OLD MAN CURRY

Race Track Stories

by

CHARLES E. VAN LOAN

 * * * * *

 THE BOOKS OF CHARLES E. VAN LOAN _Memorial Edition_

 OLD MAN CURRY STORIES OF THE RACE TRACK

 WITH INTRODUCTION BY L. B. YATES

 * * * * *

OLD MAN CURRY

Race Track Stories

by

CHARLES E. VAN LOAN

Introduction by L. B. Yates

New YorkGeorge H. Doran CompanyMCMXIX

Copyright, 1917, by George H. Doran Company

Copyright, 1915-6, by P. F. Collier & Son, Incorporated

Printed in the United States of America

My Dear "Purdue" McCormick:--

It is customary to dedicate a book, the author selecting a goodnatured person to stand sponsor for his work. There are 100, 000, 000people in this country, and I have selected you as Old Man Curry'sgodfather. When you reflect upon this statistical statement, the sizeof the compliment should impress you. 

Then too, you love a good horse--I have often heard you say so. Youlove a good horse in spite of the fact that you once harnessedColonel Jack Chinn's thoroughbred saddle animal to a trap, thesubsequent events producing a better story than any you will find inthese pages. Nevertheless, my dear sir, they are respectfully, evenfirmly dedicated to you. 

 Yours very sincerely, CHARLES E. VAN LOAN

 To E. O. McCormick, San Francisco, Cal. 

INTRODUCTION

BY L. B. YATES

It is one of life's tragedies that as we go along we realize thechanges that come upon almost everything with which we used to beassociated. And this is noticeable not only in ordinary affairs, whether it be in business or in the home, but it obtrudes itself uponthe sports or pastimes which we most affected in the days when someof us had more time or a greater predilection to indulge in them. 

We so often go back to an old stamping ground expecting to find oldfriends or to meet the characters which to a great extent added tothe charm of local coloring, and nothing disappoints us more than tofind that they have all either gone the way of the earth or changedtheir manner of living and habitat. 

I think this is brought more forcibly to mind when we view the turfactivities of an earlier generation as compared with those moremodern, because nowadays the game is played differently all aroundand doesn't look the same from the viewpoint of one who loved thespectacular and quaint figures that so distinguished what we mightcall the Victorian Era of American racing. 

The sport of emperors has to a great extent become the pastime ofKing Moneybags. And there is no place for ancient crusaders like OldMan Curry, so he has taken the remnants of his stable and gone backto the farm or merged into the humdrum and neutral tinted landscapewhich always designates the conventional and ordinary. 

He doesn't fit in any more. The cost of maintaining a racing stableis almost ten times greater than it was in the days when he and hiskind went up and down the country making the great adventure. Racinghas been systematized and ticketed and labeled in such a way that itis only very rich men who can afford to indulge in it. The trackswest of Louisville are all closed. The skeleton hand of the gloomdistributor has put padlocks on the gates. Even if Old Man Curry waswith us to-day, his sphere of action would be limited, unless heelected to play a game where the odds would be so immeasurablyagainst him that he would be beaten long before he started. 

So it is that when Charlie Van Loan went away, he bequeathed to usthe records of a peculiar nomadic people which are now almost likethe argonauts and whose manner of living and happy-go-lucky ways arebut a memory. It is strange that although the turf has always formeda prolific medium for writing people and has lent itself admirably tofiction, very few authors seem to have taken advantage of theopportunities offered. 

As in other branches of sport, Van Loan was quick to see this and hegave us story after story of the kind that men love to read andchuckle over and retail to the first man they meet. And so when youperuse the pages of Old Man Curry's book, you will find Charlie VanLoan at his very best. When one says that it means you will follow atrail blazed by one of the most masterly short story writers we everhad. Better yet, he writes about real people and they do realbelievable things. You are not asked to stretch your imagination orendeavor to form an excuse for the happening as portrayed. You willfind it all logical and you will be able to follow the old man andthe biblically named horses from track to track and from adventure toadventure, until you finally lay the book aside and tell yourselfwhat a bully time you had reading it and how humorous and human andwholly entertaining every page of it was. 

And to all this I might perhaps add something of my regard for theCharlie Van Loan I knew and how we foregathered and enjoyed the olddays when we were brother carpenters on a western newspaper, and howout of the close association of many years I formed an affectionateregard for him and realized how thoughtful and kindly and big inheart and brain he really was. But in life he was not the kind thatsought or cared for adulation or fulsome expression of regard eitherspoken or written. So I had better hark back to the narratives of OldMan Curry and his connections, bidding you enjoy them to the limit, and assuring you that they need no eulogy from me or any one else. They speak for themselves. 

