erring brother, all right, but danged if I don't play that redhead once more, anyhow," and he got $40 for his $20 on Swiftmas to win. Swiftmas won by a head.

"They were too foxy t' win too far off," Busyday was informed by means of a buzz in his ear, by this time well known, as he was elbowing his way again to the cashing line. "Boy drew it fine so's not t' spoil th' price next time out."

The freckle-faced old youth got $15 out of Busyday's $40 winning, and then he looked Busyday over carefully and inquired:

"How about me?"

"You'll do," replied Busyday, candidly. "Name the next."

"His Nibs, the Prince of Melbourne," whispered the freckle-faced, and Busyday glanced at his handicapper's selections. It was the Prince of Melbourne there, too.

"He can't lose," said the shifty-eyed. "Just a pleasant airing fer him. Nothin' to it. W'en you put yer coin down, you might as well stay right here so's t' be foist in line. Put a bunch on."

"I've got some of their money," mused Busyday, "and I won't pass it all back to 'em in a lump."

He got $75 to $30 on Prince of Melbourne to win, bought three cigars for a dollar and a pint of wine, and then suddenly wondered where his townsman was.

"No use trying to look him up, though," he reflected, "in this jam of Indians. Poor old chap, I s'pose he's smashed flatter'n a pancake by this time, without the price of a bottle of pop," and he reproached himself a good deal for not having hung on to his guest when they left the train. He was aroused from his reflections by the yowl, "They're off!" and by the time he got out to the lawn the horses were coming down the stretch.

"His Princelets, with his mouth wide open," he heard the crowd yell, and then his chest expanded, and he muttered to himself: "I always did have a soft spot for that derned old plug!" For the moment he forgot that the Prince of Melbourne happened to be a two-year-old.

"Oh, w'en I pick up a good one as I go along I like t' put me fren's on," buzzed the freckle-faced in his ear, as he made for the paying-off line. Notwithstanding the fact that the Prince of Melbourne's name appeared on his handicapper's list of selections, Busyday very cheerfully gave up one-third, or $25 of his winnings, on the two-year-old to the red-haired youth. The latter soaked the bills away in his white-and-brown-striped trousers, and then he remarked, in an offhand sort of way:

"Well, this is where you pass me up, ain'd it, so?"

"Well," said Busyday, "I came down to play Banastar, and I think I'll have to stay with that hunch, if you're agreeable."

"Cert'nly," said the shifty-eyed, with an expression more of sorrow than of anger on his lined face. "Go ahead. Help yourself. Have all th' fun that's comin' t' you."

"Why, what's the matter?" inquired Busyday. "Ain't Banastar the play?"

"And he looks like a duck with a purty good top-knot on him, at that," said the freckle-faced, dreamily, paying no attention to Busyday's question, and apparently addressing empty air.

"What's the matter with Banastar?" repeated Busyday.

"I'm not queerin' yer fun, Cap," went on the shifty-eyed. "You come down wit' th' Banastar bug in yer nut, like all the rest, and I'm not a-switchin' you."

"Look a-here," said Busyday, "what the dickens are you giving us, anyhow? Don't you think Banastar'll win the Suburban?"

"Cap," said the aged youth, spitting dryly and for the first time looking Busyday squarely in the eye, "there's a mare in this bunch that'll run things around all the Banastars from here to Hoboken an' back. She kin fall down, an' win. She kin take naps between poles an' walk. She's a piperino, if ever one was pushed up fer geezers to nibble at. But I'm not a-switchin' you, un'stand?"

"Mare, hey?" said Busyday, looking over his program. "You mean that Imp?"

"Ain't it?" said the freckle-faced. "Well, I guess yah. She win th' last time out with' 126 up, eatin' peanuts down th' stretch, from a bunch purty near as good as this. Banastar? Cap, I ain't no hog, an' you've passed along what coin was a-comin' to me. I'll lay you 2 t' 1 Banastar won't git one, two, t'ree."

"Dog-goned if I know what to do," mused Busyday. "Here I've been shouting Banastar ever since the Handicap, and I promised my wife faithfully that I'd play Banastar. Say," addressing the freckle-faced, who stood by sorrowfully regarding him, "is this Imp fast enough, that's what I want to know? Won't Banastar beat her on speed?"

The aged youth held up one thumb vertically and indicated with the forefinger of his other hand.

"De Empire State Express," said he.

Then he held up his other thumb.

"Steam roller," said he. "Take yer pick."

Busyday made a sudden dive for a bookmaker's line.

"Which I may remark, in strict confidence," he said to himself as he tugged at his wad and counted out five twenty-dollar bills, "that there may be softer marks between here and High Bridge than myself; but, confound that freckle-faced tout's red head, I'm just a-going to slide along with him and play Imp at that, Banastar or no Banastar!" and ten seconds later the bookmaker was taking Busyday's five twenties and droning out, "Six hundred to $100 on Imp to win."

Busyday was lighting the last of his three-for-fifty cigars over in a corner of the betting ring when the well-known buzz reached his ears again.

"On?" inquired the buzz. "Good and hard?"

"Yep," said Busyday. "Hundred."

Imp's win is turf history. As Busyday handed the tout two crisp $100 bills the freckle-faced remarked:

"An' you ain't th' on'y collect I make on this, Cap. I got a hayseed on th' mare fer $300, an' I had him on all th' rest o' them good things, at that."

"Well, so long, Red," said Busyday. "I'm getting back to town to dinner. Next time I come down I'll give you my trade if I see you around."

