see _The Pink Canary_ yet. I don't go to the theater much."

"You must certainly see my second-act turn. I sure have got them
going," the Beauty asserted modestly. "What do you like in this race,
Mr. Block?"

"I don't like anything," he replied almost gruffly. "I never bet
outside of my own stable."

"We're taking a small slice of Bologna," she informed him. "I suppose
he's about the--the wurst of the race. Guess that's bad, eh? I made
that one up all by myself, at that. I think I'll write a musical
comedy next. But how do you like Bologna?" she hastily added, her own
laugh freezing as she saw her feeble little joke passed by in
perplexity.

"You never can tell," he replied evasively. "You see, Miss Phillips, I
never give out a tip. If you bet on it and it don't win you get sore
against me. If I hand you a winner you'll tell two or three people
that are likely to beat me to it and break the price before I can get
my own money down."

Beauty Phillips' wide eyes narrowed just a trifle.

"I guess it's all the same," remarked J. Rufus resignedly. "If you
have a hoodoo over you you'll lose anyhow. I've tried to pick 'em
forty ways from the ace. I've played with the dope and against it and
lost both ways. I've played hunches and coppered hunches, and lost
both ways. I've played hot information straight and reverse, and lost
both ways. I've nosed into the paddock and made a lifetime hit with
stable boys, jockeys, trainers, clockers and even owners, but every
time they handed me a sure one I got burned. Any horse I bet on turns
into a crawfish."

The saddling bell rang.

"You'd better hurry if you want to get a bet on Sausage," admonished
the beautiful one, and J. Rufus, excusing himself, made his way down
to the betting-shed, where he was affectionately known as The Big
Pink, not only on account of his complexion but on account of the huge
carnation Beauty Phillips pinned on him each day.

At the first book he handed up three one-hundred-dollar bills.

"A century each way on Bologna," he directed.

"Welcome to our city!" greeted the red-haired man on the stool, and
then to the ticket writer: "Twelve hundred to a hundred, five hundred
to a hundred, and two hundred to a hundred on Bologna for The Big
Pink. Johnnie, you will now rub prices on Bologna and make him
fifteen, eight and three; then run around and tell the other boys that
The Big Pink's on Bologna, and it's a pipe for the books at any odds."

Wallingfo