silently
shook hands with him. The _pro tem_. Mrs. Phillips sniffed.

This was on a Saturday, a matinee day, and Wallingford went out to the
track alone, contenting himself with extremely small bets, merely to
keep his interest alive. The day's racing was half over before he ran
across the Broadway Syndicate. They were heartily glad to see him.
They greeted him with even effervescent joy.

"Where have you been, J. Rufus?" asked Phelps. "We were looking for
you all over yesterday. We thought sure you'd be out at the track
playing that Boston Gouge Company's tips."

"Your dear chum was in the country, resting up," replied Wallingford,
with matter-of-fact cheerfulness. "By George, I never had wine put me
down and out so in my life"--whereat the cadaverous Short-Card Larry
could not repress a wink for the benefit of Yap Pickins. "What was the
good-thing they wired yesterday?"

"Whipsaw!" scorned Phelps. "Say, do you see that horse out
there?"--and he pointed to a selling-plater, up at the head of the
stretch, which was being warmed up by a stable-boy. "Well, that's
Whipsaw, just coming in from yesterday's last race."

Wallingford chuckled.

"They're bound, you know, to land on a dead one once in a while," he
grunted; "but I'm strong for their game, just the same. You remember
what that Razzoo thing that they tipped off did for me the other day."

"Yes?" admitted Phelps with a rising inflection and a meaning grin.
"Nice money you won on him. It spends well."

"Enjoy yourselves," invited Wallingford cordially. "I've no kick
coming. I'm through with stud poker till they quit playing it with a
hole-card."

"I don't blame you," agreed Short-Card Larry solemnly. "Anybody that
would bet a four-flush against two aces in sight, the way you did when
Billy won that three-thousand-dollar pot from you, ought never to play
anything stronger than ping-pong for the cigarettes."

Wallingford nodded, with the best brand of suavity he could muster
under the irritating circumstances.

"I suppose I did play like a man expecting his wife to telephone," he
admitted. "Excuse me a minute; I want to get a bet down on this race."

"Whom do you like?" asked Pickins.

"Rosey S."

The four began to laugh.

"That's the hot Boston tip," gasped Phelps. "Say, Wallingford, don't
give your money to the Mets. Let us make a book for you on that
skate."

"You're on," agreed J. Rufus, delighted that the proposition should
come from them, for