t fact consolation, and chaffed the losers. Some curtly
refused even the smallest part of his money.

"Not with me!" they laughed. From stand to stand the layers of odds
taunted him, or each other. "Don't touch it, it's tainted!" they
shouted. "Look out, Joe, he's the Jonah man?" Or, "Come at me again!"
they called. "And, once more!" they challenged as they reached for a
thousand-dollar bill.

And, when in time, each shook his head and grumbled: "That's all I
want," or looked the other way, the mob around Carter jeered.

"He's fought 'em to a stand-still!" they shouted jubilantly. In their
eyes a man who alone was able and willing to wipe the name of a horse
off the blackboards was a hero.

To the horror of Dolly, instead of watching the horses parade past, the
crowd gathered in front of her box and pointed and stared at her. From
the club-house her men friends and acquaintances invaded it.

"Has Carter gone mad?" they demanded. "He's dealing out thousand-dollar
bills like cigarettes. He's turned the ring into a wheat Pit!"

When he reached the box a sun-burned man in a sombrero blocked his way.

"I'm the owner of Red Wing," he explained, "bred him and trained him
myself. I know he'll be lucky if he gets the place. You're backing him
in thousands to WIN. What do you know about him?"

"Know he will win," said Carter.

The veteran commissioner of the club stand buttonholed him. "Mr.
Carter," he begged, "why don't you bet through me? I'll give you as good
odds as they will in that ring. You don't want your clothes torn off you
and your money taken from you."

"They haven't taken such a lot of it yet," said Carter.

When Red Wing won, the crowd beneath the box, the men in the box,
and the people standing around it, most of whom had followed Carter's
plunge, cheered and fell over him, to shake hands and pound him on
the back. From every side excited photographers pointed cameras, and
Lander's band played: "Every Little Bit Added to What You've Got Makes
Just a Little Bit More." As he left the box to collect his money, a big
man with a brown mustache and two smooth-shaven giants closed in around
him, as tackles interfere for the man who has the ball. The big man took
him by the arm. Carter shook himself free.

"What's the idea?" he demanded.

"I'm Pinkerton," said the big man genially. "You need a body-guard. If
you've got an empty seat in your car, I'll drive home with you. From
Cavanaugh they borrowed a book-