Then Busyday went up into the stand to take a final look around for his townsman. He didn't see him, and he started for the gate. Just as he got outside the gate he saw his fellow townsman and guest stepping into a hack. His fellow townsman and guest looked pretty jaunty, but Busyday didn't notice it.

"Hey, there, old man," he called after his friend, and the latter looked around.

"Oh, here you are," said Busyday's friend, with an expensive cigar stuck at an angle of forty-five degrees in one corner of his mouth. "Trimmed?"

"Nope," said Busyday. "I landed on a few little good things that occurred to me after I got to looking at the program, and I win 'bout a thousand. Poor old jay, I suppose they put you out o' business, eh?"

"Not by a long sight!" said his friend. "I ran into a freckle-faced, red-headed duck as soon as I got in the grounds. I lost that piece o' paper you gave me with the whadyoucallem--selections--on it, and so I played what this red-headed chap told me to. Copped out 'bout $2800, altogether. Had $300 on Imp to win the big race."

Then Busyday knew to whom the freckle-faced had referred when he spoke of a hayseed.

A "COPPER-LINED CINCH" THAT DID GO THROUGH.

_Narrative of the Red-Haired, Freckle-Faced Tout Who Had a Good Thing up His Sleeve._

When the first line of betting on the fifth race at Gravesend was chalked up shortly after 4 o'clock in the Harlem street poolroom on Wednesday afternoon last, the red-haired, freckle-faced tout gave one swift glance at the figures, clutched his armful of "dope" books and sped over to a corner of the room where two flashy, well-fed looking chaps sat tilted back in chairs, smoking and unconcernedly waiting for the running of a race at Latonia in which they had a good thing.

"Here's the soft spot o' your life," said the red-haired, freckle-faced tout, pulling a chair up alongside the two unconcerned-looking chaps. "This'll be like pullin' th' milk teeth out o' a fox terrier's face. This is a real dill pickle. Are you two comin' out into th' garden, Maud, or are you goin' t' let this one get away from you."

"Back t' your dray," said one of the unconcerned-looking chaps. "Another stiff, hey? T' your dray!"

The red-haired, freckle-faced tout pulled his chair closer to them.

"But this is th' hand-made, copper-coiled mash," said he, earnestly. "It's on'y onct in a while that you get them people that lays th' figures out o' line like they are on this one. This is th' mellow goods. Just send a few aces along on it, that's all. It's 100 to 1."

"Now you stawp, Red!" said the other unconcerned-looking man. "You stawp, you rude thing!"

"He'll come home on th' bit," said "Red." "Lemme show you where he's been landin', an' you can see if he's any 100 t' 1 toss. Lemme pass you th' line, an' if you don't take none o' it, then I'm on a cattle boat by way o' Glasgow," and the red-haired, freckle-faced tout opened up one of his dope books and started to show the pair of flashy looking chaps where Rolling Boer had finished in his previous races.

"Go take a sail with yourself, Red," put in one of the easy-looking chaps. "Nothin' doin'. Rolling Boer, hey? Not with Fenian bonds, good when Ireland's free. Rolling Boer, you say, Red? When did they get that one out o' the cavalry? Rolling Boer, 'll still be jogging down the stretch when you're in bed, Reddy. Say, it's a wonder you don't dig up a live one 'casionally. Stop trekkin. Winter'll be coming on soon, and you'll be nix the price of a doss. Rolling Boer! To the woods!"

The red-haired tout mopped his face with a frayed blue polka-dotted handkerchief.

"Sey, what's half a ten spot to you people?" he said in a tone of entreaty. "The one you're waitin' f'r'll be 'bout 1 to 4 on, an' this is sunshine money, at 100 to 1. You people know how they stan' them 1 to 4 things on their heads out in Latonia. Say, take me spiel on this, won't you, f'r a fi'muth? Look where he got off th' last time out, an' where he finished! If you can't see him t' win, take th' 20 to 1 third. It'll be a shame t' spen' t' money--but take it won't you?"

The two complaisant-looking chaps turned away from the red-haired tout and began a conversation between themselves. The tout looked very warm, and an expression of despair crossed his weazened features. He mopped his face again with his blue polka-dotted handkerchief and slunk away. He sided up to one of the board-markers and said, out of the corner of his mouth:

"Say, get an ace down on Rolling Boer f'r me, will you? It's a skinch."

The board-marker grinned.

"I'm all out, Red," he replied. "Pushed me last ace up on the last whizz, an' didn't get a whistle f'r it."

"This super's good f'r a deuce in any hock shop--I've had it in f'r three," went on the red-haired tout, appealingly, pulling out an old silver time-piece and trying to pass it to the board-marker. "Lemme have a buck on it, an' I'll pass you back five f'r it after th' ring's around Rolling Boer. How's that?"

"I'm all t' th' gruel, didn't I tell you?" replied the man with the chalk, with some asperity. "I got a ticker o' me own. You're puffin' secon's, Red. Rolling Boer couldn't beat me little sister skippin' rope."

The red-haired tout walked away with an expression of deep misery on his face.

"They think they are wise t' th' ponies, hey?" he muttered. "It's bean bag they ought t' be playin'!"

He dug a quarter, two dimes and a nickel out of his change pocket and looked at the coins dismally.

"It's me feed coin," he mumbled, "but maybe I can get some piker t' go along with f'r another four bits."

He walked over to a shabby-looking chap who was slouching around with his hands in his pockets.

"Say, you got a bundle on you?" the red-haired tout inquired of the shabby-looking man.

The shabby-looking man dug a fifty-cent piece out of his left-hand waistcoat pocket.