John Henry at the Races I was anxious to make Clara Jane think that she was all the money, so I boiled out a few plunks, trotted over to the trolley, and rushed her to the race track. I'm a dub on the dope, but it was my play to be a Wise Boy among the skates on this particular occasion, and I went the whole distance. In the presence of my lady love I knew every horse that ever pulled a harrow. Isn't it cruel how a slob will cut the guy-ropes and go up in the air just because his Baby is by his side? Me--to the mountain tops! Before the car got started I was telling her how Pittsburg Phil and I win $18,000 last summer on a fried fish they called "Benzine." Then I confided to her the fact that I doped a turtle named "Pink Toes" to win the next day, but he went over the fence after a loose bunch of grass and I lose $23,680. She wanted to know what I meant by dope, and I told her it generally meant a sour dream, but she didn't seem to grab. When we got to the track they were bunching the bones for the first race, so I told Clara Jane I thought I'd crawl down to the ring and plaster two or three thousand around among the needy. Two or three thousand, and me with nothing but a five-spot in my jeans and the return ticket money in that! "Are you really going to bet?" she asked. "Sure!" I said; "I've got a pipe!" "Well, I hope you won't smoke it near me. I hate pipes!" she said. "All right; I'll take my pipe down to the betting ring and smoke it there!" I said, and we parted good friends. In front of the grand stand I met Nash Martinetti. He was holding a bunch of poppies and he picked out one in the first race and handed it to me. "A skinch!" said Nash. "Go as far as you like." Then Ned Rose went into a cataleptic state and handed me the winner--by a block. It couldn't go wrong unless its feet fell out. "Here you are, John Henry, the real Pietro!" said Ban Roberts; "play Pump Handle straight and place! It's the road to wealth--believe me! All the others are behind the hill!" Every Breezy Boy I met had a different hunch and they called me into the wharf and unloaded. I figured it out that if I had bet $5 on each good thing they gave me I would have lost $400,000. Then I ducked under, sopped up a stein of root beer and climbed up again to the hurricane deck. "Did you bet?" inquired Clara Jane. "Only $730," I said; "A mere bag o' shells." I leave a call for 7.30 every morning and I suppose that's the reason I was so swift with the figures. "My! what a lot of money!" said the Fair One; "do point out the horse you bet on!
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