90 CHARLIE SING. 



money to get under way again, as the last I had went 

 kiteing when Frank Buford put a crimp in the betting 

 ring at Rochester. Ragan never moved an eyelash when 

 I stepped on and told him that the best thing he could 

 do was to keep the balance and after the race we could 

 find enough dead tickets to make the Chinaman be- 

 lieve it was bet as ordered. Then you should have 

 seen Ragan boil over. He just hopped up and down 

 like Guy when scoring and became so noisy that I 

 had to push him out of the stall to keep him from 

 scaring the horse. As he toddled down the home 

 stretch I whisked over to the club house and found a 

 heeler to look after my horse until I could make a run 

 to Albany. 



As I walked up the alley Charlie Sing was stand- 

 ing at the door of his wash house. He did not appear 

 to know me when I called him by name, and as I was 

 short on Chinese and long on English I was not able 

 to make him understand who I was. To everything 

 I said all the answer I could get was "Allee samee, 

 you bet," or something of that sort. Finally I took 

 him by the sleeve and led him into the stable. After 

 pointing towards the horses I marched him in front 

 of half a dozen colored racing prints which hung on 

 the wall in the gangway. He looked at them as a 

 boy would at a prize package, but never so much as 

 smiled. What to do I did not know. I tried to make 

 him understand that I wanted him to go to the race 

 track by pointing towards the horses and the river, 

 but all I could get out of Charlie Sing was a shake of 

 the head. 



Whether it meant that he did not understand or 

 would not go, was more than I know. I felt like 



