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Show I 7? Woman at the 'Frisco 'Races. H Two prim ladies, a little past middle age, were H sitting near a stack of life preservers in the big II ferry Alameda that was throbbing across the Bay ! on its regular five-thirty trip.from Oakland to the city that Zinkand made famous. They were dressed respectfully and respectably respecta-bly in sombre gray and brown, and looked straight ahead, too seriously for unchaperoned females on their way to San Francisco. They wore glasses, and their hair was fixed in the most Impossible manner for 1902. Funny little bonnets bon-nets crowned this weird hair, and mits of the time of Captain Jinks adorned their ringless fin-flers. fin-flers. They carried very sensible black bags, and there was nothing about their make up to suggest anything but a pair of high and firm-minded Oakland spinsters going over to the city to see Morgan in "The Christian," so that they could report on it at the next meeting of the "Women's "Wo-men's Critical Talkers' Union. Suddenly, without warning, and with fiery eye, and ferocious mein, one turned on the other and hissed: "Damn it, I told you to bet on Impromptu." "How in hell did I know Winnie O'Connor was going to fall," came the sharp retort, and as for me, I gave up as a judge of human nature. The dear old spinsters were not from Oakland, except on that particular boat each day, they were only serious when figuring their losses in a Maiden Maid-en race, and instead of going to "The Christian," they were going home to read the chart, study the dope, and pick the winners for the next afternoon. after-noon. They were only two of hundreds that make a business of goh g aerobe the Bay every afternoon I to call the winners in the 8tunta at Emeryville. j They crowd the ferries twice a day, and when once they get the betting craze, it is all off. They are harder players, and harder losers than men i ever were, but they will gamble, and the track Is j their greatest opportunity. I All classes of women go to the races, and all i bet more or less. Maybe for a box of Maskeys, maybe for a thousand, but the class that makes it a business, that studies the game, in order to figure on wine or water after the running is over, is all by itself. These women are not the ton, not the trancient visitor, not the flashy sort with the cerise cheeks decorated to order, but for the most part, women much on the order, of the two described above who maybe have a little money they are trying to invest, or who keep a small store or sell burnt leather or drawn work with which to get a new stake. Sometimes they make a killing, and a big one, but often they lose, for women are long-shot players, especially those who are not any too familiar fa-miliar with the dope book. Of course, they are not allowed in the mob at the betting ring, but under the grand stand though high above the crowd in a balcony where they go between the races, and watch the odds the bookies post, through long field glassess which hang from every well regulated shoulder. When they think they have lighted on a live one, they produce, and send one of the official uniformed messengers down to place their bets. Often they are at a disadvantage, on account of the time it takes him to reach a stand, the odds changing in the meantime, but some because so expert that they can place their money by signalling their messenger who remains in the ring. It is a good game if they win, and a part of the city life of the day, and it is worth anyone's time to watch the expressions on the boat coming com-ing back, when the winners grin contentedly, and the losers look sour, or tell of their winnings, win-nings, for as Yo San (Blanche Bates) says in "The Darling of the Gods," "It is better to He a little than to be unhappy much." T. G. |