th
laughter, "Wallingford's playing a system of progression. He hikes the
bet every day, expecting to play even in the finish."

"I see," said Larry, grinning; "but don't you fellows hook all this
easy money. Count me in for a piece of to-morrow's bet."

He had a chance. Handicass ran to consistent form with all the other
"picks"--except the one accident, Razzoo--of the National Clockers'
Association, and on Wednesday, Wallingford bet four hundred on the
"information" which that concern wired to him and to Mr. Phelps. On
that day, too, having received at breakfast-time a report from Beauty
Phillips that the Whipsaw horse was still "meant," he wrote careful
instructions to Blackie Daw, then held his thumbs and crossed his
fingers and touched wood and looked at the moon over the proper
shoulder, and did various other things to keep Fate from sending home
one of those tips as an accidental winner on either Wednesday or
Thursday.

Nothing of that disastrous sort happened, however, and his pet
enemies, the quartet, having won from J. Rufus on Saturday, Monday,
Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, had by this time pooled their
interests and constituted themselves Wallingford's regular bookmaking
syndicate. Their only fear on Friday morning, after Phelps had
received his wire from Boston, was that Wallingford would not care to
bet that day, since the horse which had been given out was that
notorious tail-ender, Whipsaw! They invaded J. Rufus' apartments as
soon as they got the wire, and were relieved to find that Wallingford
was still firm in his allegiance to the National Clockers'
Association.

They were a little surprised, however, to find Blackie Daw at
breakfast with Wallingford, but they greeted that old comrade with
great cordiality, coupled with an inward fear that he might interfere
with their designs upon Wallingford.

"You haven't been making a book against J. Rufus on the day's races,
have you?" inquired Phelps.

"Not yet," said Blackie, laughing, "but I'm willing. What's he on?"

"Whipsaw," interposed Wallingford.

Blackie laughed softly.

"I don't know the horse," he said, "but I just seem to remember that
he's the joke of the track."

"No," explained Larry; "he's too painful to be a joke."

"What odds do you expect to get, Wallingford?" asked Blackie, reaching
for his wallet.

"Hold on a minute," said Phelps hastily. "You don't want to butt in on
this, Daw. We've been making book for J. Rufus all we