FullReads

Drawn up in a line that stretched from Fifth Avenue to Broadway were an army of sandwich men. On the boards they carried were the words: “Read ‘The Dead Heat.’ Second Edition. One Hundred Thousand!” On the fence in front of the building going up across the street, in letters a foot high, Carter again read the name of his novel. In letters in size more modest, but in colors more defiant, it glared at him from ash-cans and barrels.

“How much does this cost?” he gasped.

“It cost every dollar you had in bank,” said Dolly, “and before we are through it will cost you twice as much more. Mr. Spink is only waiting to hear from me before he starts spending fifty thousand dollars; that’s only half of what you won on Red Wing. I’m only waiting for you to make me out a check before I tell Spink to start spending it.”

In a dazed state Carter drew a check for fifty thousand dollars and meekly handed it to his wife. They carried it themselves to the office of Mr. Spink. On their way, on every side they saw evidences of his handiwork. On walls, on scaffolding, on bill-boards were advertisements of “The Dead Heat.” Over Madison Square a huge kite as large as a Zeppelin air-ship painted the name of the book 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 he sat in his box, an eager crowd surged below. He had never known such popularity. The crowd had read the newspapers, and such head-lines as “He Cannot Lose!” “Young Carter Wins $70,000!” “Boy Plunger Wins Again!” “Carter Makes Big Killing!” “The Ring Hit Hard!” “The Man Who Cannot Lose!” “Carter Beats Book-makers!” had whetted their curiosity and filled many with absolute faith in his luck. Men he had not seen in years grasped him by the hand and carelessly asked if he could tell of something good. Friends old and new begged him to dine with them, to immediately have a drink With them, at least to “try” a cigar. Men who protested they had lost their all begged for just a hint which would help them to come out even, and every one, without exception, assured him he was going to buy his latest book.

“I tried to get it last night at a dozen news-stands,” many of them said, “but they told me the entire edition was exhausted.”