Mr. Appleton has won for himself a foremost place among latter-day American humorists in a remarkably short time. In this story, which is told in his happiest vein, he gives us another weird adventure of "Billy Martin" and "Jimmy Raines," of "Sea Serpent Syndicate" fame

WHEN it commenced Jimmy Raines was sitting on the curbstone. That's a habit I can't break him of, no matter what I do. I've showed him how to get outside a pie without using a knife; and he can take his hat off to a lady without looking like some one was going to hit him before he gets it back; but he's still got a weakness for curbstones, and seems to hanker for 'em.

      It was three o'clock in the morning, and we were waiting for an owl car. The street cleaning brigade had dusted up Walnut Street and was shoving trash along toward Vine, and the hot tamale man was getting his kit together, ready for home, when Jimmy, hugging his knees and staring across Government Square, says something. It was:

      "Gosh!"

      Now, when Jimmy Raines talks everyday language he swears once in a while, to be sure you're listening; but when he says "Gosh!" there's something doing that wasn't down on the cards — take it from me! He never has finished the sentence — says he's saving the "all hemlock" for his last words — but the "gosh" was enough to jolt me awake.

      I was ready in three seconds to dodge anything from a shooting star to an avalanche of skyscrapers — for Jimmy wasn't sitting on the curbstone no more. He wasn't fretting about the kind of punishment a traction company ought to have for running owl cars so far apart.

      No, sir; he was standing up as straight as his hair, his eyes looking like automobile lamps, and swallowing about thirty to the second, to keep his Adam's apple from knocking his front teeth out.

      When I see what he did I didn't wonder. Swinging clear from everything else, five foot above the asphalt, not more'n a dozen feet away from us, was a man's head — and nothing else. Right in the circle of light made by the nearest lamp, mind you; nothing dim or uncertain about it. It wasn't a bloody head, like the ghost of a murdered man; it was just a clean-looking round face, with mutton-chop whiskers and black eyes, and a forehead that run halfway back to its crown.

      As I looked it swung forward a foot or two, like the wind had hit it, turned sideways, and smiled. I got my mouth shut long enough then to let out one word myself.

      "Duck!" I whispers to Jimmy. Then I backs up, hoping to break away before the head swung again. But I made a smear of it. Jimmy went down like a hamstrung colt, and me on top of him. We squashed some when we landed, and the head turned back and looked at us. All of a sudden its nose wrinkled up and it said something, too.

      "Ah-ca-chew!"

      Ain't it funny what a sneeze will do? The minute I heard that one my feet begun to get warm again.

      "Hi say," remarks the head, in a hoarse but human whisper, "carn't you 'elp a chap hout of this? Hi'm in a blooming fix, and no mistake!"

      I stepped off Jimmy's stomach, and answers as ca'm as I could:

      "What sort of help do you want? To be showed the way back to the cemetery?"

      The head shook itself. "No hindeed," it says; "hi'm not dead; hi'm merely tied hup in hinvisible cloth. Hit's the hinvention of me master, Professor 'Ammersley; 'e dressed me hin it this hevening, but Hi got separated from 'im hin the crowd, and Hi carn't get hout."

      Jimmy, who had come to by this time, was dusting off his pants and watching the head, nervous-like.

      "Come again," he says. "Where's the rest of you, if you ain't dead? We're from Pike County — you have to show us twice!"

      The head just grinned a minute, and then, right below its chin, there was a hand and arm. Where it come from, we couldn't say. It was just there. Jimmy stopped brushing himself.

      "Good-morning, Mr. Herrmann," he says. "I didn't recognize you in your new make-up. Do us another trick, won't you?"

      "Hi'm no trickster," says the head and arm, getting mad. "Damme! And my name is 'Iggins. Hi've told you 'ow Hi got 'ere, and Hi've arsked you to 'elp me. If you are going to make gime of me, Hi'll disappear again!"

      "Do," says Jimmy, "as quick as you like! Nobody as I knows of asked you to show up here in the first place!"

      But before he had got through that remark the head had shook itself once — and was gone.

      Jimmy rubbed his chin; he was getting interested. "Eeny, meeny, miney, mo!" he says. "I spy you — and then I don't. What sort of a game is this, Billy — playing hide-and-seek with a dope dream? Who's it, anyway?"

      "You!" says a voice right between Jimmy and me, and there was the head again. I grabbed the shoulder that was sticking out a bit, and shook it.

      "Look here, Mr. 'Iggins," I says, "me and my friend ain't attending no séances. You come out of that thing, whatever it is, before you get hurt!" I took another grip on something I could feel but couldn't see and give it a yank. It was soft as silk and smooth as running water. There was a rip and a tear, and the next minute Mr. 'Iggins was all there before us — a neat-looking little Englishman.

