WHEREIN THE BROADWAY QUARTET EVENS UP AN
OLD SCORE
At his hotel the next day, about noon, J. Rufus got the promised wire.
It consisted of only one word: "Razzoo."
Alone, J. Rufus went out to the track, and on the race in which Razzoo
was entered at average odds of ten to one, he got down six hundred
dollars, reluctantly holding back, for his hotel bill, three hundred
dollars--all he had in the world. Then he shut his eyes, and with
large self-contempt waited for Razzoo to finish by lamplight. To his
immense surprise Razzoo won by two lengths, and with a contented
chuckle he went around to the various books and collected his
winnings, handing to each bookmaker derogatory remarks calculated to
destroy the previous _entente cordiale_.
On his way out, puffed with huge joy and sitting alone in the big
automobile, he was hailed by a familiar voice.
"Well, well, well! Our old friend, J. Rufus!" exclaimed Harry Phelps,
he of the natty clothes and the curly hair.
With Mr. Phelps were Larry Teller and Billy Banting and Yap Pickins.
"Jump in," invited J. Rufus with a commendable spirit, forgiving them
cheerfully for having lost money to him, and, despite the growl of
protest from lean Short-Card Larry, they invaded the tonneau.
"You must be hitting them up some, Wallingford," observed Mr. Phelps
with a trace of envy. "I know they're not furnishing automobiles to
losers these days."
"Oh, I'm doing fairly well," replied Wallingford loftily. "I cleaned
'em up for six thousand to-day."
The envy on the part of the four was almost audible.
"What did you play?" asked Badger Billy, with the eager post-mortem
interest of a loser.
"Only one horse in just one race," explained Wallingford. "Razzoo."
"Razzoo!" snorted Short-Card Larry. "Was you in on that assassination?
Why, that goat hasn't won a race since the day before Adam ate the
apple, and the jockey he had on to-day couldn't put up a good ride on
a street car. How did you happen to land on it?"
Blandly Wallingford produced the telegram he had received that
morning.
"This wire," he condescendingly explained, "is from the National
Clockers' Association of Boston, Massachusetts, United States of
America, who are charitable enough to pass out long-shot winners, at
the mere bag-o'-shells service-price of five dollars per day or twenty
per week."
They looked from the magic word "Razzoo" to the smiling face of J.
Rufus more in sorrow than in anger.
"And they happened to hand you a winner!" said the cadaverous Mr.
Teller, folding the telegram dexterously with the long, lean fingers
of one hand, and passing it back as if he hated to see it.
"Winner is right," agreed J. Rufus. "I couldn't pick 'em any other
way, and I took a chance on this game because it's just as good a
system as going to a clairvoyant or running the cards."
There was a short laugh from the raw-boned Mr. Pickins.
"I don't suppose they'll ever do it again," he observed, "but I feel
almost like taking a chance on it myself."
"Go to it," advised J. Rufus heartily. "Go to it, and come home with
something substantial in your pocket, like this," and most brazenly,
even in the face of what he knew of them, young Wallingford flaunted
before their very eyes an assorted package of orange-colored
bank-bills, well calculated to excite discord in this company. "Lovely
little package of documents," he said banteringly; "and I suppose you
burglars are already figuring how you can chisel it away from me."
They smiled wanly, and the smile of Larry Teller showed his teeth.
"No man ever pets a hornet but once," said Billy, the only one sturdy
enough to voice his discomfiture.
Wallingford beamed over this tribute to his prowess.
"Well, you get a split of it, anyhow," he offered. "I'll take you all
to dinner, then afterward we'll have a little game of stud poker if
you like--with police interference barred."
They were about to decline this kind invitation when Short-Card Larry
turned suddenly to him, with a gleam of the teeth which was almost a
snarl.
"We'll take you," he said. "Just a little friendly game for small
stakes."
J. Rufus elevated his eyebrows a trifle, but smiled. Inwardly he felt
perfectly competent to protect himself.
"Fine business," he assented. "Suppose we have dinner in my rooms. I'm
beginning to get them educated at my hotel."
At the hotel he stopped for a moment at the curb to give his chauffeur
some instructions, while the other four awaited him on the steps.
"How'd you come to fall for this stud game, Larry?" inquired Phelps.
"I can't see poker merely for health, and this Willy Wisdom won't call
any raise of over two dollars when he's playing with us."
"I know he won't," snapped Larry, setting his jaws savagely, "but
we're going to get his money just the same. Billy, you break away and
run down to Joe's drug-store for the K.O."
They all grinned, with the light of admiration dawning in their eyes
for Larry Teller. "K.O." was cipher for "knock-out drops," a pleasant
little decoction guaranteed to put a victim into fathomless slumber,
but not to kill him if his heart was right.
"How long will it be until dinner's ready, Wallingford?" asked Billy,
looking at his watch as J. Rufus came up.
"Oh, about an hour, I suppose."
"Good," said Billy. "I'll just have time. I have to go get some money
that a fellow promised me, and if I don't see him to-night I may not
see him at all. Besides, I'll probably need it if you play your usual
game."
