he ever did was
fourth in a bunch of goats that only ambled all the way around the
track because that was the only way they could get back to the
stable."

The mail carrier just then came in with a huge bundle of letters.

"New York mail," observed Blackie. "After that Razzoo thing it ought
to be rich pickings."

"Pickings!" exclaimed J. Rufus, struck by a sudden idea. "See if
Pickins or Teller or any of that crowd have contributed. Pickins said
they were going to try it out, just to see if lightning could really
strike twice in the same place."

Blackie wrote a number of names on a slip of paper and handed it to
Tillie.

"Look for these names in the mail," he directed, "and if a
subscription comes in from any one of them let me know it."

Wallingford had idly picked up the card containing Whipsaw's record.

It was a most accurate typewritten sheet, giving age, pedigree,
description and detailed action in every race; but the point that
caught Wallingford's eye was the name of the owner.

"One of Jake Block's horses, by George!" he said, and fell into silent
musing from which he was interrupted by the girl, who was laughing.

"Here's your party," she said to Blackie, handing him an envelope.
"This twenty's in it, and I think it's bad money."

Blackie passed the bill to Wallingford, who slipped it through
experienced fingers.

"You couldn't pass this one on an organ-grinder's monkey," he said,
chuckling. "But that's all right; just put 'em on the wiring-list,
anyhow. Make 'em lose their money. It's the only way you can get
even."

The girl looked to Blackie for instructions, and he nodded his head.

"Who sent it?" asked Wallingford idly.

"Peters is the name signed here," replied Blackie. "That means Harry
Phelps. I gave Tillie all the aliases this bunch of crimples carry
around with them, knowing they'd probably send it in that way."

Wallingford nodded comprehendingly.

"They'd rather do even the square thing crooked. Well, you know what
to do."

"I'll send them special picks," declared Blackie with a grin. "Nothing
but a list of crabs that would come in third in a two-horse race. But
come on outside; we're too far from cracked ice," and grabbing an
uncounted handful of bills from the drawer of his desk, Blackie
stuffed them in his pocket and led the way out.

It was at luncheon that Blackie made his first protest.

"What's the matter with you, J. Rufus?" he demanded. "I never saw you
insult fo