      Jimmy opens his mouth once or twice, but closes it again without saying anything, which was unusual for Jimmy. The wheels in my head was buzzing for fair, though. I see, like the wise gazaboo says, that Opportunity was pushing the hinges off our front door, trying to get to us. In a minute I'd made up my mind.

      "Mr. Iggins," says I, "what'll you take for that suit of clothes you can feel but can't see? Your friend the professor can make more."

      'Iggins begun to clear his throat, but I slipped my arm through his and walked him and Jimmy across the esplanade and sat down on an empty bench.

      "I have here," says I, pulling it out of my pocket, "a hundred-dollar bill. It's good United States money, as you can find out without any trouble. It is yours for the invisible cloth you just come out of." "Sight unseen," says Jimmy.

      'Iggins kinder gasped, and then he held out his hand. "Take it!" he says, dropping a soft bundle of stuff onto my knees, and, grabbing the money like he never expected to see so much in one lump again, he hustled off across the square, leaving me and Jimmy and the invisible cloth alone.

      I watched 'Iggins till he was lost in the distance; then I gathered up the wad of soft stuff, pushed it under my coat, and we climbed aboard the owl car that come around the fountain. I was too busy thinking of the possibilities of that stuff to talk.

      Pretty soon Jimmy, who hadn't looked at me since we sat down in the car, uncrossed his legs and says:

      "If I ain't butting in, what in the name of Sam Hill are you going to do with something you can't see?"

      "I?" says I. "I ain't going to do nothing. You are. You're going to get information at the track that will beat your feed-box tips to a pulp; you're going to get into places where people wouldn't let you go if they could see you — dressed like Carnegie; you're going to make us rich. Jimmy Raines, this is the biggest thing we've had yet, and you know we have been in on some deals that was lallapolulus, too! You're going ⸺"

      "It looks to me," interrupts Jimmy, sarcastic, "that you're pushing Jimmy down into the footlights' trough ahead of the show. Did I sign with this new company as the star, or just one of the chorus? I'm going to get a lot of places, to hear you talk; but suppose I get somewhere I don't want to — jail, for instance?"

      "Leave that to me." says I. "I ain't got time to listen to reformed race-tout sermons. You just pay attention to what little Willie Martin says, and don't ask questions of the motorman."

      When we got home Jimmy dressed in the cloth, which was made up like a big clown suit, as near as we could tell by feeling it, with a hood and mask to cover the head. He pranced around, in the strong light and out, and played for an hour with the stuff, like a boy with his first long pants.

      At first it gave me the creeps to see things blotted out, and nothing but air where a table or chair ought to be; but Jimmy enjoyed it. He could see through the stuff, like you can see when you are swimming under water and open your eyes, and every time he would bob up in another part of the room from where I guessed he was I'd get a new idea for using that cloth to make money for us.

      When we went to bed at last I was so full of plans there wasn't room for any doubts about working them. As I figured it, the invisible cloth had the boy wonder, Aladdin, and his kerosene lantern whipped to a froth.

      All the way over to the track the next day Jimmy wanted to try experiments with the cloth. When the conductor come in to get our fares Jimmy dropped a piece of it over my hand when I held the money up to him on my palm.

      The boy in blue looks at me and says: "You may be a cripple, but you're not taking up a collection in this car, sport. Where's the coin?"

      Then Jimmy pulled the cloth off, leaving my hand and the money in plain sight, and the conductor got red and went out on the platform talking to himself about needing glasses. But he looked at us so hard when we got off I says to Jimmy that no more parlor tricks with the invisible went; we needed it for something bigger.

      There's a kind of dark little room under the grand stand at the track where the lunch counter boys keep their clothes, and Jimmy and I steered for that as soon as we landed inside the gates, knowing the crowd would be outside. Both of us went into the little room, but I come out alone — if you was to ask any one who had watched.

      The door was a little slow in shutting behind me — and that was Jimmy following me out, if you should ask me — Jimmy in his invisible suit, ready for business.

      As I stepped out and lounged over toward the betting sheds, Jimmy whispers in my ear: "Me for the paddock and the insidest inside tips a man ever had. I'll find out what horse is fixed to win, and be back here at this water barrel inside of twenty minutes. You be here to hear me, and ready to get our money down in a hurry."

      "Sure!" says I.

      It wasn't fifteen minutes before I heard Jimmy's voice again, and he was surely some excited!

