Taking Chances Part 10

"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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s 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 d.i.c.kens 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 pa.s.sed 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._