"He won't do," she announced with decision. "I've found out all about him. He's got enough money to star me in a show of my own for the next ten years, but he's not furnished with the brand of manners I like. I'll never marry a man I can't stand. I've got a _few_ principles about me! Why, yesterday he tried to treat me real lovely, but do you know, he wouldn't give me the name of a horse, even when he put a hundred down for me in the third race? There I sat, with a string of 'em just prancing around the track, and not one to pull for. Then after the race is over he comes and tosses me five hundred dollars. 'I got you four to one on the winner,' says he. Why, it was just like _giving me money_! Jimmy, I'm going out to dinner with him to-night, then I'm going to turn him back into the paddock, and you can pal around with me again until I find a man with plenty of money that I could really love." "Don't spill the beans," advised Wallingford hastily. "Block thinks you're about the maple custard, don't he?" "He's crazy about me," confessed the Beauty complacently. "Fine work. Well, just you string him along till he gives you the name of a sure winner in advance; jolly it out of him." "Not on your three-sheet litho!" negatived the Beauty. "I never yet worked one mash against another. I guess you'd expect to play even on that tip, eh?" "Sure, we'll play it," admitted Wallingford; "but better than that, I'll shred this Harry Phelps crowd so clean they'll have to borrow car fare." She thought on this possibility with sparkling eyes. She was against the "Phelps crowd" on principle. Also--well, Wallingford had always been a perfect gentleman. "Are you sure you can do it?" she wanted to know. "It's all framed up," he asserted confidently; "all I want is the name of that winner." The Beauty considered the matter seriously, and in the end silently shook hands with him. The _pro tem_. Mrs. Phillips sniffed. This was on a Saturday, a matinée day, and Wallingford went out to the track alone, contenting himself with extremely small bets, merely to keep his interest alive. The day's racing was half over before he ran across the Broadway Syndicate. They were heartily glad to see him. They greeted him with even effervescent joy. "Where have you been, J. Rufus?" asked Phelps. "We were looking for you all over yesterday. We thought sure you'd be out at the track playing that Boston Gouge Company's tips." "Your dear chum was in the country, resting up," replied Wallingford, with matter-of-fact cheerfulness. "By George, I never had wine put me down and out so in my life"--whereat the cadaverous Short-Card Larry could not repress a wink for the benefit of Yap Pickins. "What was the good-thing they wired yesterday?" "Whipsaw!" scorned Phelps. "Say, do you see that horse out there?"--and he pointed to a selling-plater, up at the head of the stretch, which was being warmed up by a stable-boy. "Well, that's Whipsaw, just coming in from yesterday's last race."