Behind us, Gimpy Gordon light-fingered a half dollar out of Delancey's pocket and was attracting the attention of a hot dog peddler by waving his program. Some folks nearby were eying Barcelona's noisemakers angrily but making very little visible protest once they identified him. Nora was reading her program and underlining some horses. The whole place began to grow into a strange excited silence as the track board began to go up. It was to be a nine-horse race, and at the top of the list were three--count them--three odds-on favorites: 1. Murdoch's Hoard 1:2 2. Mewhu's Jet 3:5 3. Johnny Brack 5:7 4. Piper's Son 8:5 5. Daymare 3:1 6. Helen O'Loy 8:1 And then, of course, there were our three mud turtles which must have been entered by someone who thought that the Kentucky Derby was a claiming race and who hoped that the LePage's Glue people would make a bid for the three mounds of thoroughbred horseflesh that dropped dead in the backstretch: 7. Flying Heels 100:1 8. Moonbeam 250:1 9. Lady Grace 500:1 The rack hadn't hit the top of the slide before there was a sort of mass-movement towards the mutuel windows. The ones who didn't go in person tried to hurl betting-thoughts in the hope of getting there early and failing this they arose and followed the crowd. Slowly the odds began to change; the figures on our three platers began to rise. There was very little activity on the other six horses. Slow-thinking Gimpy Gordon started to get up but I put out a hand to stop him. "But the odds are dropping," he complained. "Gimpy," I said, "they pay on the final listing anyway. But would you like a tip?" "Sure," he said nervously. "My tip is to keep your cash in your pocket. Put it on the nose of some horse and it's likely to get blown away by a high wind." The odds were changing rapidly. What with psionic information receivers, trend predictors and estimated anticipators, the mutuel computers kept up with the physical transfer of funds, figured out the latest odds, and flipped the figures as fast as the machinery could work the dials. In no more than a few minutes the odds on the three platers looked more like the odds on horses that stood a chance of winning. * * * * * Barcelona looked at me. "What did you do, wise guy?" "Who ... me? Why, I didn't do anything that you did not start--except that maybe I was a little more generous." "_Spiel!_" he snarled. "Why, shucks, Joseph. All I did was to slip good old Gimpy Gordon a tip." "How much?" "Just a lousy little thousand dollar bill." "A grand! For what, wise guy?" "Why, just for telling me what horses you picked for the Derby." Barcelona looked at the odds on his horses. Flying Heels had passed even money and was heading for a one-to-two odds-on. The other platers were following accordingly. "And what did you tell Gimpy, Wilson?" "You tell him, Gimp," I said.