CONTENTS

 PAGE LEVELLING WITH ELISHA 13

 PLAYING EVEN FOR OBADIAH 45

 BY A HAIR 68

 THE LAST CHANCE 99

 SANGUINARY JEREMIAH 128

 ELIPHAZ, LATE FAIRFAX 150

 THE REDEMPTION HANDICAP 175

 A MORNING WORKOUT 198

 EGYPTIAN CORN 223

 THE MODERN JUDGMENT OF SOLOMON 247

OLD MAN CURRY

LEVELLING WITH ELISHA

The Bald-faced Kid shivered as he roosted on the paddock fence, forthe dawn was raw and cold and his overcoat was hanging in the backroom of a pawnbroker's establishment some two hundred miles away. Circumstances which he had unsuccessfully endeavoured to control madeit a question of the overcoat or the old-fashioned silver stop watch. The choice was not a difficult one. "I can get along without thebenny, " reflected the Kid, "because I'm naturally warm-blooded, buttake away my old white kettle and I'm a soldier gone to war withouthis gun. "

In the language of the tack rooms, the Bald-faced Kid was ahustler--a free lance of the turf, playing a lone hand against ownerand bookmaker, matching his wits against secret combinations andoperating upon the wheedled capital of the credulous. He wassometimes called a tout, but this he resented bitterly, explainingthe difference between a tout and a hustler. "A tout will have sixsuckers betting on six different horses in the same race. Five of'em have to lose. A tout is guessing all the time, but a hustler islikely to know something. One horse a race is my motto--sometimesonly one horse a day, but I've got to know something before I leadthe sucker into the betting ring.... What is a sucker? Huh! He's afoolish party who bets money for a wise boy because the wise boynever has any money to bet for himself!"

Picking winners was the serious business of the Kid's life, hence theearly morning hours and the careful scrutiny of the daybreakworkouts. 

Bitter experience had taught the Kid the error of trusting men, butup to a certain point he trusted horses. He depended upon his silverstop watch to divide the thoroughbreds into two classes--those whichwere short of work and those which were ready. The former heeliminated as unfit; the latter he ceased to trust, for the horsewhich is ready becomes a betting tool, at the mercy of the bookmaker, the owner, and the strong-armed little jockey. 

"Which one are they going to bet on to-day?" was the Kid's eternalquestion. "Which one is going to carry the checks?"

Across the track, dim in the gray light, a horse broke swiftly from acanter into the full racing stride. Something clicked in the Kid'spalm. 

"Got you!" he muttered. 

His eye followed the horse up the back stretch into the gloom of theupper turn where the flying figure was lost in the deep shade of thetrees. One shadow detached itself from the others and appeared at thehead of the straightaway. The muffled thud of hoofs became audible, rising in swift crescendo as the shadow resolved itself into a gauntbay horse with a tiny negro boy crouched motionless in the saddle. Arush, a flurry, a spatter of clods, a low-flying drift of yellow dustand the vision passed, but the Bald-faced Kid had seen enough tocompensate him for the early hours and the lack of breakfast. Heglanced at his watch. 

"Old Elisha, under wraps and fighting for his head, " was his comment. "The nigger didn't let him out any part of the way.... Oh, youprophet of Israel!"

"What did that bird step the three-quarters in?" asked a voice, andthe Kid turned to confront Squeaking Henry, also a hustler, and attimes a competitor. 

"Dunno; I didn't clock him, " lied the Kid. 

"That was Old Man Curry's nigger Mose, " continued Squeaking Henry, so-called because of his plaintive whine, "and I was wondering if thehorse wasn't Elijah. I didn't get a good look at him. Maybe it wasObadiah or Nehemiah. Did you ever hear such a lot of names in yourlife? They tell me Old Man Curry got 'em all out of the Bible. " TheKid nodded. "Bible horses are in fine company at this track, "chuckled Squeaking Henry. "I been here a week now, and darned if Ican get onto the angles. I guess Old Man Curry is the only owner herewho ain't doin' business with some bookmaker or other. Look at thatKing William bird yesterday! He was twenty pounds the best in therace and he come fifth. The jock did everything to him but cut histhroat. What are you goin' to do when they run 'em in and out likethat?... Say, Kid, was that Elijah or was it another one of themBible beetles? I didn't get a good look at him. "

The Bald-faced Kid stole a sidelong glance at Squeaking Henry. 

