He took a drink.
The stewards and the press had had their attention channeled toward the crash in the Derby and had virtually ignored the 10th race. The stewards wouldn't thank him for pointing it out.
He took another drink. And another. And more.
His deadline for telephoning his story to the office was 10 o'clock the following morning. When that hour came he was asleep and snoring, fully dressed on his bed. The empty bourbon bottle lay on the floor beside him, and his winnings, which he had tried to count, lay scattered over his chest.