“Reinforcements!” he cried. “Now, watch me. Now I can do things that are big, national, Napoleonic. We can’t get those books bound inside of a week, but meanwhile orders will be pouring in, people will be growing crazy for it. Every man, woman, and child in Greater New York will want a copy. I’ve sent out fifty boys dressed as jockeys on horseback to ride neck and neck up and down every avenue. ‘The Dead Heat’ is printed on the saddle-cloth. Half of them have been arrested already. It’s a little idea of my own.” “But,” protested Carter, “it’s not a racing story, it’s a detective story!” “The devil it is!” gasped Spink. “But what’s the difference!” he exclaimed. “They’ve got to buy it anyway. They’d buy it if it was a cook-book. And, I say,” he cried delightedly, “that’s great press work you’re doing for the book at the races! The papers are full of you this morning, and every man who reads about your luck at the track will see your name as the author of ‘The Dead Heat,’ and will rush to buy the book. He’ll think ‘The Dead Heat’ is a guide to the turf!” When Carter reached the track he found his notoriety had preceded him. Ambitious did not run until the fourth race, and until then, as he sat in his box, an eager crowd surged below. He had never known such popularity. The crowd had read the newspapers, and such head-lines as “He Cannot Lose!” “Young Carter Wins $70,000!” “Boy Plunger Wins Again!” “Carter Makes Big Killing!” “The Ring Hit Hard!” “The Man Who Cannot Lose!” “Carter Beats Book-makers!” had whetted their curiosity and filled many with absolute faith in his luck. Men he had not seen in years grasped him by the hand and carelessly asked if he could tell of something good. Friends old and new begged him to dine with them, to immediately have a drink with them, at least to “try” a cigar. Men who protested they had lost their all begged for just a hint which would help them to come out even, and every one, without exception, assured him he was going to buy his latest book. “I tried to get it last night at a dozen news-stands,” many of them said, “but they told me the entire edition was exhausted.” The crowd of hungry-eyed race-goers waiting below the box, and watching Carter’s every movement, distressed Dolly. “I hate it!” she cried. “They look at you like a lot of starved dogs begging for a bone. Let’s go home; we don’t want to make any more money, and we may lose what we have. And I want it all to advertise the book.” “If you’re not careful,” said Carter, “some one will buy that book and read it, and then you and Spink will have to take shelter in a cyclone cellar.”