SOLD OUT IN ONE DAY!ENTIRE FIRST EDITIONTHE DEAD HEATBYCHAMPNEYS CARTERSECOND EDITION ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND
“In Heaven’s name!” roared Carter. “What does this mean?”
“It means,” cried Dolly tremulously, “I’m backing my dream. I’ve always believed in your book. Now, I’m backing it. Our lawyers sent me to an advertising agent. His name is Spink, and he is awfully clever. I asked him if he could advertise a book so as to make it sell. He said with my money and his ideas he could sell last year’s telephone book to people who did not own a telephone, and who had never learned to read. He is proud of his ideas. One of them was buying out the first edition. Your publishers told him your book was ‘waste paper,’ and that he could have every copy in stock for the cost of the plates. So he bought the whole edition. That’s how it was sold out in one day. Then we ordered a second edition of one hundred thousand, and they’re printing it now.
“The presses have been working all night to meet the demand!”
“But,” cried Carter, “there isn’t any demand!”
“There will be,” said Dolly, “when five million people read our advertisements.”
She dragged him to the window and pointed triumphantly into the street.
“See that!” she said. “Mr. Spink sent them here for me to inspect.”
Drawn up in a line that stretched from Fifth Avenue to Broadway were an army of sandwich men. On the boards they carried were the words: “Read ‘The Dead Heat.’ Second Edition. One Hundred Thousand!” On the fence in front of the building going up across the street, in letters a foot high, Carter again read the name of his novel. In letters in size more modest, but in colors more defiant, it glared at him from ash-cans and barrels.
“How much does this cost?” he gasped.
“It cost every dollar you had in bank,” said Dolly, “and before we are through it will cost you twice as much more. Mr. Spink is only waiting to hear from me before he starts spending fifty thousand dollars; that’s only half of what you won on Red Wing. I’m only waiting for you to make me out a check before I tell Spink to start spending it.”
In a dazed state Carter drew a check for fifty thousand dollars and meekly handed it to his wife. They carried it themselves to the office of Mr. Spink. On their way, on every side they saw evidences of his handiwork. On walls, on scaffolding, on bill-boards were advertisements of “The Dead Heat.” Over Madison Square a huge kite as large as a Zeppelin air-ship painted the name of the book against the sky, on “dodgers” it floated in the air, on handbills it stared up from the gutters.
Mr. Spink was a nervous young man with a bald head and eye-glasses. He grasped the check as a general might welcome fifty thousand fresh troops.
“Reinforcements!” he cried. “Now, watch me. Now I can do things that are big, national, Napoleonic. We can’t get those books bound inside of a week, but meanwhile orders will be pouring in, people will be growing crazy for it. Every man, woman, and child in Greater New York will want a copy. I’ve sent out fifty boys dressed as jockeys on horseback to ride neck and neck up and down every avenue. ‘The Dead Heat’ is printed on the saddle-cloth. Half of them have been arrested already. It’s a little idea of my own.”
“But,” protested Carter, “it’s not a racing story, it’s a detective story!”
“The devil it is!” gasped Spink. “But what’s the difference!” he exclaimed. “They’ve got to buy it anyway. They’d buy it if it was a cook-book. And, I say,” he cried delightedly, “that’s great press work you’re doing for the book at the races! The papers are full of you this morning, and every man who reads about your luck at the track will see your name as the author of ‘The Dead Heat,’ and will rush to buy the book. He’ll think ‘The Dead Heat’ is a guide to the turf!”
When Carter reached the track he found his notoriety had preceded him. Ambitious did not run until the fourth race, and until then, as he sat in his box, an eager crowd surged below. He had never known such popularity. The crowd had read the newspapers, and such head-lines as “He Cannot Lose!” “Young Carter Wins $70,000!” “Boy Plunger Wins Again!” “Carter Makes Big Killing!” “The Ring Hit Hard!” “The Man Who Cannot Lose!” “Carter Beats Book-makers!” had whetted their curiosity and filled many with absolute faith in his luck. Men he had not seen in years grasped him by the hand and carelessly asked if he could tell of something good. Friends old and new begged him to dine with them, to immediately have a drink with them, at least to “try” a cigar. Men who protested they had lost their all begged for just a hint which would help them to come out even, and every one, without exception, assured him he was going to buy his latest book.