"Neither did I, " said he. "Why don't you ask Old Man Curry whichhorse it was? He'd tell you. He's just foolish enough to do it. "

Halfway up the back stretch a shabby, elderly man leaned against afence, thoughtfully chewing a straw as he watched the little negrocheck the bay horse to a walk. He had the flowing beard of apatriarch, the mild eye of a deacon, the calm, untroubled brow of aphilosopher, and his rusty black frock coat lent him a certain simpledignity quite rare upon the race tracks of the Jungle Circuit. In thetail pocket of the coat was something rarer still--a well-thumbedBible, for this was Old Man Curry, famous as the owner of Isaiah, Elijah, Obadiah, Esther, Ezekiel, Jeremiah, Elisha, Nehemiah, andRuth. In his spare moments he read the Psalms of David for pleasurein their rolling cadences and the Proverbs of Solomon for profit intheir wisdom, which habit alone was sufficient to earn for him areputation for eccentricity. 

Old Man Curry clinched this general opinion by entering into noentangling alliances with brother owners, and the bookmaker did notlive who could call him friend. He attended strictly to his ownbusiness, which was training horses and racing them to win, and whilehe did not swear, drink liquor, or smoke, he proved he was no Puritanby chewing fine-cut tobacco and betting on his horses when he thoughtthey had a chance to win and the odds were to his liking. For thelatter he claimed Scriptural precedent. 

"Wasn't the children of Israel commanded to spile the Egyptians?"said he. "Wasn't they? Well, then! the way I figger it times haschanged a lot since then, but the principle's the same. There's somechildren of Israel making book 'round here that need to be spiled aheap worse'n Pharaoh ever did. " Then, after thought: "But you got togo some to spile bad eggs. " As the little negro drew near, theblackness of his visage was illuminated by a sudden flash of ivory. Elisha snorted and shook his head from side to side. Old Man Currystepped forward and laid his hand upon the bridle. 

"Well, Mose?" said he. The small rider gurgled as he slipped from thesaddle:

"Nothin' to it, nothin' to it a-a-atall. 'Is 'Lisha bird, he's readyto fly. Yes, suh, he's prepaihed to show all 'em otheh hawsses whichway 'is track runs!"

"Went good, did he, Mose?"

"Good! He like to pull my ahms off, 'at's how good he went! Yes, suh, he was jus' buck-jumpin' all 'e way down 'at stretch. 'Ey kin all bein front of him tuhnin' fo' to-morreh, an' he'll go by 'em so fas''ey won't know which way he went!"

Old Man Curry nodded. "Elisha ain't no front runner, " said he. "He'slike his daddy--does all his running in the last quarter. He comesfrom behind. "

"Sure does!" chirped Mose. "All I got to do is fetch him into 'estretch, swing wide so he got plenty of room to ambulate hisse'f, boot him once in 'e slats, an'--good night _an'_ good-by! Ol 'Lishajus' tip his to 'em otheh hawsses an' say: ''Scuse me, gen'elmen an'ladies, but I got mos' uhgent business down yondeh 'bout quahteh of amile; 'em judges waitin' faw me. ' 'At's what he say, boss. Nothin' toit a-a-atall. "

"Give him plenty of room, Mose. "

"Sutny will. Won't git me nothin' stickin' on 'at rail. 'Em whitebu'glahs don't seem to crave me nohow, no time; 'ey jus' be tickledto death to put me an' 'Lisha oveh 'e fence if we git clost 'nough toit. Yes, indeed; I 'low to give 'is hawss all 'e room whut is on arace track!"

Old Man Curry led Elisha toward his barn, the little negro trailingbehind, addressing the horse in terms of endearment. "You ol' wolf, on'iest way to beat you to-morreh is to saw all yo' laigs off. You asfull of run as a hydrant, 'at's whut you are, ain't you, 'Lisha?"

Two horsemen were standing in the door of a feed room as the queerprocession passed. They interrupted a low-toned conversation toexchange significant glances. "Speak of the devil, " said one, "andthere he goes now. Been working that horse for the last raceto-morrow. "

"It won't get him anything, " said the other. "You can forget thathe's entered. "

The first speaker was short and stout, with no personal beauty to bemarred by the knife scar which ran from the lobe of his left ear tothe point of his chin, a broad, red welt in the blackish stubble ofhis beard. This was Martin O'Connor, owner of the Sunrise racingstable, sometimes know as Grouchy O'Connor. 

