From Now On

A WILD and prolonged roar came from every quarter of the race track. It swelled in volume. It came again and again. Pandemonium itself seemed loosed.

Outside the enclosure, a squat, fat man, the perspiration rolling in streams down his face, tugged at his collar with frantic, nervous jerks, as he leaned in over the side of a high-powered car, and with his other hand gripped at the arm of the young man in the driver's seat.

“Dave, listen to 'em! My God, listen to 'em!” snarled the fat man.

Dave Henderson, with the toe of his boot, moved the little black satchel that the other had dropped on the floor of the car farther to one side; and, by way of excuse for disengaging his arm, reached into his pocket for his cigarettes.

“I can hear 'em--even a yard away out here!” he said imperturbably. “Sounds like a great day for the bookies--not!”

The fat man secured his grip on Dave Henderson's arm again.

“I'm wiped out--every last cent--all I've made in years,” he said hoarsely. “You get that, don't you? You know it! I'm cleaned out--and you don't seem to give a damn!”

“Why should I?” inquired Dave Henderson calmly. “I guess it's their turn, ain't it?”

Bookie Skarvan's red-rimmed little gray eyes narrowed, and he swallowed hard.

“I've played square, I have!” he whined. “And I'm wiped out!”

“Yes--square as hell!” amended Dave Henderson.

“You don't give a damn!” shrilled Bookie Skarvan. “That's like you! That's like the lot of you! Where would you have been if I hadn't taken you up--eh?”

“God knows!” said Dave Henderson dispassionately. “I'm not blaming you for trying to make a crook of me.”

An apoplectic red heightened Bookie Skarvan's flushed and streaming face.

“Well, that's one thing I didn't make a bull of, at any rate!” he retorted viciously.

Dave Henderson shifted his cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other with the tip of his tongue. There was a curious smile, half bitter, half whimsical, on his lips, as he leaned suddenly toward the other.

“I guess you're right, Bookie!” He shrugged his shoulders. “But I've only just found it out myself, so if you think there's any congrats coming to you and you're sore because you didn't get 'em before, you know why now.”

The scowl on Bookie Skarvan's face deepened, then cleared abruptly, and the man forced a nervous, wheezy chuckle.

“You won't feel so blamed cool about it to-morrow morning when you come to size this up!” He was whining again, but plaintively now. “I'm wiped out, I tell you, and it's too hard a crack for Tydeman to give me any more backing after he's squared this up--so what are you going to do, eh?”

Dave Henderson glanced at the car's clock. It was already after three.

“I'm going up to 'Frisco--if I ever get started!” he said brusquely. “I've missed the train, as it is, and that means a ninety-mile run--and we're still wasting time! Get down to cases! You got Tydeman on the long distance--what did he say?”

“I couldn't help your missing the train!” Bookie Skarvan's voice had grown almost ingratiating. “There wasn't any use of you going until I knew Tydeman was at home, and unless I got hold of him before the banks closed, was there? And if I'd been able to get him at once we might have had time to arrange it by wire with a bank here--if they were carrying that much in ready cash--and you wouldn't have needed to go at all. But I didn't get him until just a few minutes ago. You know that! I couldn't help it, could I--and the run won't hurt you. You can grab the evening train back. I can stave this gang of wolves off until then by telling 'em Tydeman's making good.”