llop like a good 'un. An'
I'm a piker; I like a bit of odds fer my stuff."

Mortimer saw the other occupants of the train moving toward the front
end.

"I guess we're dere," said his companion; "perhaps I'll see you on
de course. If you make a break to-day, play Larcen; he'll win. Say, I
didn't catch your name."

"Mortimer."

"Well, take care of yourself, Mr. Morton. See you later."

* * * * * * * * * *

In his ignorance of a race meet Mortimer had felt sure he would be able
to find Alan Porter without trouble. The true difficulty of his quest
soon dawned upon him. Wedged into the pushing, shoving, hurrying crowd,
in three minutes he had completely lost himself. A dozen times he
rearranged his bearings, taking a certain flight of steps leading up
to the grand stand as the base of his peregrinations; a dozen times
he returned to this point, having accomplished nothing but complete
bewilderment.

He asked questions, but the men he addressed were too busy to bother
with him; some did not hear, others stared at him in distrust, and many
tendered flippant remarks, such as "Ask a policeman;" "You'll find him
in the bar;" "He's gone to Europe."

Even Mortimer's unpracticed mind realized speedily that it would be
nothing short of a miracle if he were to find anyone in all those
inpatient thousands who even knew the person he was seeking. One young
man he spoke to declared that he knew Alan Porter quite well; he was a
great friend of his; he'd find him in a minute. This obliging stranger's
quest led them into the long race track bar room, which somehow or other
suggested to Mortimer a cattle shambles.

Behind the bar young men in white coats, even some in their shirt
sleeves, were setting forth on its top, with feverish haste, clinking
glasses that foamed and fretted much like the thirsty souls who called
vociferously for liquid refreshment. Everybody seemed on fire--burnt up
by the thirst of a consuming fever, the fever of speculation.

Mortimer's new friend suggested that they indulge in beer while waiting
for the sought one's appearance, and waxing confidential he assured his
quarry that he had a leadpipe cinch for the next race--it couldn't
lose. The trainer was a bosom friend of his; a sort of hybrid brother in
friendship. He himself was no tipster, he was an owner; he even went
the length of flashing a bright yellow badge, as occult evidence of his
standing.

These matters did not interest the searcher in th