four live wires at an average of 8 to 1. Then he began to talk
about himself.

After that event whenever I happened to meet Bunch he would raise
his megaphone and fill the neighborhood with hot ozone, fresh from
the oven.

It was pitiful to see that boy swell.

Just to cure Bunch and drive him out of the balloon business I made
up my mind one day I'd run down to the Flatfish Factory and drag a
few honest dollars away from the Bookmakers.

Splash!

That's where I fell overboard.

One bright Saturday P. M. found me clinging to a wad the size of
a fountain pen and trying to decide whether I'd better play
Dinkalorum at 40 to 1 or Hysterics at 9 to 5.

I finally decided that a ten-spot on Dinkalorum would net me enough
to give Bunch a line of sad talk, so I stepped up to the poor-box
and contributed.

Dinkalorum started off in the lead like a pale streak and I
immediately bought an entirely new set of furniture for the flat.

About half way around a locomotive whistle happened to blow near
by. Dinkalorum, being a Union horse, thought it was six o'clock
and refused absolutely to work a minute overtime.

I had to put the furniture back in the store.

In the next race I decided to play a system of my own invention so
I took my program, counted seven up, four down and two up, all of
which resulted in Pink Slob at 60 to 1.

It looked good and I handed Isadore Longfinger $10 for the purpose
of tearing $600 away from him a little later on.

Pink Slob got away in the lead but he made the mistake of walking
fast instead of running, with the result that when the other horses
were back in the stable Pinkie was still giving a heel and toe
exhibition around near third base.

It wasn't my day, so I squeezed into the thirst parlor and bathed
my injured feelings with sarsaparilla.

Just before the last race I ran across Bunch. He was over $300 to
the good and he wanted to treat me to a lot of kind words he felt
like saying about himself.

Oh! but maybe he wasn't the City Boy with the Head in the Suburbs!

When I reached home that night I felt like a sock that needs
darning.

Clara J. had invited Uncle Peter to take dinner with us and he
began to give me the nervous look-over as soon as I answered roll
call.

Uncle Peter is a very stout, old gentleman. When he squeezes into
our little flat the walls act like they are bow-legged.

Uncle Peter always goes through the folding doors sideways and
every time h