Part 25 (1/2)
”It's too bad to see that easy money going away from us, Pink,” he confessed.
Jake Block spent but little time that afternoon in the grand-stand by the side of Beauty Phillips and her mother. From the beginning of the racing he was first in the stables and then in the paddock with an anxious eye. He was lined up at the fence opposite the barrier for the start of the fateful fourth, and he stood there, after the horses had jumped away, to watch his great little Whipsaw around the course. But Beauty Phillips was not without company. Wallingford sauntered up at the sound of the mounting bell and sat confidently by her.
”Did you get it all down, Jimmy?” she asked.
”Every cent,” said he, wiping his brow nervously. ”Did you?”
”Mother and I are broke if Whipsaw don't win,” she confessed with dry lips. ”What do you suppose makes Mr. Block look up here with such a poison face every two or three minutes?”
Wallingford chuckled hugely.
”The odds,” he explained. ”I've cut them to slivers. I bet all mine and Blackie's money with the Phelps crowd, then turned around and bet all ours and theirs again. Say, it's murder if I lose. Not even a fancy murder, either.”
Blackie Daw, attended by three of his guard, came over to join them, Blackie evidencing a strong disposition to linger in the rear, for he was taking a desperate chance with desperate men. If Whipsaw lost he had his course mapped out--down the nearest steps of the grand-stand and out to the carriage-gate as fast as his legs would carry him.
There, J. Rufus' automobile was to be waiting, all cranked up and trembling, ready to dart away the moment Blackie should jump in. Just as Blackie and the others joined Wallingford and Beauty Phillips, Larry Teller came breathlessly up from the betting-shed.
”There's something doing on that Whipsaw horse,” he declared excitedly. ”He opened at twenty to one--and in fifteen minutes of play--either somebody that knows something--or a wagonload of fool-money--had backed him down to evens. Think of it! Evens!”
There was a sudden roar from the crowd, more like a gigantic groan than any other sound. They were off! One horse was left at the post, but it was not Whipsaw. Two others trailed behind. The other five were away, well bunched. At the quarter, three horses drew into the lead, Whipsaw just behind them. At the half, one of the three was dropping back, and Whipsaw slowly overtaking it. Now his nose was at her flanks; now at the saddle; then the jockeys were abreast; then the white jacket and red sleeves of Whipsaw's rider could be seen to the fore of the opposing jockey, with the two leaders just ahead. At the three-quarters, three horses were neck and neck again, but this time Whipsaw was among them. Down the stretch they came pounding, and then, and not until then, did Whipsaw, a lithe, s.h.i.+ning little brown streak, strike into the best stride of which he was capable. A thousand hoa.r.s.e watchers, as they came to the seven-eighths, roared encouragement to the horses. Whipsaw's name was much among them, but only in tones of anger. Men and even women ran down to the rail and stood on tiptoe with red faces, shrieking for Fas.h.i.+on to come on, begging and praying Fas.h.i.+on to win, for Fas.h.i.+on carried most of the money; and the shrieking became an agony as the horses flashed under the wire, Whipsaw a good, clean half length in the lead!
[Ill.u.s.tration: Beauty Phillips discovered she was on her feet]
As the roaring stopped in one high, abrupt wail, Beauty Phillips, who never knew emotion or excitement, suddenly discovered, to her vast surprise, that she was on her feet! that she was clutching her throat for its hoa.r.s.eness! that she was dripping with perspiration! that she was faint and weak and giddy! that her blood was pounding and her eyeb.a.l.l.s hurt; and that she had been, from the stretch down, jumping violently up and down and shrieking the name of Whipsaw! Whipsaw!
Whipsaw! Whipsaw!
A frenzied hand grabbed Blackie Daw by the elbow.
”Duck, for G.o.d's sake, Blackie!” implored the shaking voice of Billy Banting. ”Go down to the old joint on Thirty-third Street and wait for us. We'll split up that stake and all make a get-away.”
”Not on your life!” returned Blacked calmly, and pulled Wallingford around toward him by the shoulder. ”I shall have great pleasure in turning over to Mr. Wallingford the combined bets of the Broadway Syndicate against that lovely little record-breaker, Whipsaw.”
”It's a good horse,” said Wallingford with forced calmness, and then he began to chuckle, his broad shoulders shaking and his breast heaving; ”and it was well named. I fawncy the Broadway Syndicate book will now go out of business--and with no chance to welch.”
”All we wise people knew about it,” Blackie condescendingly explained to the quartet. ”You see, I am running the National Clockers'
a.s.sociation.”
Before the voiceless Broadway Syndicate was through gasping over this piece of news, Jake Block came stalking through the grand-stand.
Though elated over his victory and flushed with his winnings, he nevertheless had time to cast a bitter scowl in the direction of Beauty Phillips.
”The next time I hand any woman a tip you may cut my arm off!” he declared. ”I'm through with you!”
”Who's that?” asked Larry Teller, glaring after the man who had mentioned the pregnant word ”tip.”
”Jake Block, the owner of Whipsaw,” Wallingford was pleased to inform him.
”It's a frame-up!” shouted Billy Banting.