The Black Lion Inn. Alfred Henry Lewis

alive!” remonstrates the amazed Rand; “it’s too much on one horse! Moreover, I won’t have time to get all that money down.”

      “Get down what you can then,” commands James of the Beads. “Plunge! Have no fears! I tell you, so surely as the sun comes up, Roysterer will win.”

      “The wise ones don’t think so,” urges Rand, who is not wedded to the mystic “Three,” and beholds nothing wondrous in that numeral. “This Roysterer is a seven for one shot.”

      “And the better for us,” retorts James of the Beads. “Roysterer is to win.”

      “But wouldn’t it be wiser to split this money and play part of it on Roysterer for a place?”

      “Never!” declares James of the Beads. “Do you suppose I don’t know what I’m about? I’m worth a million for each year of my life, and I made every stiver of it by the very method I take to discover this horse. Can’t you see that I’m not guessing?—that I have reason for what I do? Roysterer for a place! Never! get down every splinter that Roysterer finishes first.”

      “Let me ask one question,” observes the cautious Rand. “Do you know the horse?”

      “Never heard of the animal in my life!” remarks James of the Beads, pouring himself a complacent glass. This he tastes approvingly. “You must pardon me, my friends, I’ve got to write a note or two. I’ve not too much time for a man with twenty things to do, and who must be in the street when business opens to-morrow. Take my word for it; get all you can on Roysterer. If we win, we’re partners; if we lose, I’m alone.”

      Rand shakes sage, experienced head, while his face gathers a cynical look.

      Reed and Rand take James of the Beads by the hand and then withdraw.

      “What do you make of it?” asks Rand.

      “The man’s infatuated!” replies Reed.

      “And yet, you also believe in systems,” remarks Rand.

      It is the next afternoon. The Brighton course is rampant with the usual jostling, pushing, striving, guessing, knowing, wagering, winning, losing, ignorant, exulting, deploring, profane crowd. The conservative Rand has so far obeyed the behest of James of the Beads that he has fifteen thousand dollars on Roysterer straight.

      “To lose fifteen thousand won’t hurt him,” says Rand, and so consoles himself for a mad speculation whereof he has no joy.

      Reed and Rand, as taking life easily, are in a box; the race over which their interest clings and clambers is called.

      The horses are at the post. Roysterer does not act encouragingly; he is too sleepy—too lethargic! Starlight, the favorite, steps about, alert and springy as a cat; it should be an easy race for her if looks go for aught.

      They get the word; they are “off!” The field sweeps ’round the curve. A tall man in a nearby box follows the race with a glass.

      “At the quarter,” sings the tall man. “Starlight first, Blenheim second, Roysterer third!” There is a pause. Then the tall man: “At the half! Starlight first, Blenheim second, Roysterer third!” Rand turns to Reed. “He must better that,” says Rand, “or he’ll explode the superstition of our friend.” There is a wait of twenty-five seconds. Again the tall, binoculared man: “Three-quarter post! Starlight first, Blenheim second, Roysterer third—and whipping!”

      “It’s as good as over,” observes Rand. “I wonder what James of the Beads will say to his witch-chain when he hears the finish.”

      “It’s surprising,” remarks Reed peevishly, “that a man of his force and clear intelligence should own to such a weakness! All his life he’s followed this marvelous ‘Three’ about; and having had vast success he attributes it to the ‘Three,’ when he might as well and as wisely ascribe it to Captain Kidd or Trinity church. To-day’s results may cure him; and that’s one comfort.”

      There is a sharp click as the tall man in the nearby box shuts up his glasses.

      “Roysterer wins!” says the tall man.

      “Got down fifteen thousand. Won one hundred and five thousand,” reads James of the Beads from Rand’s telegram sent from the track. James of the Beads is in his offices; he has just finished a victorious day, at once heavy and tumultuous with the buying and the selling of full three hundred thousand shares of stocks. “They should have wagered the full one hundred thousand and let the odds look after themselves,” he says. Then James of the Beads begins to caress the gypsy chain. “You knew,” he murmurs; “of course, you knew!” There is a note of devotion in the tones. The bead-worship goes on for a silent moment. “Only one hundred and five thousand!” ruminates James of the Beads. “I suppose Rand was afraid!”

      “That is indeed a curious story,” observed the Jolly Doctor, when the Red Nosed Gentleman, being done with James of the Beads, was returning to his burgundy; “and did it really happen?”

      “Of a verity, did it,” returned the Red Nosed Gentleman. “I was Rand.”

      Conversation fluttered from one topic to another for a brief space, but dealt mainly with those divers superstitions that folk affect. When signs and omens were worn out, the Jolly Doctor turned upon the Old Cattleman as though to remind that ancient practitioner of cows how it would be now his right to uplift us with a reminiscence.

      “No, I don’t need to be told it none,” said the Old Cattleman. “On the principle of freeze-out, it’s shore got down to me. Seein’ how this yere snow reminds me a heap of Christmas, I’ll onload on you-all how we’re aroused an’ brought to a realisin’ sense of that season of gifts once upon a time in Wolfville.”