“It gets along, d'ye see, where Atalanta's folks thinks she ought to get married. But she won't have it; she'd sooner be a sprinter. With that, they crowd her hand; an' to get shut of 'em, she finally tacks it up on the bulletin board that she'll chase to th' altar only with some student who can beat her at a quarter mile dash. 'No lobsters need apply!' says she. Also, there's conditions. Under the rules, if some chump calls th' bluff, an' can't make good--if she lands him loses--her papa's headsman will be on th' job with his axe, an' that beaten gink'll get his block whacked off.” “An' does any one go against such a game?” queried Jew Yetta. “Sure! A whole fleet of young Archibalds and Reginalds went up ag'inst it. They all lose; an' his jiblets wit' th' cleaver chops off their youthful beans. “But the luck turns. One day a sure-thing geek shows up whose monaker is Hippomenes. Hippy's a fly Indian; there ain't goin' to be no headsman in his. Hippy's hep to skirts, too, an' knows where th' board is off their fence. He organizes with three gold apples, see, an' every time little Atalanta Shootin' Star goes flashin' by, he chucks down one of 'em in front of her. She simply eats it up; she can't get by not one; an' she loses so much time grabbin' for 'em, Hippy noses in a winner.” “Good boy!” broke forth the Dropper. “An' do they hook up?” “They're married; but it don't last. You see its Venus who shows Hippy how to crab Atalanta's act an' stakes him to th' gold apples. An' later, when he double-crosses Venus, that goddess changes him an' his baby mine into a-couple of lions.” The Irish Wop had been listening impatiently. It was when Governor Hughes flourished in Albany, and the race tracks were being threatened. The Wop, as a pool-room keeper, was vastly concerned. “I see,” said the Wop, appealing directly to old Jimmy as the East Side Nestor, “that la-a-ad Hughes is makin' it hot for Belmont an' Keene an' th' rist av th' racin' gang. Phwat's he so ha-a-ard on racin' for? Do yez look on playin' th' ponies as a vice, Jimmy?” “Well,” responded old Jimmy with a conservative air, “I don't know as I'd call it a vice so much as a bonehead play.” “They call it th' shpo-r-rt av kings,” observed die Wop, loftily. Old Jimmy snorted. “Sport of kings!” said he. “Sport of come-ons, rather. Them Sport-of-kings gezebos 'll go on, too, an' give you a lot of guff about racin' bein' healthy. But they ain't sayin' a word concernin' th' mothers an' youngones livin' in hot two-room tenements, an' jumpin' sideways for grub, while th' husbands and fathers is blowin' in their bank-rolls in th' bettin' ring, an' gettin' healthy. An' th' little jocks, too--mere kids! I've wondered th' Gerries didn't get after 'em. But I suppose th' Gerries know who to pass up, an' who to pinch, as well as th' oldest skipper on th' Force.” “F'r all that,” contended the Wop, stubbornly, “thim la-a-ads that's mixed up wit' th' racin' game is good feltys.”