"Nothing doing," replied Wallingford. "I only want to yammer you
fellows out of a hundred apiece, and the game will be as quiet as a
peddler's pup."
J. Rufus conducted the others into the sitting-room of his suite and
sent for a waiter. There was never any point lacking in Wallingford's
hospitality, and by the time Billy came back he was ready to serve
them a dinner that was worth discussing. The dinner despatched, he had
the table cleared and brought out cards and chips. It was a quiet,
comfortable game for nearly an hour, with very mild betting and plenty
to drink. It was during the fifth bottle of wine, dating from the
beginning of the dinner, that Short-Card Larry, by a dexterous
accident, pitched Wallingford's stack of chips on the floor with a
toss of the deck. Amid the profuse apologies of Larry, Mr. Phelps, who
was at Wallingford's left, stooped down to help that gentleman pick up
his chips, and in that moment Badger Billy quietly emptied the
colorless contents of a tiny vial in Wallingford's glass. J. Rufus
never was able to remember what happened after that.
* * * * *
Silk pajama clad, but still wearing portions of his day attire, he
awoke next day with a headache, and a tongue that felt like a
shredded-wheat biscuit. He held his head very level to keep the leaden
weight in the top of it from sliding around and bumping his skull, and
opened the swollen slits that did him painful duty for eyelids wide
enough to let him find the telephone, through which instrument he
ordered a silver-fizz. Of the butler who brought it he asked what time
it was.
"One o'clock, sir," replied the butler with the utmost gravity.
One o'clock! J. Rufus pondered the matter slowly.
"Morning or afternoon," he huskily asked.
"Afternoon, sir," and this time the butler permitted himself the
slightest trace of a smile as he noted the electric lights, still
blazing in sickly defiance of the bright sunshine which crept in
around the edges of the double blinds.
"Huh!" grunted J. Rufus, and pondered more.
Half dozing, he stood, glass in hand, for full five minutes, while the
butler, with a lively appreciation of tips past and to come, stood
patiently holding his little silver tray, with check and pencil
waiting for the signature. At the expiration of that time, however,
the butler coughed once, gently; once, normally; the third time very
loudly. These means failing, he dropped the tray clattering to the
floor, and with a cheerful "Beg your pardon, sir," picked it up. Not
knowing that he had been asleep again, Wallingford took a sip of the
refreshing drink and walked across to a garment which lay upon the
chair, feeling through the pockets one after the other. In one pocket
there was a little silver, but in the others nothing. He gave a coin
to the butler and signed the check in deep thoughtfulness, then sat
down heavily and dozed another fifteen minutes. Awakening, he found
the glass at his hand on the serving-bench, and drank about a fourth
of the contents very slowly.
"Spiked!" he groaned aloud.
He had good reason to believe that his wine had been "doctored," for
never before had anything he drank affected him like this. Another
glance at the garment of barren pockets reminded him to look about for
the coat and vest he had worn the night before. They were not visible
in his bedroom, and, still carrying the glass of life-saving mixture
with him, he made his way into his sitting-room and surveyed the
wreck. On the table was a confusion of cards and chips, and around its
edge stood five champagne glasses, two of them empty, two half full,
one full. Against the wall stood a row of four empty quart bottles. In
an ice pail, filled now with but tepid water, there reposed a fifth
bottle, neck downward. Five chairs were grouped unevenly about the
table, one of them overturned and the others left at random where they
had been pushed back. The lights here, also, were still burning.
Heaped on a chair in the corner were the coat and vest he sought, and
he went through their pockets methodically, reaching first for his
wallet. It was perfectly clean inside. In one of the vest-pockets he
found a soiled, very much crumpled two-dollar bill, and the first
stiff smile of his waking stretched his lips.
"I wonder how they overlooked this?" he questioned.
Again his eyes turned musingly to those five empty bottles, and again
the conviction was borne in upon him that the wine had been drugged.
Under no circumstances could his share, even an unequal share, of five
bottles of champagne among five persons have worked this havoc in him.
"Spiked," he concluded again in a tone of resignation. "At last they
got to me."
The silver-fizz was flat now, but every sip of it was nevertheless
full of reviving grace, and he sat in the big leather rocker to think
things over. As he did so his eye caught something that made him start
from his chair so suddenly that he had to put both hands to his head.
Under the table was a bit of light orange paper. A fifty-dollar bill!
In that moment--that is, after he had painfully stooped down to get it
and had smoothed it out to assure himself that it was real--this
beautifully printed government certificate looked to him about the
size of a piano cover. An instant before, disaster had stared him in
the face. This was but Thursday morning, and, having paid his hotel
bill on Monday, he had the balance of the week to go on; but for that
week he would have been chained to this hotel. Now he was foot-loose,
now he was free, and his first thought was of his only possible
resource, Blackie Daw, in Boston!
It took two hours of severe labor on the part of a valet, two
bell-boys and a barber to turn the Wallingford wreck into his usual
well-groomed self, but the hour of sailing saw him somnolently, but
safely ensconced on a Boston packet.