I was anxious to make Clara Jane think that she was all the money, so
I boiled out a few plunks, trotted over to the trolley, and rushed
her to the race track.
I'm a dub on the dope, but it was my play to be a Wise Boy among the
skates on this particular occasion, and I went the whole distance.
In the presence of my lady love I knew every horse that ever pulled a
harrow.
Isn't it cruel how a slob will cut the guy-ropes and go up in the air
just because his Baby is by his side?
Me--to the mountain tops!
Before the car got started I was telling her how Pittsburg Phil and I
win $18,000 last summer on a fried fish they called "Benzine."
Then I confided to her the fact that I doped a turtle named "Pink
Toes" to win the next day, but he went over the fence after a loose
bunch of grass and I lose $23,680.
She wanted to know what I meant by dope, and I told her it generally
meant a sour dream, but she didn't seem to grab.
When we got to the track they were bunching the bones for the first
race, so I told Clara Jane I thought I'd crawl down to the ring and
plaster two or three thousand around among the needy.
Two or three thousand, and me with nothing but a five-spot in my
jeans and the return ticket money in that!
"Are you really going to bet?" she asked.
"Sure!" I said; "I've got a pipe!"
"Well, I hope you won't smoke it near me. I hate pipes!" she said.
"All right; I'll take my pipe down to the betting ring and smoke it
there!" I said, and we parted good friends.
In front of the grand stand I met Nash Martinetti.
He was holding a bunch of poppies and he picked out one in the first
race and handed it to me.
"A skinch!" said Nash. "Go as far as you like."
Then Ned Rose went into a cataleptic state and handed me the
winner--by a block. It couldn't go wrong unless its feet fell out.
"Here you are, John Henry, the real Pietro!" said Ban Roberts; "play
Pump Handle straight and place! It's the road to wealth--believe me!
All the others are behind the hill!"
Every Breezy Boy I met had a different hunch and they called me into
the wharf and unloaded.
I figured it out that if I had bet $5 on each good thing they gave me
I would have lost $400,000.
Then I ducked under, sopped up a stein of root beer and climbed up
again to the hurricane deck.
"Did you bet?" inquired Clara Jane.
"Only $730," I said; "A mere bag o' shells."
I leave a call for 7.30 every morning and I suppose that's the reason
I was so swift with the figures.
"My! what a lot of money!" said the Fair One; "do point out the horse
you bet on! I shall be awfully interested in this race!"
Carlo! you're a bad dog--lie down!
I pointed out the favorite as the one I had my bundle on, and
explained to Clara Jane that the only way it could lose was for some
sore-head to get out and turn the track around.
Sure enough the favorite galloped into port and dropped anchor six
hours ahead of the other clams.
I win over $2,200--conversation money--and Bonnie Brighteyes was in a
frenzy of delight.
She wanted to know if I wasn't going to be awfully careful with it
and save it up for a rainy day.