The Man Who Could Not Lose
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Richard Harding Davis >> The Man Who Could Not Lose
SECOND 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 no 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.