against the sky, on "dodgers" it floated in the air, on handbills
it stared up from the gutters.

Mr. Spink was a nervous young man with a bald head and eye-
glasses. He grasped the check as a general might welcome fifty
thousand fresh troops.

"Reinforcements!" he cried. "Now, watch me. Now I can do things
that are big, national, Napoleonic. We can't get those books bound
inside of a week, but meanwhile orders will be pouring in, people
will be growing crazy for it. Every man, woman, and child in
Greater New York will want a copy. I've sent out fifty boys dressed
as jockeys on horseback to ride neck and neck up and down every
avenue. 'The Dead Heat' is printed on the saddle-cloth. Half of
them have been arrested already. It's a little idea of my own."

"But," protested Carter, "it's not a racing story, it's a detective
story!"

"The devil it is!" gasped Spink. "But what's the difference! " he
exclaimed. " They've got to buy it anyway. They'd buy it if it was
a cook-book. And, I say," he cried delightedly, "that's great press
work you're doing for the book at the races! The papers are full of
you this morning, and every man who reads about your luck at the
track will see your name as the author of 'The Dead Heat,' and will
rush to buy the book. He'll think 'The Dead Heat' is a guide to the
turf!"

When Carter reached the track he found his notoriety had preceded
him. Ambitious did no run until the fourth race, and until then, as