"Elevators? Derricks? Building cranes? Possible. But lifting a couple hundred pounds is one thing. Lifting a few tons is a horse of a different color.
"No, Pat," I continued, "I don't see just how—"
Sandy Thomas squeaked suddenly and grasped my arm.
"That's it, Mr. Mallory!" she cried. "That's it!"
"Huh? What's what?"
"You wanted to know how Pat could make money from his invention. You've just answered your own question."
"I have?"
"Horses! Horse racing, to be exact. You've heard of handicaps, haven't you?"
"I'm overwhelmed with them," I nodded wearily. "A secretary who repulses my honorable advances, a receptionist who squeals in my ear—"
"Listen, Mr. Mallory, what's the last thing horses do before they go to the post?"
"Check the tote board," I said promptly, "to find out if I'