“I tried to get it last night at a dozen news-stands,” many of them said, “but they told me the entire edition was exhausted.”
The crowd of hungry-eyed race-goers waiting below the box, and watching Carter’s every movement, distressed Dolly.
“I hate it!” she cried. “They look at you like a lot of starved dogs begging for a bone. Let’s go home; we don’t want to make any more money, and we may lose what we have. And I want it all to advertise the book.”
“If you’re not careful,” said Carter, “some one will buy that book and read it, and then you and Spink will have to take shelter in a cyclone cellar.”
When he arose to make his bet on Ambitious, his friends from the club stand and a half-dozen of Pinkerton’s men closed in around him and in a flying wedge pushed into the ring. The news-papers had done their work, and he was instantly surrounded by a hungry, howling mob. In comparison with the one of the previous day, it was as a foot-ball scrimmage to a run on a bank. When he made his first wager and the crowd learned the name of the horse, it broke with a yell into hundreds of flying missiles which hurled themselves at the book-makers. Under their attack, as on the day before, Ambitious receded to even money. There was hardly a person at the track who did not back the luck of the man who “could not lose.” And when Ambitious won easily, it was not the horse or the jockey that was cheered, but the young man in the box.
In New York the extras had already announced that he was again lucky, and when Dolly and Carter reached the bank they found the entire staff on hand to receive him and his winnings. They amounted to a sum so magnificent that Carter found for the rest of their lives the interest would furnish Dolly and himself an income upon which they could live modestly and well.
A distinguished-looking, white-haired official of the bank congratulated Carter warmly. “Should you wish to invest some of this,” he said, “I should be glad to advise you. My knowledge in that direction may be wider than your own.”
Carter murmured his thanks. The white-haired gentleman lowered his voice. “On certain other subjects,” he continued, “you know many things of which I am totally ignorant. Could you tell me,” he asked carelessly, “who will win the Suburban to-morrow?”
Carter frowned mysteriously. “I can tell you better in the morning,” he said. “It looks like Beldame, with Proper and First Mason within call.”
The white-haired man showed his surprise and also that his ignorance was not as profound as he suggested.
“I thought the Keene entry——” he ventured.
“I know,” said Carter doubtfully. “If it were for a mile, I would say Delhi, but I don’t think he can last the distance. In the morning I’ll wire you.”
As they settled back in their car, Carter took both of Dolly’s hands in his. “So far as money goes,” he said, “we are independent of your mother—independent of my books; and I want to make you a promise. I want to promise you that, no matter what I dream in the future, I’ll never back another horse.” Dolly gave a gasp of satisfaction.
“And what’s more,” added Carter hastily, “not another dollar can you risk in backing my books. After this, they’ve got to stand or fall on their legs!”
“Agreed!” cried Dolly. “Our plunging days are over.”
When they reached the flat they found waiting for Carter the junior partner of a real publishing house. He had a blank contract, and he wanted to secure the right to publish Carter’s next book.
“I have a few short stories——” suggested Carter.
Collections of short stories, protested the visitor truthfully, “do not sell. We would prefer another novel on the same lines as ‘The Dead Heat.’”
“Have you read ‘The Dead Heat’?” asked Carter.
“I have not,” admitted the publisher, “but the next book by the same author is sure to——. We will pay in advance of royalties fifteen thousand dollars.”
“Could you put that in writing?” asked Carter. When the publisher was leaving he said:
“I see your success in literature is equaled by your success at the races. Could you tell me what will win the Suburban?”