His companion was a smooth-faced, dapper, gold-toothed blond, apparently not more than twenty-five years of age. Innocence circledhis sleek towhead like a halo; good cheer radiated from him inceaseless waves. His glance was direct and compelling and his smileinvited confidences; he seemed almost too young and entirely tooartless for his surroundings. The average observer would have pitiedhim for a lamb among wolves, and the pity would have been misplaced, for Al Engle was older than he looked by several sinful semestersand infinitely wiser than he had any honest right to be. His frank, boyish countenance was at once a cloak and an asset; it had beguiledmany a man to his financial hurt. He was shrewd, intelligent, unscrupulous, and acquisitive; the dangerous head of a small cliqueof horse owners which was doing its bad best to remove the element ofchance from the sport of kings. In his touting days he had been giventhe name of the Sharpshooter and in his prosperity it clung to him. 

"Forget that he's entered, eh?" repeated O'Connor. "Elisha--Elisha--Idon't seem to place that horse. "

"His name used to be Silver Star, " said the Sharpshooter. 

"That dog?" said O'Connor, disgustedly. "Let's see; wasn't he atButte last season?"

"Yes. Cricket Caley owned him. "

"The little old jock that died last spring?"

"Same one. This horse Silver Star was all he had and Cricket used toride him himself. Rank quitter. I've seen Caley boot and kick andslash this bird until he wore himself out; he'd quit just the same. Wouldn't run a lick after he got into the stretch. 

"Then one day Cricket slipped him over at a long price. Don't knowhow he did it. Hop, most likely. Got somebody to bet on Silver Starat 25 to 1 and took quite a little chunk of money out of the ring. That was Caley's last race; he'd been cheating the undertakers foryears. Before he died he gave the horse to Old Man Curry. They'd beenfriends, but if a friend of mine gave me a horse like that and didn'tthrow in a dog collar, he couldn't run fast enough to get away fromme. Curry put in an application to the Jockey Club and had the namechanged from Silver Star to Elisha. Won't have anything but Biblenames, the old nut!

"Curry hasn't won with him yet, and I'd hate to be hanging by theneck until he does, because if ever there was a no-account houndmasquerading with a mane and tail, it's the one you just saw go byhere. He won't gather anything to-morrow. Forget him. "

O'Connor hesitated a moment; he was a cautious soul. "Might tellGrogan and Merritt to look after him, " he suggested. 

"No need to. And that bullet-headed little nigger wouldn't likeanything better than a chance to holler to the judges. The horseain't got a chance, I tell you. Wouldn't have with the best rider inthe world. Forget him. "

"Well--just as you say, Al. Broadsword's good enough to beat him, Ireckon. "

"Of course he is! Forget this Elisha. Go on and figure just the sameas if he wasn't in the race. "

The Sharpshooter and his friends, through their bettingcommissioners, backed Broadsword from 4 to 1 to even money. The horsewas owned by O'Connor and ridden by Jockey Grogan. Bald Eagle, Amphion, and Remorseful were supposed to be the contenders, but theirriders jogged blithely to the post with Broadsword tickets in theirbootlegs and riding orders of a sort to make those pasteboardsvaluable. 

Jockey Moseby Jones, on Elisha, was overlooked when these favourswere surreptitiously distributed, but his bootleg was not empty. There was a ticket in it which called for twenty-two dollars in caseElisha won--a two-dollar bet at 10 to 1. It was put there by Old ManCurry just before the bugle blew. 

"Bring him home in front, Mose, " said the old man. 

"Sutny will!" grinned the negro. "You betting much on him, boss?"

"I visited a while with the children of Israel, " said Curry gravely. "Remember now--lots of room when you turn for home. "

"Yes, suh. I won't git clost 'nough to 'em scound'els faw 'em donothin' but say 'Heah he comes' an' 'Yondeh he goes. ' Won't slam meinto no fence; I'm comin' back by ovehland route!"

Later O'Connor, who had been bidden to forget Elisha, remembered him. Broadsword led into the stretch by four open lengths, hugging therail. Mose trailed the bunch around the upper turn, brought Elishasmartly to the outside, kicked the bay horse in the ribs with hisspurs and said:

"Whut yo' doin' heah? Go 'long about yo' business!"

Jockey Grogan, already spending his fifty-dollar ticket, heardwarning yells from the rear and sat down to ride, but it was toolate. Elisha, coming with a tremendous rush, was already on eventerms with Broadsword. Three strides and daylight showed betweenthem. It was all over but the shouting, and there was very little ofthat, for Elisha had few friends in the crowd. 

