“I hope you have a good large safe,” remarked Nelson, tentatively.  The three conspirators parted with mutual expressions of confidence and esteem.

Next morning Mr. Felix went to his bankers and procured $50,000 in five ten-thousand-dollar bills.  The day passed very slowly.  There was not even a flurry in zitherns.  He waited impatiently for Nelson who was to come at five o’clock.  At last Nelson arrived and they hurried to the Fifth Avenue Hotel where the coup was to take place.

And now another marvel.  Wassermann Brothers’ stock-brokering office, which closes at three hummed just as the “office” had done the evening before—­and with the very same bees, although Felix did not recognize them.  It was crowded with men who struggled violently with one another in their eagerness to force their bets into the hands of a benevolent-looking person, who, Felix was informed, was the “trusted cashier” of the establishment.  And the sums were so large that even Felix gasped.

“Make that $40,000 on Coco!” cried a bald-headed “capper.”

“Mr. Gates wants to double his bet on Jackstone,—­make it $80,000!” shrieked another.

“Gentlemen!  Gentlemen!” begged the “trusted cashier,” “not quite so fast, if you please.  One at a time.”

“Sixty thousand on Hesper—­for a place!” bawled one addressed as “Mr. Keene,” while Messrs.  “Ryan,” “Whitney,” “Belmont,” “Sullivan,” “McCarren,” and “Murphy” all made handsome wagers.

From time to time a sporty-looking man standing beside a ticker, shouted the odds and read off the returns.  Felix heard with straining ears: 

“They’re off!”

“Baby leads at the quarter.”

“Susan is gaining!”

“They’re on the stretch!”

“Satan wins by a nose—­Peter second.”

There was a deafening uproar, hats were tossed ceilingward, and great wads of money were passed out by the “trusted cashier” to indifferent millionaires.  Felix wanted to rush in and bet at once on something—­if he waited it might be too late.  Was it necessary to be introduced to the cashier?  No?  Would he take the bet?  All right, but—­

At that moment a page elbowed his way among the money calling plaintively for “Felix!  Mr. Felix.”  Shrinking at the thought of such publicity in such distinguished company, Felix caught the boy’s arm and learned that he was wanted at the telephone booth in the hotel.

“It must be ‘Mac,’” said Nelson.  “Now don’t make any mistake!” Felix promised to use the utmost care.

It was “Mac.”

“Is this Mr. Felix?—­Yes?  Well, be very careful now.  I am going to give you the result of the third race which has already been run.  I will hold back the news three minutes.  This is merely to see if everything is working right.  Don’t make any bet.  If I give you the winners correctly, you can put your money on the fourth race.  The horse that won the last is Col.  Starbottle—­Don Juan is second.  Now just step back and see if I am right.”