In a frightened voice that in the sudden hush held none of its
usual confidence, Miss Winter read slowly: " The favorite cannot
last the distance. Will lead for the mile and give way to Beldame.
Proper takes the place. First Mason will show. Beldame will win by
a length."

Before she had ceased reading, a dozen men had struggled to their
feet and a hundred voice were roaring at her. "Read that again !"
the chorused. Once more Miss Winter read the message, but before
she had finished half of those in the front rows were scrambling
from their seats and racing up the aisles. Already the reporters
were ahead of them, and in the neighborhood not one telephone booth
was empty. Within five minutes, in those hotels along the White Way
where sporting men are wont to meet, betting commissioners and
hand-book men were suddenly assaulted by breathless gentlemen, some
in evening dress, some without collars, and some without hats, but
all with money to bet against the favorite. And, an hour later,
men, bent under stacks of newspaper "extras," were vomited from the
subway stations into the heart of Broadway, and in raucous tones
were shrieking, "Winner of the Suburban," sixteen hours before that
race was run. That night to every big newspaper office from Maine
to California, was flashed the news that Plunger Carter, in a
Broadway theatre, had announced that the favorite for the Suburban
would be beaten, and, in order, had named the three horses that
would first finish.

Up and down Broadway, from rathskellers to roof-gardens, in cafes
and lobster palaces, on the corners of the cross-roads, in clubs
and all-night restaurants, Carter's tip was as a red rag to a bull.