The Leather Duke

“Hey,” exclaimed Kessler, “you two guys are the biggest stallers in the place.” He nodded to Sam. “You finish piling up the barrels?”

“Unh-uh,” replied Sam.

“Then get busy.”

“Sam’s going to sort counters a while,” said Johnny easily. “He’s tired lifting up barrels.”

“Tired or not, the barrels got to get piled up. Get back on the job. You can use the elevator; Joe’ll help you.”

“Do I have to?” Sam asked uneasily, looking at Johnny.

“No,” Johnny said. “Go and sort counters.”

Kessler exclaimed: “Somebody make you boss around here, Fletcher?”

“Why don’t you ask Johnson?”

“I guess maybe I will. I heard you were down in Harry Towner’s office all morning.”

“Not all morning, Karl.”

Kessler regarded him suspiciously, then without another word, turned on his heel and went off, apparently to find Hal Johnson.

Johnny nodded to Sam and the latter went to his bench. Johnny strolled back to his own bench. He looked at old Axel Swensen. The former sailor was working furiously, an intent scowl on his face. On the right of Johnny, Cliff Goff was picking up counters leisurely, feeling them and putting them into bunches. His head was bent to his work, but his eyes were almost glazed.

His mind was miles away, probably at Belmont or Arlington Park, booting home a winner.

Johnny said quietly: “What’s good today?”

“Honeymoon’ll win the sixth in a gallop,” replied Cliff Goff. Then he blinked and looked at Johnny. “New man?” he asked.

“Pretty new,” said Johnny. “I started yesterday morning.”

“Yeah, guess you did. Your face is familiar.”

“Kinda new here yourself, aren’t you?”

“Me? I been here nine years. I guess it’s nine years. Maybe ten.”

“You have a hard time remembering such minor details,” Johnny observed.

“I get a Racing Form in the morning on my way to work,” said Cliff Goff. “It takes me seventeen minutes to ride down on the streetcar. In that time I got to memorize the weight, the post position and the jockey for every horse running at two, sometimes three tracks.”

“That takes a pretty good memory,” Johnny suggested.

Goff nodded acknowledgment. “You ain’t kidding. Then while I’m sorting counters I got to figure out the chances of every horse and I got to put down my bets on the eastern horses by twelve o’clock and the western by one.”

“That takes care of you until one o’clock. What do you think about in the afternoon?”

“Yesterday’s races. How the horses ran and why. Takes time and concentration.”

“You mean with all that thinking you give it, you don’t win every race?”

“Horses are honest, but owners aren’t. A horse gallops six furlongs in 1:11 on a fast track. That’s pretty good time, but an owner puts a horse like that in a race and he goes to the post at even money. So he runs him for the exercise, comes in sixth — in 1:13. Next week he runs him and the odds are two to one. The horse comes in eighth. He loses three-four more races and he’s twelve to one. Well, that’s a decent price and the owner might run the horse the next time on the other hand, he may be waiting for a real killing and hold the horse until he’s forty to one. You see, I’ve got to put myself in the place of the owner, and figure out what I’d do if I was in his place.”

“I know what I’d do,” said Johnny. “I’d give up horses and take up crossword puzzles.”

“I can’t quit,” said Goff. “I’m too far behind.”

Johnny shook his head and turning, moved over nearer to Axel Swensen.

“Well, Cap’n Swensen,” he said cheerfully, “how’s it today?”

“I like my yob,” Swensen said, without looking at Johnny. “I need the money.”

“Don’t we all?”

“You don’t make me say things I don’t want to say,” Swensen went on fiercely. “I mind my own business, work hard, don’t bother anybody.”

“I’m sure of that,” said Johnny, “but you’ve got eyes to see and ears to hear, whether you’re bothering anyone else or not. Somebody stole the knife from this bench yesterday.”

“No,” said Swensen desperately, “I don’t see anybody taking knife. I am an old man. I cannot find new yob.”

“All right,” said Johnny, “we’ll let it ride.”

He drummed on the bench with his fingers, then whirled and headed for the far end of the sorting benches where Sam Cragg was engaged in a heated conversation with Elliott Towner. As he came up, Sam was saying:

“You can squawk all you want, but it’s Johnny who’ll get him in the end, you wait and see.”

“Thanks, Sam,” said Johnny. Then to Elliott: “Sam’s right. I’ll get him.”

“And what’ll you do when you get him?” asked Elliott sarcastically. “Talk him to death?”

Johnny chuckled. “You know, Elliott, I’ve got a strange idea that you don’t like me.”

“Well, since you brought it up, Fletcher — I don’t. I think you’re a four-flushing windbag. You’ve sold my father a bill of goods, but that’s always been Dad’s one weakness: he’s a sucker for peculiar characters.”

“He’s done pretty well, for a man with a weakness. By the way, how are you doing?”

“I’m doing all right,” snapped Elliott.

“I’m glad to hear that. How about fixing us up with a guest card at the Lakeside Athletic?”