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 I stopped in old man Halliday's office to leave the dough with him whilst I scouted around for the sportin' men.

"Well," he says, suddenly, "perhaps I may be of service. There appears to be a great deal of interest in the fight down here—I've heard talk of large wagers in several offices. Maybe I could place the money with less difficulty than yourself and—"

"Say—that would be great!" I butts in. "If you'll take the thing off my hands, I'll be tickled silly. Besides, it'll look better—you layin' the jack instead of me. If I go around bettin' any such money as this that the fight won't go six rounds, the wisenheimers is liable to think the thing's framed."

He nods and, puttin' the sugar into his safe, wrote me a receipt for it. I sure had plenty of receipts that day for $150,000!

When I got back to the camp, the Kid is stretched out on a sofa readin' a newspaper. The first thing he says is did I get his money down. I says I have gave it to a Wall Street bettin' commissioner to place the way he told me, and he says that's fine. Then he calls me over and shows me the paper.

"As I expected," he says grimly, "the bottom has fallen out of Mexicali Oil—remember, that's the stock my father has all his capital in?—so he's whipped again! Poor dad," he goes on pityin'ly, "he's too old now to match his wits against those wolves. The steeltrap brain is rusted! I wish I had made him sell out and bet his money with mine." He jumps up. "Well," he laughs, "we'll have plenty of money after this fight! But I'm sorry for dad. This thing must have been an