      "There's a job," he says in my left ear, "and it's being put through by that new guy from South America. He's framing it up to make a killing. There won't be but three horses in the fourth race — Elsie, Follygirl and El Season. The others will be scratched, two of them out of condition and the third can't race unless she has one jockey, and he's set down for a month. The track is slow to-day, and the favorite is Follygirl. Nobody knows anything about El Season except his owner and the jockey, and they're not touting him at all. They are letting the public think the horse needs a fast track, and that he can't make a showing to-day. Now, I heard the owner instructing the jockey; he's to pull the horse until the last quarter and then give him the bat, and he'll romp in! I was standing as close to him as I am to you, Billy, and there can't be any mistake. Put all we've got on El Season to win. He's a sixty to one shot, now, isn't he? The odds will stay there, if that owner knows anything about working the bookies. He's placing his bets in other cities — see?"

      I saw, all right. The invisible cloth was going to pay for itself a hundred times right now, and no mistake.

      By the time I got to the bookmakers' stands the crowd was thick and noisy. I was so strung up over the news Jimmy had just handed me I went after my pasteboards like a beginner. My hands shook as I dug up the two century bills — the last we had — and handed them to the man in the box, mentioning El Season in a stage whisper.

      As I got away the board showed him still sixty to one, and I stuffed the tickets into my pocket and went back to the water barrel, humming a piece of ragtime, I felt so good. As the bell rang for the entries to take the track I looked at the board. Sure enough, they had all been scratched but the three Jimmy had named.

      El Season's jockey was having his troubles keeping the horse down; it looked to me like he had a lot of ginger, and didn't much like playing the dog for three-quarters of a race. He seemed to be anxious to have it over with, and I could imagine his owner was just as nervous. The others didn't interest me — then.

      As the ponies lined up at the getaway gate Jimmy whispered in my ear: "How much did you get down on El Season?"

      I pulled the tickets out and held them up so he could see them through the invisible mask. "Two hundred," I says, "which means we stand to win ⸺"

      I never finished the sentence. I choked instead. The ticket I held read "Elsie" as plain as the nose on your face. Jimmy saw it the same time I did, and he let out a groan.

      "That fool bookie — he didn't listen — he's got ⸺" I began, but Jimmy kept his head this time.

      "Elsie and El Season sound alike in a crowd," he says. "It's too late to change anything now. We can't make a holler — the book is closed."

      "You could squeal on the owner," says I, trying to find a way out.

      "And tell the judges I got my information in an invisible suit?" says Jimmy, very quiet. "That's a fine idea. Will you turn over and go to sleep right, Billy Martin? Keep th' tickets — I've got an idea myself. If it works, we'll cash all right. I'll be back after the race."

      I was too near down and out to answer him, and he was gone before the ponies had reached the quarter post. I dug out the field glasses and trained them on that little scrub Elsie, who was carrying all our money by mistake. She was trailing along behind El Season, even, and I could almost see her tongue hanging out, and hear her bark! No horse ever looked so much like a dog to me as she did then.

      At the three-quarter post she had picked up a little and was nosing El Season out of second place, but I knew only too well what that meant. He was rocking up and down like a hobbyhorse, and the boy was riding on the bit. Follygirl, the favorite, was having everything her own way, and the crowd began to rise and yell as they turned into the stretch.

      Was that a lonesome minute for me? Ask me! I leaned against the water barrel and wished I'd never heard of a race or a horse. I could see just what was going to happen in the next four or five minutes. That ragged-looking little brute with the crooked mount was going to walk in at the last, pulling enough money down for his owner to retire on; and two hundred dollars of it would be Jimmy's and mine! I could have kicked the grand stand over, I felt that sore!

      Down the stretch they came, Follygirl a length in the lead of El Season, and Elsie, looking like she was standing still, taking the mud from both of them. The railbirds commenced to hang over the fence, and the grand stand to growl as the excitable ones rose, all ready to yell at the finish.

      It was time now for El Season to be let out — and a short little man, standing where the boy on El Season's back could see him, thought so, too. He took his lighted cigar out of his mouth and struck another match, letting it flame up and go out without holding it to the cigar. El Season's jockey shook out the reins, and gave the horse the gad — but he didn't jump.

      Instead of that, he slowed down like he was suddenly carrying extra weight. The boy lost his head and turned to look over his shoulder, as if something was behind him — I see it all through the glasses. Mr. Owner, standing closer than ever to the fence, bit his cigar plumb in two and yelled out something. But it was too late for instructions. El Season was quitting!

      The finish of that race was going to be different, after all. The people who had bet on the favorite yelled loud, but those who had their money on El Season yelled louder.

      "Come on! Come on, El Season, you dog! What ails the crazy horse? Is he all in? Follygirl! Follygirl! Give her room — she'll go in backwards! Let her come, Milton! We need the money!" and so on — you know how people get at the end of a race.