“I will send you a wire in the MORNING,” said Carter.
They had arranged to dine with some friends and later to visit a musical comedy. Carter had changed his clothes, and, while he was waiting for Dolly to dress, was reclining in a huge arm-chair. The heat of the day, the excitement, and the wear on his nerves caused his head to sink back, his eyes to close, and his limbs to relax.
When, by her entrance, Dolly woke him, he jumped up in some confusion.
“You’ve been asleep,” she mocked.
“Worse!” said Carter. “I’ve been dreaming! Shall I tell you who is going to win the Suburban?”
“Champneys!” cried Dolly in alarm.
“My dear Dolly,” protested her husband, “I promised to stop betting. I did not promise to stop sleeping.”
“Well,” sighed Dolly, with relief, “as long as it stops at that. Delhi will win,” she added. “Delhi will not,” said Carter. “This is how they will finish——” He scribbled three names on a piece of paper which Dolly read.
“But that,” she said, “is what you told the gentleman at the bank.”
Carter stared at her blankly and in some embarrassment.
“You see!” cried Dolly, “what you think when you’re awake, you dream when you’re asleep. And you had a run of luck that never happened before and could never happen again.”
Carter received her explanation with reluctance. “I wonder,” he said.
On arriving at the theatre they found their host had reserved a stage-box, and as there were but four in their party, and as, when they entered, the house lights were up, their arrival drew upon them the attention both of those in the audience and of those on the stage. The theatre was crowded to its capacity, and in every part were people who were habitual race-goers, as well as many racing men who had come to town for the Suburban. By these, as well as by many others who for three days had seen innumerable pictures of him, Carter was instantly recognized. To the audience and to the performers the man who always won was of far greater interest than what for the three-hundredth night was going forward on the stage. And when the leading woman, Blanche Winter, asked the comedian which he would rather be, “The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo or the Man Who Can Not Lose?” she gained from the audience an easy laugh and from the chorus an excited giggle.
When, at the end of the act, Carter went into the lobby to smoke, he was so quickly surrounded that he sought refuge on Broadway. From there, the crowd still following him, he was driven back into his box. Meanwhile, the interest shown in him had not been lost upon the press agent of the theatre, and he at once telephoned to the newspaper offices that Plunger Carter, the book-maker breaker, was at that theatre, and if that the newspapers wanted a chance to interview him on the probable out-come of the classic handicap to be run on the morrow, he, the press agent, would unselfishly assist them. In answer to these hurry calls, reporters of the Ten o’Clock Club assembled in the foyer. How far what later followed was due to their presence and to the efforts of the press agent only that gentleman can tell. It was in the second act that Miss Blanche Winter sang her topical song. In it she advised the audience when anxious to settle any question of personal or national interest to “Put it up to the Man in the Moon.’” This night she introduced a verse in which she told of her desire to know which horse on the morrow would win the Suburban, and, in the chorus, expressed her determination to “Put it up to the Man in the Moon.”
Instantly from the back of the house a voice called: “Why don’t you put it up to the Man in the Box?” Miss Winter laughed—the audience laughed; all eyes were turned toward Carter. As though the idea pleased them, from different parts of the house people applauded heartily. In embarrassment, Carter shoved back his chair and pulled the curtain of the box between him and the audience. But he was not so easily to escape. Leaving the orchestra to continue unheeded with the prelude to the next verse, Miss Winter walked slowly and deliberately toward him, smiling mischievously. In burlesque entreaty, she held out her arms. She made a most appealing and charming picture, and of that fact she was well aware. In a voice loud enough to reach every part of the house, she addressed herself to Carter:
“Won’t you tell ME?” she begged.
Carter, blushing unhappily, shrugged his shoulders in apology.
With a wave of her hand Miss Winter designated the audience. “Then,” she coaxed, reproachfully, “won’t you tell THEM?”
