That afternoon Campbell and I took possession of the new office of Maxim & Gay. Luckily, a former tenant had left a desk and a chair behind, in lieu of a settlement for rent. In walked a tall Texan. "Hey there!" he cried. "Here's $5. It's yours. Keep it. Answer my question, and no matter what way you answer it, it don't make any difference. The $5 is yours." I looked up in amazement. "Give me the source of your information on Silver Coin," he said. "I bet big money. If your dope is on the level, I'll bet a 'gob.' If it ain't, your confession will be cheap at $5, which will be all the money I'll lose." I showed him the letter from Frank Mead. "That's good enough for me," he said, turning on his heel. Silver Coin won easily at 10 to 1. The betting was so heavy in the New York pool-rooms that, at post time, when 10 to 1 was readily obtainable at the race-track, 6 to 1 was the best price that could be obtained in New York. It is history that the New York City pool-rooms at that time controlled by "Jimmy" Mahoney were literally "burned up" with winning wagers. Pool-room habitués argued it thus: "If the tip is not 'a good thing,' what object in the world would these people have for publishing the ad? If the horse loses, the cost of the advertisement is certainly lost. The only way they can win is for the horse to win." It was good logic--as far as it went. THE HIGHER MATHEMATICS OF THE OPERATION But it was really sophistry. If the horse lost, the inserter of the Maxim & Gay advertisement would be out exactly $7. If the $7 was used to bet on the horse, the most that Maxim & Gay could win would be $70. I was taking the same losing risk as the bettor, with a greater chance for gain. By investing $7 in the advertisement, it was possible for me to win much more money from the public by obtaining their patronage for the projected tipping bureau. I recall that the experimental features of the advertisement appealed to me strongly and struck me as being a splendid test of the possibilities of the business. If the horse won and there were few responses to the advertisement it would be convincing on the point that there was no money in the tipster branch of the horse-racing game. I argued that if the racing public would not believe that an Information Bureau was what it cracked itself up to be, in the face of a positive demonstration, how could it be expected to believe the lurid claims of the fakers whose advertisements crowded the sporting papers daily and in which they claimed _after_ the races were run that they named in advance the winners at all sorts of big odds? The next morning about ten o'clock, Campbell called at my home and said that he had received another "good thing" by telegraph from Mead and that the name of the horse was Annie Lauretta, with probable odds of 40 to 1. "Jiminy!" he exclaimed. "If we only get a few customers to-day and this one wins, what will happen?"