"Hah!" ejaculated the presiding judge, tugging at his stubby greymoustache. "Old Man Curry put one over on the boys, or I miss myguess. Yes, sir, he beat the good thing and spilled the beans. Elisha, first; Broadsword, second; that thing of Engle's, third. Serves 'em right! Hah!"

Martin O'Connor standing on the outskirts of the betting ring, searching a limited vocabulary for language with which to garnish hisemotions, felt a nudge at his elbow. It was the Sharpshooter. 

"Go away from me! Don't talk to me!" sputtered O'Connor. "You make mesick! I thought you said that dog couldn't run! You're a swellprophet, you are, you--you----"

Al Engle smiled as he slipped his binoculars into the case. "I maynot be a prophet, " said he, "but I'll have one in my barn to-night. "

"Huh?"

"Oh, nothing, only that's too good a horse for Curry to own. I'mgoing to take Elisha away from him. "

"Going to run him up?"

"As far as the old man will go. "

"Well, look out you don't start a selling-race war. "

The Sharpshooter sneered. "Curry hasn't got nerve enough to fightus, " said he. 

Now the "selling race" is an institution devised and created for theprotection of owners against owners, the theory being to prevent therunning of horses out of their proper class. 

An owner, entering a selling race, must set a price upon hishorse--let us say five hundred dollars. Should the horse win, it mustbe offered for sale at that figure, the owner being given the rightto protect his property in a bidding contest. 

In case the animal changes hands, the original owner receives fivehundred dollars, and no more. If the horse has been bid up to onethousand dollars, the racing association shares the run-up with theowner of the horse which finished second. It will readily be seenthat this system discourages the practice of entering atwo-thousand-dollar horse in a five-hundred-dollar selling race, butit also permits a disgruntled owner to revenge himself upon a rival. Some of the bitterest feuds in turf history have grown out of"selling-race wars. "

Little Mose brought Elisha back into the ring, saluted the judges, and, dismounting, began to unsaddle. Old Man Curry came wanderingdown the track from the paddock gate where he had watched the race. He was chewing a straw reflectively, and the tails of his rusty blackfrock coat flapped in the breeze like the garment of a scarecrow. Mose, with the saddle, bridle, blanket, and weight pad in his arms, disappeared under the judges' stand where the clerk of the scalesweighed him together with his tackle. 

The associate judge came out on the steps of the pagoda with aprogramme in his hand. Mose bounced into view, handed his tackle toShanghai, Curry's hostler, and started for the jockeys' room, singingto himself out of sheer lightness of heart. He knew what he would dowith that twenty-two-dollar ticket. There was a crap game every nightat the O'Connor stable. 

"All right, judge!" called the clerk of the scales. "Shoot!"

The associate judge cleared his throat, nodded to Old Man Curry, fingered his programme, and began to speak in a dull, slurringmonotone, droning out the formula as prescribed for such occasions:

"Elisha--winner'v this race--entered to be sold--four hundreddollars---- Any bids?"

"Five hundred!"

Old Man Curry, leaning against the top rail of the fence, startedslightly and turned his eyes in the direction of the sound. TheSharpshooter flashed his gold teeth at him in a cheerful smile. OldMan Curry shrugged his shoulders and rolled the straw from one cornerof his mouth to the other. The associate judge looked at him, askinga question with his eyebrows. There was a stir in the crowd about thestand. A bidding contest is always an added attraction. 

"Friend, you don't want this hoss, " expostulated Old Man Curry, addressing Engle. "He ain't a race hoss; he's a _trick_ hoss. Youdon't want him. "

"What about you, Curry?" asked the associate judge. 

"Oh, well, " said the old man, slowly. "_And_ five. "

"Six hundred!"

Old Man Curry seemed annoyed. He combed his beard with his fingers. 

"_And_ five, " said he. 

"Seven hundred!"

Old Man Curry took time for reflection. Then he sighed deeply. 

"Maybe you want him worse'n I do, friend, " said he. "_And_ five. "

"Eight hundred!"

Old Man Curry smothered an impatient ejaculation, threw away hisstraw and ransacked his pockets for his packet of fine-cut. 

"Might as well make it a good one while we're at it, " said he. "_And_five. "

"One thousand!" said the Sharpshooter, his smile broadening. "Prettyfair price for a trick horse, eh, Curry?"

The old man paused with a generous helping of tobacco halfway to itsdestination. He regarded Engle with unblinking gravity. 