Again, instantly, with a promptness and unanimity that sounded suspiciously as though it came from ushers well rehearsed, several voice echoed her petition: “Give us all a chance!” shouted one. “Don’t keep the good things to yourself!” reproached another. “I want to get rich, TOO!” wailed a third. In his heart, Carter prayed they would choke. But the audience, so far from resenting the interruptions, encouraged them, and Carter’s obvious discomfort added to its amusement. It proceeded to assail him with applause, with appeals, with commands to “speak up.”
The hand-clapping became general—insistent. The audience would not be denied. Carter turned to Dolly. In the recesses of the box she was enjoying his predicament. His friends also were laughing at him. Indignant at their desertion, Carter grinned vindictively. “All right,” he muttered over his shoulder. “Since you think it’s funny, I’ll show you!” He pulled his pencil from his watch-chain and, spreading his programme on the ledge of the box, began to write.
From the audience there rose a murmur of incredulity, of surprise, of excited interest. In the rear of the house the press agent, after one startled look, doubled up in an ecstasy of joy. “We’ve landed him!” he gasped. “We’ve landed him. He’s going to fall for it!”
Dolly frantically clasped her husband by the coat-tail.
“Champ!” she implored, “what are you doing?”
Quite calmly, quite confidently, Carter rose. Leaning forward with a nod and a smile, he presented the programme to the beautiful Miss Winter. That lady all but snatched at it. The spot-light was full in her eyes. Turning her back that she might the more easily read, she stood for a moment, her pretty figure trembling with eagerness, her pretty eyes bent upon the programme. The house had grown suddenly still, and with an excited gesture, the leader of the orchestra commanded the music to silence. A man, bursting with impatience, broke the tense quiet. “Read it!” he shouted.
In a frightened voice that in the sudden hush held none of its usual confidence, Miss Winter read slowly: “The favorite cannot last the distance. Will lead for the mile and give way to Beldame. Proper takes the place. First Mason will show. Beldame will win by a length.”
Before she had ceased reading, a dozen men had struggled to their feet and a hundred voice were roaring at her. “Read that again!” the chorused. Once more Miss Winter read the message, but before she had finished half of those in the front rows were scrambling from their seats and racing up the aisles. Already the reporters were ahead of them, and in the neighborhood not one telephone booth was empty. Within five minutes, in those hotels along the White Way where sporting men are wont to meet, betting commissioners and hand-book men were suddenly assaulted by breathless gentlemen, some in evening dress, some without collars, and some without hats, but all with money to bet against the favorite. And, an hour later, men, bent under stacks of newspaper “extras,” were vomited from the subway stations into the heart of Broadway, and in raucous tones were shrieking, “Winner of the Suburban,” sixteen hours before that race was run. That night to every big newspaper office from Maine to California, was flashed the news that Plunger Carter, in a Broadway theatre, had announced that the favorite for the Suburban would be beaten, and, in order, had named the three horses that would first finish.
Up and down Broadway, from rathskellers to roof-gardens, in cafes and lobster palaces, on the corners of the cross-roads, in clubs and all-night restaurants, Carter’s tip was as a red rag to a bull.
Was the boy drunk, they demanded, or had his miraculous luck turned his head? Otherwise, why would he so publicly utter a prophecy that on the morrow must certainly smother him with ridicule. The explanations were varied. The men in the clubs held he was driven by a desire for notoriety, the men in the street that he was more clever than they guessed, and had made the move to suit his own book, to alter the odds to his own advantage. Others frowned mysteriously. With superstitious faith in his luck, they pointed to his record. “Has he ever lost a bet? How do WE know what HE knows?” they demanded. “Perhaps it’s fixed and he knows it!”
The “wise” ones howled in derision. “A Suburban FIXED!” they retorted. “You can fix ONE jockey, you can fix TWO; but you can’t fix sixteen jockeys! You can’t fix Belmont, you can’t fix Keene. There’s nothing in his picking Beldame, but only a crazy man would pick the horse for the place and to show, and shut out the favorite! The boy ought to be in Matteawan.”
