Wallingford, having drawn up a chair with alacrity, was already sorting bills, smoothing them out and counting them off in hundreds. "And all on pure charity--picking out winning horses for your customers!" laughed Wallingford. "This is a real gold mine you've hit at last." "Pretty good," agreed Blackie. "I'd have enough to start a mint of my own if I didn't lose so much playing the races." "You don't play your own tips, I hope," expostulated Wallingford, pausing to inspect a tattered bill. "I should say not," returned Daw with emphasis. "If I did that I'd have to play every horse in every race. You see, every day I wire the name of one horse to all my subscribers in Philadelphia, another to Baltimore, another to Washington, and so on down the list. One of those horses has to win. Suppose I pick out the horse Roller Skate for Philadelphia. Well, if Roller skates home that day I advertise in the Philadelphia papers the next morning, and, besides that, every fall-easy that got the tip advertises me to some of his friends, and they all spike themselves to send in money for the dope. Oh, it's a great game, all right." "It's got yegging frazzled to a pulp," agreed Wallingford. "But I oughtn't to yell police. I got the lucky word my first time out. I played Razzoo and cleaned up six thousand dollars on the strength of your wire." "Go on!" returned Blackie delightedly. "You don't mean to say you're sorting some of your own money there?" "I sure am," laughed Wallingford, picking up a five-dollar bill. "I think this must be it. What's the New York horse to-day?" Blackie consulted a list that lay on his desk. "Whipsaw," he said. "Whipsaw! By George, Blackie, if there's any one thing I'd like to do, it'd be to whipsaw some friends of yours on Broadway." Whereupon he told Blackie, with much picturesque embellishment, just how Messrs. Phelps, Teller, Banting and Pickins had managed to annex the Razzoo money. Blackie enjoyed that recital very much. "The Broadway Syndicate is still on the job," he commented. "Well, J. Rufus, let this teach you how to take a joke next time." "I'm not saying a word," replied Wallingford. "Any time I let a kindergarten crowd like that work a trick on me that was invented right after Noah discovered spoiled grape juice, I owe myself a month in jail. But watch me. I'll make moccasins out of their hides, all right." "Go right ahead, old man, and see if I care," consented Blackie. "Slam the harpoon into them and twist it." "I will," asserted Wallingford confidently. "I don't like them because they're grouches; I don't like them because they're cheap; I don't like their names, nor their faces, nor the town they live in. Making money in New York's too much like sixteen hungry bulldogs to one bone. The best dog gets it, but he finishes too weak for an appetite. What kind of a horse is this Whipsaw you're sending out to-day?" "I don't know. Where's the dope on Whipsaw, Tillie?"