"'The words of his mouth were smoother than butter, ' he quoted, 'butwar was in his heart. ' That's from Psalms, young man.... Now, it'sthis way with a trick hoss: a lot depends on whether you know thetrick or not.... One thousand!... Shucks! Now I _know_ you want himworse'n I do!" Old Man Curry hoisted the tails of his coat, thrusthis hands into the hip pockets of his trousers, hunched his shoulderslevel with his ears and turned away. 

"You ain't quitting, are you?" demanded the Sharpshooter. 

"Friend, " said Old Man Curry, "I ain't even started yet. It appearsupon the face of the returns that you have bought one big, redhoss.... A trick hoss. To show you how I feel about it, I'm going tothrow in a bridle with him.... Good-by, Elisha. The Philistines havegot ye ... For a thousand dollars. "

It was dusk and Old Man Curry paced up and down under his stableawning, his hands clasped behind his back and his head bowed at ameditative angle. The Bald-faced Kid recalled him to earth by hisbreezy greeting, and what it lacked in reverence it made up in goodwill. Old Man Curry and the hustler were friends, each possessingtrait which the other respected. 

"Well, old-timer, you put airing your lace curtains a little?"

"Eh? What? Oh, good evening, Frank, good evening! I been walking upand down some. You know what it says in Ecclesiastes: 'In the day ofprosperity be joyful, but in the day of adversity consider. ' I beenconsidering. "

"Uh, huh, " said the Bald-faced Kid, falling into step, "and you surereached out and grabbed some adversity in that third race to-day, what? I had a finnif bet on friend Isaiah--my own money, too; that'show good I thought he was. They pretty near bumped the shoes off himin the back stretch and they had him in a pocket all the way to thepaddock gate, and even so, he was only beat about the length of yournose. Adversity is right!" Old Man Curry nodded. "Say, " said the Kid, lowering his voice, "I just wanted to tell you that next Tuesday theEngle bunch will be levelling with Elisha. "

Curry paused in his stride and eyed the youth intently. 

"Who told you?" said he. 

"Never you mind, " said the Kid, airily. "I'm a kind of a privateinformation bureau and detective agency 'round this track, and myhours are from twelve to twelve, twice a day. I shake hands with thenight watchman when he comes on duty and I'm here to give themilkman the high sign in the morning. They tell me things they'veseen and heard. I've got a drag with the bartenders and the waitersin the track café and the telegraph operator is my pal. 

"Now Engle has had Elisha for two weeks. He's started him three timesand Elisha hasn't been in the money once. People are saying that whenEngle bought the horse he didn't buy the prescription that goes withhim.... Don't interrupt me; everybody knows you never had a hop horsein your barn.... It's my notion that Elisha can win any time they getready to cut him loose for the kopecs. Engle has been cheating withhim to get a price and using the change of owners for an alibi. They'll get their price the next time out and clean up a barrel ofmoney. You can gamble on this tip. It's straight as gospel. "

"That's pretty straight, son. " Old Man Curry squared his shouldersand looked over the Kid's head toward the track, where the emptygrand stand loomed dark against the evening sky. "Next Tuesday!" saidhe. "Just about what I thought ... But tell me, son, why did youbring this to me?"

The Bald-faced Kid laughed harshly. 

"Well, maybe it's because you're the only man 'round here that callsme Frank--it's my name and I like to hear it once in a while. Maybeit's because you staked me once when I was broke and didn't take myright eye for security. Maybe it's because I figure we can both getsomething out of it for ourselves. If Engle is going to cut a melon, we might as well have a knife in it too. "

"Ah!" said Old Man Curry, and he paced the entire length of the barnbefore he spoke again. 

"Well, you see, son, it's this way about cutting a melon. You want tobe sure it ain't green ... Or rotten. "

"Huh?"

Old Man Curry placed his hand on the Kid's shoulder. 

"My boy, " said he, kindly, "you make a living by--by sort of advisingfolks what to bet on, don't you? If they're kind of halting betweentwo opinions, as the Book says, you sort of--help 'em out, eh!"

The Bald-faced Kid grinned broadly. 

"I guess that's about the size of it, " said he. 

"Well, if you've got any reg'lar customers, don't invite 'em to havea slice of Engle's melon next Tuesday. It might disagree with 'em. "

"But I don't see how you're going to get away from Elisha! He's fitand ready and right on edge. You can throw out his last three races. He's good enough to win without any framing. "

"I know he is, son. Didn't I train him? Now you've told me somethingthat I've been trying to find out, and I've told you something younever could find out. Don't ask me any more.... No use talking, Frank, Solomon was a great man. Some time I hope to have a race hossfit to be named after him. I've never seen one yet. "

"Where does Solomon get in on this proposition?" demanded the youth. 