Still undisturbed, still confident to those to whom he had promised them, Carter sent a wire. Nor did he forget his old enemy, “Sol” Burbank. “If you want to get some of the money I took,” he telegraphed, “wipe out the Belmont entry and take all they offer on Delhi. He cannot win.”
And that night, when each newspaper called him up at his flat, he made the same answer. “The three horses will finish as I said. You can state that I gave the information as I did as a sort of present to the people of New York City.”
In the papers the next morning “Carter’s Tip” was the front-page feature. Even those who never in the racing of horses felt any concern could not help but take in the outcome of this one a curious interest. The audacity of the prophecy, the very absurdity of it, presupposing, as it did, occult power, was in itself amusing. And when the curtain rose on the Suburban it was evident that to thousands what the Man Who Could Not Lose had foretold was a serious and inspired utterance.
This time his friends gathered around him, not to benefit by his advice, but to protect him. “They’ll mob you!” they warned. “They’ll tear the clothes off your back. Better make your getaway now.”
Dolly, with tears in her eyes, sat beside him. Every now and again she touched his hand. Below his box, as around a newspaper office on the night when a president is elected, the people crushed in a turbulent mob. Some mocked and jeered, some who on his tip had risked their every dollar, hailed him hopefully. On every side policemen, fearful of coming trouble, hemmed him in. Carter was bored extremely, heartily sorry he had on the night before given way to what he now saw as a perverse impulse. But he still was confident, still undismayed.
To all eyes, except those of Dolly, he was of all those at the track the least concerned. To her he turned and, in a low tone, spoke swiftly. “I am so sorry,” he begged. “But, indeed, indeed, I can’t lose. You must have faith in me.”
“In you, yes,” returned Dolly in a whisper, “but in your dreams, no!”
The horses were passing on their way to the post. Carter brought his face close to hers.
“I’m going to break my promise,” he said, “and make one more bet, this one with you. I bet you a kiss that I’m right.”
Dolly, holding back her tears, smiled mournfully. “Make it a hundred,” she said.
Half of the forty thousand at the track had backed Delhi, the other half, following Carter’s luck and his confidence in proclaiming his convictions, had backed Beldame. Many hundred had gone so far as to bet that the three horses he had named would finish as he had foretold. But, in spite of Carter’s tip, Delhi still was the favorite, and when the thousands saw the Keene polka-dots leap to the front, and by two lengths stay there, for the quarter, the half, and for the three-quarters, the air was shattered with jubilant, triumphant yells. And then suddenly, with the swiftness of a moving picture, in the very moment of his victory, Beldame crept up on the favorite, drew alongside, drew ahead passed him, and left him beaten. It was at the mile.
The night before a man had risen in a theatre and said to two thousand people: “The favorite will lead for the mile, and give way to Beldame.” Could they have believed him, the men who now cursed themselves might for the rest of their lives have lived upon their winnings. Those who had followed his prophecy faithfully, superstitiously, now shrieked in happy, riotous self-congratulation. “At the MILE!” they yelled. “He TOLD you, at the MILE!” They turned toward Carter and shook Panama hats at him. “Oh, you Carter!” they shrieked lovingly.
It was more than a race the crowd was watching now, it was the working out of a promise. And when Beldame stood off Proper’s rush, and Proper fell to second, and First Mason followed three lengths in the rear, and in that order they flashed under the wire, the yells were not that a race had been won, but that a prophecy had been fulfilled.
Of the thousands that cheered Carter and fell upon him and indeed did tear his clothes off his back, one of his friends alone was sufficiently unselfish to think of what it might, mean to Carter.
“Champ!” roared his friend, pounding him on both shoulders. “You old wizard! I win ten thousand! How much do you win?”
Carter cast a swift glance at Dolly. He said, “I win much more than that.”
And Dolly, raising her eyes to his, nodded and smiled contentedly.