fortune-making plans of his own, while young
Wallingford, stopping in New York, prepared as elaborately to spend
one. It was some trouble at first to find the most expensive things in
New York, but at last he located them in the race-track and in Beauty
Phillips, the latter being the moderately talented but gorgeous "hit"
of _The Pink Canary_; and the thoroughbreds and Beauty made a splendid
combination, so perfect in their operations that one beautiful day
Wallingford awoke to the fact that the time had almost arrived to go
to work. At the moment he made this decision, the Beauty, as richly
colored and as expressionless as a wax model, was sitting at his side
in the grand-stand, with her eyes closed, jabbing a hole at random in
the card of the fifth race.

"Bologna!" exclaimed Wallingford, noting where the fateful pin-hole
had appeared. "It's a nice comic-supplement name; but I'll go down to
the ring and burn another hundred or so on him."

The band broke into a lively air, and the newest sensation of
Broadway, all in exquisite violet from nodding plume to silken hose,
looked out over the sunlit course in calm rumination. Her companion,
older but not too old, less handsome but not too ill-favored, less
richly dressed but not too plainly, nudged her.

"There goes your Money and Moonshine song again, dearie," she
observed.

Still calmly, as calmly as a digestive cow in pleasant shade, the star
of _The Pink Canary_ replied:

"Don't you see I'm trying not to hear it, mother?"

The eyes of "Mrs. Phillips" narrowed a trifle, and sundry tiny but
sharp lines, revealing much but concealing more, flashed upon her brow
and were gone. J. Rufus glanced in perplexity at her as he had done a
score of times, wondering at her self-repression, at her unrevealed
depths of wisdom, at her clever acting of a most difficult role; for
Beauty Phillips, being a wise young lady and having no convenient
mother of her own, had hired one, and by this device was enabled to
remain as placidly Platonic as a plate of ice-cream. Well, it was
worth rich gifts merely to be seen in proprietorship of her at the
supper places.

Wallingford rose without enthusiasm.

"Bologna won't win!" he announced with resigned conviction.

"Sure not!" agreed Beauty Phillips. "Bologna will stop to think at the
Barrier, and finish in the road of the next race."

"Bologna has to win," Wallingford rejoined, disputing both her and
himself. "There's only a little o