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“Oh, you mean the two-three dollars I've got on me? Say, that's no dough. Do you know what's happened to me? They took me. Cleaned me like a Long Island duck. One race—thirty-eight grand. Can you imagine?”
    I couldn't. As soon as any mentioned amount got above a dollar forty cents it was out of my line entirely.
    “And I was supposed to be the know-it-all! Why, I can't even raise another stake—and after ten years on the track. They closed my book down as if I'd only opened yesterday with a two-bit roll.”
    “That's a shame,” I said, really feeling a little sorry for the guy.
    “A shame? It's a laugh, that's what it is.” Then he began to curse—and, boy, what a vocabulary! He goddamned his sheet-writer, the Racing Secretary, the Commissioner, the handicappers, the horses themselves and a whole string of people I never heard of. He raved on for a couple of minutes; yet he didn't seem really angry.
    The radio warmed up. Some announcer was plugging a salad-dressing. I gave him the hook and caught a weather forecast. We were due for some rain. By this time Haskell had smoked his cigarette almost down to his first knuckle. He took one final drag and then clinched it and put it back inside the case. That struck me funny. With all the heavy sugar he was packing, he was saving stumps like any tramp. There was something mighty screwy about this Mr. Haskell.
    “But I'll dig up another stake, Detroit—see if I don't. I'll be back when the season opens in Miami with fresh dough, plenty of it, and no tightwad backers to worry about, either.”
    “That's the spirit.”
    “Just watch,” he yawned.
    “Sure you will. Never say die, brother,” was my damned-fool comment. I was humoring him like a drunk.
    As we rode along Haskell was smiling with his eyes closed. He seemed to derive huge satisfaction from thinking about the secret supply he was aiming to tap. Well, I was way ahead of him. From what he had been telling me about his family at the dinner-table I could read his mind. Everywhere his old man went his footprints were dollar-signs.
    I finally got some orchestra on KATAR, Phoenix. The violin section was terrible.
    I drove all that night while Haskell slept like a log. The only time he moved a muscle was when the car hit a few bumps the other side of Phoenix. But every now and then he'd start to snore and I'd remember he was there. He'd make his mouth move, too—twitch his jaw and move his tongue around to moisten his lips. And once in a while he'd mutter something in his sleep. I didn't like it. It sent prickles up my spine. After about two hours I began to grow sleepy myself. I hadn't had a decent night's rest since I got out of the Dallas jail. My eyelids started drooping and a couple of times I had to shake my head to wake myself up.
    I would be handing you a lot of Abe Lincoln baloney if I said I wasn't tempted once or twice during the night to slug Mr. Haskell over the head and roll him for his cash. So I won't say it. The guy was treating me right and I couldn't bring myself to the point of hurting him. It took plenty of self-control, though. Remember, I was desperately in need of money; and in the glove-compartment of the car was a small Stillson wrench and a pair of heavy driving-gloves I could have used for padding. It was a cinch set-up if ever there was one.
    I realize all this sounds bad. But try to get me straight. I'm a musician, not a thug. The few dishonorable things I did I didn't want to do—I had to do. Anyway, this is one of the things I passed up—and I'm not asking you to pin a merit-badge on me, either. The only boy Scout rule I ever followed was: “Be Prepared”.
    I didn't do much thinking that night while I was rolling along. It was too hazy, and a wandering mind at the wheel of a car in a fog spells bad news. Besides, all there was to think of was Los Angeles and what I was going to do when I got there. I'd been thinking of that for weeks. My plans, as usual, were a little vague. I