and well-built, with fine features. He dressed conservatively.
Here is an example of the way we worked:
Winterbill and I selected a victim from the crowd of men standing near the betting ring. Program in hand, Winterbill approached the sucker and struck up an acquaintance while talking about the day’s entries.
“My name is Winterbill,” he introduced himself. “William J. Winterbill.” He stuck out his hand.
“Mine is Harper,” responded the other man. “Glad to know you, Mr. Winterbill.”
Winterbill was an impressive-looking fellow. He had little trouble getting the victim to believe that he was a business man, taking a day off at the races.
“What horse are you betting on?” Winterbill asked.
“Haven’t made up my mind,” Harper replied. “Have you any suggestions ?”
“No, I haven’t decided either.” Then his eye wandered away from the betting ring. “Say! Do you see that fellow standing there?”
He pointed to me. I had a pad of paper in my hand and was busily jotting down figures. “Yes, I see him,” said Harper. “What about him?”
“Don’t you know who he is?”
“Can’t say that I do.”
“Why, that’s Willie Caywood, the jockey. He rides for Sam Hildreth, the famous trainer.”
Of course, Harper had heard of Sam Hildreth. We always picked the name of a famous trainer. (Hildreth later raced Zev, one of the greatest horses of all time.) I was slight and young and could pass for a jockey.
“Wonder what he’s figuring up?” Harper mused.
“I wonder, too,” said Winterbill. “If there was only some way we could get to know him.”
Just then, I dropped my pencil. It rolled some distance from where I was standing.
“Quick!” hissed Winterbill. “Now’s your chance. Pick up his pencil. That’s your chance to meet him. Maybe he will give you a tip.”
Harper hurriedly retrieved my pencil. I was properly grateful.
“Thank you, Mr. - ”
“Harper. Don’t mention it.”
“My name is Willie Caywood.”
“Not the jockey?” asked Harper.
“Yes,” I admitted.
Winterbill came up. Harper introduced us.
“We were just wondering what you were figuring,” Harper ventured.
“Why - ah-I was just figuring up how much I would win today.”
“What makes you so sure you’ll win anything?” Harper asked.
I glanced about furtively, and lowered my voice. “I know I’m going to win. You gentlemen look like you can be trusted. I’ll tell you the truth, but it must be strictly confidential. The boss is going to make a killing today. So he let me in on it.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell us the name of the horse?” said Winterbill.
“No,” I replied. “I couldn’t do that. I promised the boss that I wouldn’t. And if it got around, the odds would go down on the horse. My boss is going to spread his bets. He’ll wire them around the country just before post time, so that nobody will get suspicious.”
“Too bad,” grunted Harper, obviously disappointed. “We hoped you might give us a tip,”
“I’ll tell you what,” offered Winterbill, as if an idea had suddenly struck him. “If you won’t give us a tip, maybe you’ll make our bets for us.”
I considered this a moment. “Yes, I guess I could do that. But I still can’t tell you the name of the horse.”
“I don’t care,” said Winterbill, “just so I clean up. Here’s $2,500. Put it on the nose for me,”
Harper had already dug into his pocket. “Here’s $1,500 for me.”
“All right,” I agreed, taking their money. “I’ll meet you gentlemen right here after the fifth race.”
Winterbill was enthusiastic and Harper seemed well pleased. They left me and went into the grandstand, chatting and speculating on what horse in the fifth race was to make the killing. Winterbill later excused himself from Harper on some pretext. He met me a short time later and we worked the same game on as many suckers as we could find.
But by the time the fifth race had been run, we were far away from the track. Mr. Harper and the others who kept the rendezvous were doomed to a long wait and to a sad disappointment.
CHAPTER 5
TWO UNWARY STRANGERS
Bob Collins was a tout who worked with me on several occasions. He helped in the case of Mr. Kahn, which was amusing, profitable, and in some ways pathetic.
Mr. Kahn was a tall, thick-set German, as industrious a man as I ever met. He had a delicatessen and food shop on LaSalle Street. Old Man Kahn took great pride in the fact that his shop had the finest food in town. He carried only the best imported cheese and frankfurters, as well as other meats and fish.
When I first went into his shop I had no designs on the old fellow. I went there because I liked his food. I had made three or four visits before the old man’s curiosity got the best of him.
In those days, I dressed flashily. I wore a five-carat diamond ring, a big diamond pin in my ascot tie, and a vest chain locket with a diamond horseshoe.
Every time I was in his shop Old Man Kahn eyed the diamonds. Finally, one day, he said: “Young man, I see you like fine food. And I see you’re rich, too. I know most of my customers, but I don’t know who you are. What business are you in?”
I knew he had been thinking about the diamonds. “Why, I own stock in the racecourses,” I told him, giving him one of my favorite stories. I still had no designs on him.
“Where they race horses?” he asked.
“Yes. Haven’t you ever been to the races?”
“No,” he replied. “I have been too busy. But I would like to go sometime.”
“Then come as my guest,” I said. “Would you like a complimentary ticket for next Saturday?”
“No. Saturday is my busy day. But I could go next Tuesday.”
“Fine. Here’s your ticket. I’ll drop in and you can go with me.”
The old man beamed and said he would be ready.
The
