Get Next!

  E-text prepared by Al Haines

  GET NEXT!

  BY HUGH McHUGH

  AUTHOR OF

  "JOHN HENRY," "DOWN THE LINE WITH JOHN HENRY,""IT'S UP TO YOU," "BACK TO THE WOODS,""OUT FOR THE COIN" "I NEED THE MONEY,""I'M FROM MISSOURI," "YOU CAN SEARCH ME," ETC.

  ILLUSTRATIONS BY GORDON H. GRANT

  1905

  CONTENTS

  JOHN HENRY ON RACE TIPSTERS

  JOHN HENRY ON BRIDGE WHIST

  JOHN HENRY ON AMATEUR PHOTOGRAPHY

  JOHN HENRY ON THE GRIP

  JOHN HENRY ON COURTING

  JOHN HENRY ON SUMMER RESORTS

  JOHN HENRY ON GREAT MEN

  GET NEXT!

  JOHN HENRY ON RACE TIPSTERS

  One day last week I was beating the ballast up Broadway when Pete,the Piker, declared himself in and began to chatter about cinchesat the track.

  "Get the saw, Pete, and cut it," I said; "it's many a long daysince I've been a Patsy for the ponies. Once they stung me so hardthat for months my bank account looked like a porous plaster, so Itook the chloroform treatment and now you and your tips to thediscards, my boy, to the discards!"

  Pete isn't really a native of Dopeville-on-the-Fence, but he likesto have people think he knows the racing game backwards.

  And he does--backwards. In real life he's a theatrical manager andhis name on the three-sheets is Peter J. Badtime, the Human SalarySpoiler.

  In theatrical circles they call him the impresario with the sawdustkoko and the split-second appetite.

  Every time Pete poses as an angel for a troupe if you listen hardyou can hear the fuse blow out somewhere between Albany andSchenectady.

  From time to time over 2,197 actors have had to walk home onaccount of Pete's cold feet.

  Pete can develop a severe case of frosted pave pounders quickerthan any angel that ever had to dig for the oatmeal money.

  Pete is an Ace all right--the Ace of Chumps!

  His long suit when he isn't dishing out his autobiography is tostand around a race track and bark at the bookmakers.

  Pete is what I would call a plunger with the lid on.

  He never bets more than two dollars on a race and even then hekeeps wishing he had it back.

  Pete had me nailed to the corner of Broadway and 42d Street forabout ten minutes when fortunately Bunch Jefferson rolled up in hisnew kerosene cart and I needed no second invitation to hop aboardand give Pete the happy day-day!

  "Whither away, Bunch?" I asked, as the Bubble began to do a Togothrough the fattest streets in the town.

  "I thought I'd run up and get the girls and take 'em for a spin outto the Belmont Park races," Bunch came back.

  "Did you telephone them?" I inquired.

  "No, but I told Alice this morning that if I got through at theoffice in time I'd take her to the track. We can call for Peacheson the way across town," was Bunch's program.

  "Whisper, Bunch!" I suggested; "let's do the selfish gag for onceand leave the wives at home. I haven't bet a nickle on a skate fortwo years, but my little black man has the steering wheel to-dayand I'm going to fall off the sense wagon and break a five dollarbill."

  "I'm with you, John," chuckled Bunch, and half an hour later wewere on our way | to the track, after having sent notes to ourwives that important business kept us chained to the post of duty,but if they would meet us at the Hotel Astor at 7 p.m. we'd alldine together.

  Bunch had just tied his Bubble to a tree at the track and was inthe act of giving it a long cool drink of gasolene and some crackedoats, when Flash Harvey bore down on us and made a touch for theturn-out.

  "Say, Bunch!" chirped Flash, "lend me the choo-choo for half anhour, will you? I have my sister and a dream cousin of ours fromHartford here this aft. and I'm eager to show them how I can pounda public road with a rowdy-cart. I'll take good care of themachine and be back in two hours, honest, Bunch!"

  Flash being an old friend of ours Bunch had to fall for the spieland loaned him the Bubble forthwith.

  Ten minutes later we were so busy listening to the sure-thingsfalling from the eager tongues of the various friends we met thatwe quite forgot all about Flash and the busy barouche.

  The first cinch-builder we fell over was Harry McDonough, theinventor of the stingless mosquito now in use on his Jersey farm.

  Harry has the mosquito game down so fine that he's going to take adouble sextette of them into vaudeville next season.

  He has trained these twelve skeets to sing "Zobia Grassa," and AlHolbrook has promised to teach them a Venetian dances.

  Harry offered us four winners in the first race and two cigars. Hetold us if we lost to smoke the cigars carefully and we'd forgetour troubles and our names; but if we won we could use the cigarsas firecrackers.

  Then we ran across Jeff D'Angelis, the composer of the new tune nowplayed on the automobile horns.