Old Man Curry chuckled. 

"You don't read him, " he said. "Solomon wrote a lot of advice thathossmen can use. For instance: 'A prudent man foreseeth the evil andhideth himself, but the simple pass on and are punished. ' I've toldyou this Engle melon ain't as ripe as they think it is. You beprudent and don't ask me how I know. "

"If the frame-up goes wrong, what'll win?" asked the Kid. 

"Well, " said the old man, "my hoss Elijah's in that same race, butit's a little far for him. I ain't going to bet anything. Sometimesit comes handy to know these things. "

"You spoke an armful then!" said the Kid. "Well, I've got to begoing. I'll keep this under my hat. "

"So do, son, " said Old Man Curry. "So do. Good night. "

The Bald-faced Kid reflected aloud as he departed. 

"And some people think that old fellow don't know the right way ofthe track!" he murmured. "Gee! I'd give something to be in with whathe's got up his sleeve!"

Old Man Curry was still tramping up and down when little Mosereturned from his nightly foray upon the crap games of theneighbourhood. The boy approached silently and with lagging gait, sure signs that fortune had not been kind to him. When the dicebehaved well it was his habit to return with songs and improviseddance steps. 

"Talk 'bout luck!" said he, morosely. "You know 'at flat-foot Swedewhut swipes faw Mist' O'Conneh? Hungry Hanson, 'ey calls him. Well, he goes crazy 'ith 'e heat an' flang 'em bones jus' like he's got 'emejicated. Done tossed out nine straight licks, boss. Seems to me'at's mo' luck 'an a Swede ought to have!"

"Mose, " said Old Man Curry suddenly, "Job was no hossman. "

"I neveh 'cused him of it, " replied Mose sulkily. 

"A hossman wouldn't have wanted his adversary to write a book. Ifhe'd said _make_ a book, now ... But the best way to get square withan adversary is to have him start a hoss in the same race with you, Mose. "

"I'll take yo' word faw it, boss, " said Mose. "When you go talkin''bout Job an' Sol'mun an' 'em Bible folks, you got me ridin' on atrack I don't know nothin' 'bout. Nothin' a-a-atall. "

It was Tuesday afternoon and little Mose was struggling into hisriding boots. The other jockeys dressed in the jockeys' room at thepaddock inclosure, but Mose found it pleasanter to don the silks inthe tack room of Old Man Curry's barn, which also served him as asleeping apartment. The old man sat on the edge of Mose's cot, speaking earnestly and slapping the palm of his left hand with thefingers of his right, as if to lend emphasis to his words. 

"The big thing is to get him away from the post. I want Elijah outthere in front when you turn for home. With his early speed, he oughtto be leading into the stretch. Elisha will come from behind; Engleis smart enough for that. He'll have to pass you somewhere, becauseElijah will begin to peter out after he's gone half a mile. Pull inas close to Elisha as you can, but not so close that Merritt canclaim a foul, and--you know the rest. "

Mose nodded soberly. "Sutny do, boss. But I neveh knowed 'at ol''Lisha----"

"That'll do, " said Old Man Curry sternly. "There's lots of things youdon't know, Mose. "

"Yes, suh, " said the little negro, subsiding. "Quite a many. "

Later the Bald-faced Kid came to Old Man Curry in the paddock. 

"Elisha looks awful good, " said he, "and they're commencing to set inthe checks. He opened at 4 to 1, went up to 6, and they've hammeredhim down to 2 to 1 now. I hear they're playing the bulk of theirmoney in the pool rooms all over the coast.... Elisha looks as if hecould win, eh?"

Old Man Curry combed his beard. 

"You can't always tell by the looks of a melon what's inside it, myson. "

"Engle is telling everybody that the horse ain't quite ready, "persisted the hustler. "Of course they don't want everybody bettingon him and spoiling the price. "

"He's doing 'em a kindly act without knowing it, " said Old Man Curry. "That's 'bout the only way he'll ever do one, Frank, unbeknownstlike. "

"You're not betting on this one?" asked the Kid. 

"Not a thin dime's worth. It's too far for him. "

"I give it up. " The Kid shook his head, hopelessly. "You're too manyfor me. "

The presiding judge came out on the platform in front of the standand watched the horses dance along the rail on their way to the post, coats glistening, eyes flashing, nostrils flaring--one of theprettiest sights the turf offers to its patrons. "Merritt on Elishaagain, " said the judge. "Merritt. Hm-m-m. That young man is entirelytoo strong in the arms to suit me. It struck me the last three timeshe rode this horse. But somebody is betting on Elisha to-day. Thatmay make a difference, and if it does, we may have to ask Mr. Sharpshooter Engle a few questions. "

"Leave it to him to answer 'em, " said the associate judge. "It's thebest thing he does. That fellow is like a hickory nut--smooth on theoutside, but hard, awfully hard, to get anything out of.... Old ManCurry is in this race with Elijah. Little far for him, isn't it?"

