"Don't miss it," said Harry. "It's a moral that if you play him
you'll die rich and disgraced, like our friend Andy, the Hoot Mon!"
When I got back to the stand I had a preoccupied air.
The five-spot in my jeans was crawling around and begging for a
change of scene.
When Clara Jane asked me how much I had bet on the race just about to
start I could only think of $900.
When she wanted to know which horse I pointed my finger at every toad
on the track and said "that one over there!"
It won.
At the end of the third race I was $19,218 to the good.
Clara Jane had it down in black and white on the back of an envelope
in figures that couldn't lie.
She said she was very proud of me, and that's where my finish bowed
politely and stood waiting.
She told me that it was really very wrong to bet any more after such
a run of luck, and made me promise that I wouldn't wring another
dollar from the trembling hands of the poor Bookmakers.