and ivery pitchfork wielder in this locality will be trailin' us. The day has been profitable; why risk further humiliation at the hands of this accursed common wealth.'*
Walking rapidly, we soon came to a flag station of the Philadelphia & Fog River Railroad. Opportunely, too.
Shortly we were bowling merrily toward the big city across the Delaware. Once over the river, we breathed relief.
"Terry," I conceded, "the thirty-nine dollars we collected this afternoon is the product of your gray matter. Minus carfare expended, the disposition of it lies with you. I believe you mentioned a horse called Pat McGlynn, running at Belgrave tomorrow in a field of dogs. How much goes down on Pat McGlynn?"
"Since ye put it that way," answered Terry, "we'll woire twinty foive to McTurf."
First, though, we took the "L." Time to telegraph was not so precious. On the other hand, it were better not to linger long near the Jersey ferry. At Fortieth and Market Streets we left the "L." Immediately we hunted up a telegraph office. As telegraph companies are somewhat chary of handling business relating to horse racing, unpleasant questions are sometimes asked in this connection. Communicating with McTurf by means of a code, we wired with the twenty-five, this message which, in view of what precedes, is no doubt clear:
See Pat after two tomorrow. Make best bargain.
Hazard & O'Chance.
It occurred to me, after the telegram was on its way, that it would have been safer to have used "McGlynn" instead of "Pat" to designate the entry. Terry laughed when I voiced the thought.
"McTurf makes no mistakes," he assured me. "You should know that by this time. Pat McGlynn is the only Pat intered for tomorrow, anyhow."
"Third race: Fedora wins!" I read to Terry next evening from a sporting extra. "Among others, I observe that one Patrick McGlynn also ran," I remarked cynically.
Terry gazed at me. I gazed at Terry. Silently, sorrowfully, we fell into the arms of each other; silently, sorrowfully, we wept upon the shoulders of each other.
What did the gods think we were, anyway?
To a café we wandered, and sought solace in drinks of many colors, and maundered of evil stars, and the tenacity of misfortune until the shrill, defiant crow of a cork in a poultry store nearby apprised us of approaching dawn. In the nepenthic grip of saturation, we wended a tortuous journey to our little third-floor-back.
There in the gentle arms of Slumber, (or Morpheus, if you insist), we knew no more until well into the morning, when some one knocked loudly upon our door. It was the landlady. An expressman desired that we sign for a money package, she stated. Terry and I rushed to the street door. Sure enough, there was a money package—value three hundred and fifteen dollars! Terry opened it. This is the gist of the note it contained:
