The hand-clapping became general--insistent. The audience would not be denied. Carter turned to Dolly. In the recesses of the box she was enjoying his predicament. His friends also were laughing at him. Indignant at their desertion, Carter grinned vindictively. “All right,” he muttered over his shoulder. “Since you think it’s funny, I’ll show you!” He pulled his pencil from his watch-chain and, spreading his programme on the ledge of the box, began to write. From the audience there rose a murmur of incredulity, of surprise, of excited interest. In the rear of the house the press agent, after one startled look, doubled up in an ecstasy of joy. “We’ve landed him!” he gasped. “We’ve landed him. He’s going to fall for it!” Dolly frantically clasped her husband by the coat-tail. “Champ!” she implored, “what are you doing?” Quite calmly, quite confidently, Carter rose. Leaning forward with a nod and a smile, he presented the programme to the beautiful Miss Winter. That lady all but snatched at it. The spot-light was full in her eyes. Turning her back that she might the more easily read, she stood for a moment, her pretty figure trembling with eagerness, her pretty eyes bent upon the programme. The house had grown suddenly still, and with an excited gesture, the leader of the orchestra commanded the music to silence. A man, bursting with impatience, broke the tense quiet. “Read it!” he shouted. In a frightened voice that in the sudden hush held none of its usual confidence, Miss Winter read slowly: “The favorite cannot last the distance. Will lead for the mile and give way to Beldame. Proper takes the place. First Mason will show. Beldame will win by a length.” Before she had ceased reading, a dozen men had struggled to their feet and a hundred voice were roaring at her. “Read that again!” the chorused. Once more Miss Winter read the message, but before she had finished half of those in the front rows were scrambling from their seats and racing up the aisles. Already the reporters were ahead of them, and in the neighborhood not one telephone booth was empty. Within five minutes, in those hotels along the White Way where sporting men are wont to meet, betting commissioners and hand-book men were suddenly assaulted by breathless gentlemen, some in evening dress, some without collars, and some without hats, but all with money to bet against the favorite. And, an hour later, men, bent under stacks of newspaper “extras,” were vomited from the subway stations into the heart of Broadway, and in raucous tones were shrieking, “Winner of the Suburban,” sixteen hours before that race was run. That night to every big newspaper office from Maine to California, was flashed the news that Plunger Carter, in a Broadway theatre, had announced that the favorite for the Suburban would be beaten, and, in order, had named the three horses that would first finish.