  Jeff hadn't picked out a horse to win any race because his loyaltyto sneeze-wagons is so intense that he won't even drink a horse'sneck.

  He explained that he only came to the race track to show the horseshis smoke-buggy and make them shiver.

  George Yates, the inventor of the machinery for removing sunburnfrom pickles, was there and he tried to present us with a surewinner in the third race.

  A little later on we discovered that the horse Yates was doing arave over had been dead for four years and that the card from whichhe was lifting his dope was the program of the meet at Sheepsheadin 1896.

  Some kind and thoughtful stranger had lifted fifty cent| fromGeorge's surplus and in return had stung him with an ancient echoof the pittypats.

  Our next adventure was with Joe Miron, the famous horse trainer andinventor of the only blue mare in captivity at Elmhurst.

  "Say, why didn't I see you guys before the first race; I had aplush-covered pipe!" yelled Joe.

  "I had that race beat to a stage wait," Joe went on,enthusiastically. "Why, all you had to do was play 'The GoblinMan' to win and 'Murderallo' for a place--it was just like gettingmoney from the patent medicine business."

  "How much did you win, Joe?" I inquired.

  "Who, me!" Joe came back. "Why I didn't get here in time to placea bet. I drove over from Elmhurst and the blue mare burst a tire.But, say, I've got a mother's darling in the third race! Oh, it'sa ladybug for certain! You guys play 'Perhaps' to win and you'llgo home looking like Pierp Morgan after a busy day. It can't lose,this clam can't! Say, that horse 'Perhaps' wears gold-platedovershoes and it can kick more track behind it than any ostrich youever see! Why,| it's got ball-bearing castors on the feet and itwears a naphtha engine in the forward turret. Get reckless withthe coin, boys, and go the limit, and if the track happens to cavein and it does lose, I'll drag you down to Elmhurst behind the bluemare and make the suction pump in the backyard do an imitation ofWalter Jones singing 'Captain Kidd' with the bum pipes."

  Joe was so much in earnest about it that Bunch and I put up fiftyon "Perhaps" and waited.

  We are still waiting.

  "Perhaps" may have been a good horse but he had a bad memory andnever could recollect which end of the track was the proper placeto finish.

  Joe must have left for Elmhurst immediately after the race becausehe failed to answer roll call.

  Then we ran across Dave Torrence, the famous inventor of thedisappearing trump so much used by pinochle players.

  When Dave began to dope 'em out for us Bunch and I hid ourpocketbooks in our shoes.

  "Here's a good one," Dave suggested; "listen to this 'Easy Money'out of 'Life Insurance' by 'Director.' And here's a good one,'Chauffeur' out of 'Automobile' by 'Policeman!' Do you care forthose?"

  There were tears in Bunch's eyes, but I was busy looking for a rock.

  "Here are some more peacherinos
," Dave went on, relentlessly, "hereis 'Golf Player' out of 'Business' by 'Mosquito,' and here'sanother good one, 'Eternal Daylights' out of 'Russia' by'Japan'--like 'em?"

  Bunch and I handed Dave the reproachful face and fled for our lives.

  Then we got down to business and began to lose our money with moresystem and less noise.

  At the end of the fifth race we hadn't the price of a leathersandwich between us.

  Every dog we had mentioned to the Bookies proved to be a falsealarm.

  Every turtle we plunged on carried our money to the bonfire anddumped it in.

  "My little black man is whimpering, Bunch," I said. "I'm cured."

  "One hundred and sixty bucks to the bad for mine," laughed Bunch."I guess that will hold me temporarily. Come on, John; let's hopin the Bubble and dash back to the Hotel Astor; the girls will bewaiting for us."

  We hurried to the spot where Flash Harvey was to leave thegas-hopper but there was no sign of Flash or the machine.

  Seven o'clock came and still no sign of Flash or the Bubble, andthere we sat, two sad boys without a baubee in the jeans, hungry tothe limit and with an ever present vision of our two worried wivesdisplacing a bunch of expensive space in a restaurant while theywaited for us to show.

  It was pitiful.

  Eight o'clock came, no Flash, no machine, while there we waited andwatched our hair as it slowly turned gray.

  I had gone through my pockets till I wore holes in them withoutlocating anything in the shape money, but finally on about the919th lap Bunch discovered dollar bill tucked away in a corner,whereupon we turned our faces to every point of the compass andcalled down maledictions on the head of Flash Harvey, wherever hemight be, and then ducked for the trolley.

  When we finally reached the Hotel Astor it was a quarter past ten,so we decided it was too late for dinner and we didn't go in.

  At home--but what's the use?

  The war is over now and a treaty of peace has been signed.

  We are even with Flash Harvey, though.

  He got speed-foolish in the Bubble and tried to give an imitationof a torpedo destroyer, with the result that a Reub constablepinched him and the whole outfit and threw him in a rural Bastilefor the night.

  That's what delayed him.