unable to lose the Brooklyn Handicap at big odds. I had never been much of a gambler, mostly because until very lately I never had no spare jack to devote to this worthy purpose and didn't believe in luck. Still and all, I couldn't imagine Mr. Brock being wrong about anything, and if he's sure his horse will win—and at five to one! . . .
I simply couldn't get to sleep and that's all there was to it! I remembered reading somewheres that if you will merely close your eyes and begin counting imaginery sheep jumping over imaginery fences you will slip right off to dreamland. So I began counting, but I didn't count no sheep! What I am counting is dollars, like, should I bet a thousand on Knight Errant I would win five thousand and should I bet five thousand I would win twenty-five thousand and should I bet ten thousand I would win fifty thousand—and—well, the last I remembered before dropping off to slumber I am a trifle over a hundred thousand winner!
The next morning I nail Nate at breakfast.
"What d'ye think of Knight Errant in the Brooklyn Handicap?" I ask him, trying to be kind of careless about it.
"Hey, listen," says Nate. "Lay off the bang-tails, kid; they have kept me poor and broke wiser guys than either of us!"
"Applesauce!" I says. "I asked you a question—what d'ye think of Knight Errant?"
"He won't be in the money!" sneers Nate. "'At beagle's a sprinter, and a mile and a eighth's too much race for him. Cirrus will win 'at scramble from here
