Part 18 (2/2)

A very thick-set man, with an inordinately broad jaw and an indefinable air of blunt aggressiveness, came past them and nodded to J. Rufus with a grudging motion toward his shapeless slouch hat.

”Who's that?” she asked.

”Jake Block,” he replied. ”A big owner with so much money he could bed his horses in it, and an ingrowing grouch that has put a crimp in his information works. He's never been known to give out a tip since he was able to lisp 'mamma.' He eats nothing but _table d'hote_ dinners so he won't have to tell the waiters what he likes.”

Jake Block, on some brief errand to the press box, returned just as J.

Rufus was starting down to the betting-shed, and he stopped a moment.

”How are you picking them to-day, Wallingford?” he asked perfunctorily, with his eye on Beauty Phillips.

”Same way,” confessed Wallingford. ”I haven't cashed a ticket in the meeting. I have the kind of luck that would scale John D.

Rockefeller's bank-roll down to the size of a dance-program lead pencil.”

”Well,” said Jake philosophically, his eyes still on the Beauty, ”sometimes they come bad for a long time, and then they come worse.”

At this bit of wisdom J. Rufus politely laughed, and the silvery voice of Beauty Phillips suddenly joined his own; whereupon J. Rufus, taking the hint, introduced Mr. Block to Miss Phillips and her mother. Mr.

Block promptly sat down by them.

”I've heard a lot about you,” he began, ”but I've not been around to see _The Pink Canary_ yet. I don't go to the theater much.”

”You must certainly see my second-act turn. I sure have got them going,” the Beauty a.s.serted modestly. ”What do you like in this race, Mr. Block?”

”I don't like anything,” he replied almost gruffly. ”I never bet outside of my own stable.”

”We're taking a small slice of Bologna,” she informed him. ”I suppose he's about the--the wurst of the race. Guess that's bad, eh? I made that one up all by myself, at that. I think I'll write a musical comedy next. But how do you like Bologna?” she hastily added, her own laugh freezing as she saw her feeble little joke pa.s.sed by in perplexity.

”You never can tell,” he replied evasively. ”You see, Miss Phillips, I never give out a tip. If you bet on it and it don't win you get sore against me. If I hand you a winner you'll tell two or three people that are likely to beat me to it and break the price before I can get my own money down.”

Beauty Phillips' wide eyes narrowed just a trifle.

”I guess it's all the same,” remarked J. Rufus resignedly. ”If you have a hoodoo over you you'll lose anyhow. I've tried to pick 'em forty ways from the ace. I've played with the dope and against it and lost both ways. I've played hunches and coppered hunches, and lost both ways. I've played hot information straight and reverse, and lost both ways. I've nosed into the paddock and made a lifetime hit with stable boys, jockeys, trainers, clockers and even owners, but every time they handed me a sure one I got burned. Any horse I bet on turns into a crawfish.”

The saddling bell rang.

”You'd better hurry if you want to get a bet on Sausage,” admonished the beautiful one, and J. Rufus, excusing himself, made his way down to the betting-shed, where he was affectionately known as The Big Pink, not only on account of his complexion but on account of the huge carnation Beauty Phillips pinned on him each day.

At the first book he handed up three one-hundred-dollar bills.

”A century each way on Bologna,” he directed.

”Welcome to our city!” greeted the red-haired man on the stool, and then to the ticket writer: ”Twelve hundred to a hundred, five hundred to a hundred, and two hundred to a hundred on Bologna for The Big Pink. Johnnie, you will now rub prices on Bologna and make him fifteen, eight and three; then run around and tell the other boys that The Big Pink's on Bologna, and it's a pipe for the books at any odds.”

Wallingford chuckled good-naturedly. In other days he would have called that bit of pleasantry by taking another hundred each way across, at the new odds, but now his funds were too low.

”Some of these days, Sunset,” he threatened the man on the stool, ”I'll win a bet on you and you'll drop dead.”

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