      But mighty little was said for Elsie. She seemed to be nobody's favorite but mine — and I wasn't crazy about her, by a long shot.

      But while I was looking something unexpected happened. Elsie woke up. Out went her head and she swerved in close to El Season. Past him she bounded, in one or two strides, and reached Follygirl's flank. She hung there a minute, see-sawed, crept up a foot, reached the favorite's throat-latch, held her gain, and then, as her jockey saw the judge's stand only fifty feet away and gave her one jab with the gaff, she shot out like a scared rabbit, and, as I live, finished a good length ahead of them all!

      I rubbed my eyes and leaned against the water barrel. Take it from me, I was that weak when the band began to play I could have cried because my great-grandmother was dead! Elsie, the horse I had put our money on by mistake, had won by a fluke, and the one slated to win by a little dealing from the bottom of the deck wasn't inside the money!

      My mitts were shaking like I had the palsy as I wrapped up that roll of bills the bookie gave me and hustled back to the water barrel to wait for Jimmy. He come, in a few minutes, breathing hard, and in plain sight this time, the invisible cloth under his coat. There was something different in his eyes, if I wasn't mistaken, and his first break made me think.

      "Come on," says he; "back to the boarding house for us. This afternoon has about done me up — I need rest."

      "Sure!" I says, grabbing him by the arm, for I was still excited. "But ain't we the lucky ones, Jimmy? To think my mistake would win the money, even if your information was bad."

      Jimmy's lip curled up like a shaving.

      "Look a-here, Billy Martin," says he, as we passed through the gate, "you talk considerable, and you know a lot, but a lot of what you know ain't so. Understand? Come on home, and I'll prove it."

      I stops.

      "What's got into you?" says I. "You didn't talk that way before the race."

      "No," says he, "but this is after the race. El Season didn't win, but it wasn't the jock's fault. And it wasn't the jock's work that put Elsie under the wire first."

      And that was all I could get out of him until we reached the bridge. We had got about to the middle when he stops and commences to wrap up the invisible cloth in a tight wad, making it easier for him to carry, I supposed. But when he raised it up of a sudden and started for the rail, he stopped my breath.

      I jumped to catch his arm, seeing what he was intending to do, but it was too late. There wasn't nothing in his hand, and as I leaned over and looked down at the river I see it dent in a little spot, like somebody blowing down on a glass of water, and that was all.

      "You crazy tout!" I says, "what have you done? Throwed our everlasting fortune away!"

      Jimmy lays his hand on my arm and looks pretty mournful. "Billy Martin," says he, "that cloth is all we expected it to be and considerable more. 'Iggins must have knowed it would bring temptations when he sold it to us. He knowed the devil would go with it — and the devil sure has. As a shady business proposition, that cloth makes good — so good that it would land us both in Columbus on the treadmill if we stayed with the stuff six months. It's all right in its place, but its place ain't in Cincinnati, or even Kentucky. It belongs back in some old fairy book we useter read in the hayloft when the old man thought we was watering the stock or hoeing corn. They ain't so many ways to get money that belongs to other people in the fairy books, and after this trick I've had enough. I may be a tout and a little on the shade, but the hold-up game ain't for mine just yet. And that's what this cloth would bring us to, sure as guns. Come out of the sky, where you've been pushing clouds around about the money we was going to make, and ask yourself if you'd rather be a dead burglar than a live race follower!"

      "What you are driving at," says I, "nobody this side of Longview could tell."

      "What I'm driving at," says Billy, "is to get through your head that if you had that cloth for a week you'd be a first-class crook. You couldn't be straight and keep that stuff. That's why I throwed it away." And he started to walk on.

      "Jimmy Raines," says I, following him, "in addition to your being crazy, you are also lame. What makes you limp so?"

      He turned around, fierce and sudden.

      "The same thing," says he; "your invisible cloth. I strained my leg when I straddled El Season."

      "Straddled El Season?" I asks, a light beginning to leak into my own head.

      "Yes," he says; "I jumped him on the home stretch, and finished his game by overweighting him. His jockey thinks he had the devil riding behind him, I guess."

      I see it all now; but I asks one more question: "How did you get Elsie ahead of him?"

      "Took hold of her bit and pulled her past, of course," says he. "Then I give her the toe in the ribs a couple of times, and the jockey did the rest. Now shut up. I want to forget this — and don't you never say invisible cloth to me again!"

      I haven't; but somewhere down in the mud and muck of the Ohio River, between Covington and Cincinnati, that invisible cloth, with all its possibilities, is lying to-day, ready for anybody who wants it to make a fortune — if he can find it.