y his shadow
never measure under six foot two.

The cattleman, out this early to catch the south-bound for his ranch
station, stopped at the side of the distressed patron of sport, and
spoke in the kindly drawl of his ilk and region, "Got it pretty bad,
bud?"

"Cricket" McGuire, ex-feather-weight prizefighter, tout, jockey,
follower of the "ponies," all-round sport, and manipulator of the gum
balls and walnut shells, looked up pugnaciously at the imputation cast
by "bud."

"G'wan," he rasped, "telegraph pole. I didn't ring for yer."

Another paroxysm wrung him, and he leaned limply against a convenient
baggage truck. Raidler waited patiently, glancing around at the white
hats, short overcoats, and big cigars thronging the platform. "You're
from the No'th, ain't you, bud?" he asked when the other was partially
recovered. "Come down to see the fight?"

"Fight!" snapped McGuire. "Puss-in-the-corner! 'Twas a hypodermic
injection. Handed him just one like a squirt of dope, and he's asleep,
and no tanbark needed in front of his residence. Fight!" He rattled a
bit, coughed, and went on, hardly addressing the cattleman, but rather
for the relief of voicing his troubles. "No more dead sure t'ings for
me. But Rus Sage himself would have snatched at it. Five to one dat de
boy from Cork wouldn't stay t'ree rounds is what I invested in. Put my
last cent on, and could already smell the sawdust in dat all-night
joint of Jimmy Delaney's on T'irty-seventh Street I was goin' to buy.
And den--say, telegraph pole, what a gazaboo a guy is to put his whole
roll on one turn of the gaboozlum!"

"You're plenty right," said the big cattleman; "more 'specially when
you lose. Son, you get up and light out for a hotel. You got a mighty
bad cough. Had it long?"

"Lungs," said McGuire comprehensively. "I got it. The croaker says
I'll come to time for six months longer--maybe a year if I hold my
gait. I wanted to settle down and take care of myself. Dat's why I
speculated on dat five to one perhaps. I had a t'ousand iron dollars
saved up. If I winned I was goin' to buy Delaney's cafe. Who'd a
t'ought dat stiff would take a nap in de foist round--say?"

"It's a hard deal," commented Raidler, looking down at the diminutive
form of McGuire crumpled against the truck. "But you go to a hotel and
rest. There's the Menger and the Maverick, and--"

"And the Fi'th Av'noo, and the Waldorf-Astoria," mimicked McGuire.
"Told you I went broke. I'm on de