was all but asphyxiation.

At last they reached some sort of a harbor; it was evidently an inlet
for which his pilot had been sailing. A much composed man in a tweed
suit, across which screamed lines of gaudy color, sat on a camp stool,
with a weary, tolerant look on his browned face; in his hand was a
card on which was penciled the names of the Derby runners with their
commercial standing in the betting mart.

Old Bill craned his neck over the shoulder of the sitting man, scanned
the book, and turning to Mortimer said, "Larcen's nine to one now;
dey're cuttin' him--wish I'd took tens; let's go down de line."

They pushed out into the sea again, and were buffeted of the human
waves; from time to time Old Bill anchored for a few seconds in the tiny
harbor which surrounded each bookmaker; but it was as though they were
all in league--the same odds on every list.

"It's same as a 'sociation book," he grunted; "de cut holds in every
blasted one of 'em. Here's Jakey Faust," he added, suddenly; "let's try
him."

"What price's Laxcen?" he asked of the fat bookmaker.

"What race is he in?" questioned the penciler.

"Din race; what you givin' me!"

"Don't know the horse."

Mortimer interposed. "The gentleman means Lauzanne," he explained.

Faust glared in the speaker's face. "Why th' 'll don't he talk English
then; I'm no Chinaman, or a mind reader, to guess what he wants.
Lauzanne is nine to one; how much dye want?"

"Lay me ten?" asked Old Bill of the bookmaker.

"To how much?"

"A hun'red; an' me frien' wants a hun'red on, too."

"I'll do it," declared Faust, impatiently. "Ten hundred to one,
Lauzanne!" he called over his shoulder to his clerk, taking the bettor's
money; "an' the number is--?"

"Twenty-five, tree-four-six!" answered Old Bill. "Pass him yer dust," he
continued, turning to his companion.

The latter handed his money to Faust.

"Lauzanne!" advised Old Bill.

"A thousand-to-hundred-Lauzanne, win; an' the number is" he stretched
out his hand, and turning over Mortimer's dangling badge, read aloud,
"Twenty-five, three-five-seven."

He took a sharp look at the two men; his practised eye told him they
were not plungers, more of the class that usually bet ten dollars at
the outside; they were evidently betting on information; two
one-hundred-dollar bets coming together on Lauzanne probably meant
stable money.

"Let's git out, mister," cried Old Bill, clutching Mortimer's arm.

"Don't I get