In the very top row of the grand stand Grouchy Martin O'Connor waitedfor Al Engle. Just as the horses reached the post, the Sharpshooterslipped in, breathless and fumbling at the catch of his binocularcase. "He was 6 to 5 when I came through the betting ring, " saidEngle. "Well, any old price is a good price. He'll roll home. "

"He better. He owes me something, " growled O'Connor. 

"This is where he pays you. "

"I hope so. "

"I saw Old Man Curry out in the paddock, " and Engle smiled at therecollection. "What do you think the old coot said to me?"

"What do I care what an old nut says?"

"Nobody cares, of course, but this was kind of funny. After thehorses started for the post he came up to me, solemn as a judge, andsays he: 'Remember, I told you this was a trick horse. ' Just likethat. They ought to have a look at his head. He's got an attic forrent, sure. "

"Must have. But what does he mean by that trick-horse stuff? Hepulled it on you a couple of times when you ran Elisha up on him. "

"Darned if I know. I guess that's just his way of kidding.... Hello!They're off!"

"Yes, and that thing of Curry's got away flying. "

"He'll quit about the time he hits the head of the stretch, " saidEngle. "He gets his mail there.... Merritt has got Elisha in on therail, taking it easy, as I told him to. Believe me, that baby is somestretch runner!"

"It cost me enough to find it out!" said O'Connor shortly. 

Engle peered through his binoculars. 

"Unless he breaks a leg, or something"--here O'Connor hastily knockedwood--"we'll clean up, " said Engle, critically. "Elisha is fightingfor his head--wants to run. I don't care where he is, turning forhome. He'll run over that bunch in the last quarter. "

"Yes, but look at that Elijah go!" muttered O'Connor. 

"Let him go!" said Engle, with a trace of irritation. "He'll comeback; he always does. Bet you fifty he's last!"

"Got you!" snapped O'Connor. "You may not know any more about thisone than you did about Elisha last month!"

The dots of colour skimmed around the upper turn, one of them so farahead that it seemed lonely. This was Elijah, burning his earlyspeed, jack-rabbiting ten lengths in front of his field, butbeginning to notice his exertions and feel the swift pace. 

"'Lijah, " remarked little Mose, looking back over his shoulder, "ifeveh you finds a race track whut's got a short home stretch in it, you'll be 'notheh Roseben. Sutny will. On'iest trouble 'ith you, 'Lijah, 'em stretches built too _long_ faw you. Put 'e judges' standup heah whah we is now, an' yo' neveh lose a race!... Uh, huh! Heahcome 'Lisha now; 'em otheh jocks lettin' him th'ough on 'e rail.... Come on, honey blossom! We's waitin' faw you. Come on!"

Said the presiding judge: "That thing in front is quitting to nothing... And here comes Elisha through on the rail.... Yes, he's a realrace horse to-day. Better see Engle about this. Have to teach himthat he can't run his horses in and out at this track!"

Said Al Engle: "What did I tell you? Running over horses, ain't he?He'll have that Elijah grabbed in a few more jumps.... Take it easy, Merritt! Don't win too far with him!"

Martin O'Connor heaved a great sigh of relief. Like all cautioussouls, he never ceased to worry until the last doubt was dispelled. The weary, staggering Elijah was the only barrier between Elisha andthe goal. O'Connor's practiced eye saw no menace in that flounderingfront runner; no danger in a shaft already spent. "He wins! He winseasy!" breathed Martin. 

"Just rolls home, I tell you!" said the Sharpshooter, putting awayhis binoculars. "I knew he would. "

By leaps and bounds the stretch-running Elisha overhauled his formerstable companion. Poor, tired Elijah was rocking in his gait, losingground almost as fast as Elisha was gaining it; his race was behindhim; he could do no more. 

Mose, keeping watch out of the tail of his eye, saw the bay headbobbing close behind. Now it was at Elijah's heels; the next stridewould bring it level with the saddle.... The next stride. 

All that anyone ever saw was that Jockey Moseby Jones leaned slightlytoward the flying Elisha as Merritt drew alongside, and very fewspectators saw this much. Who cares to watch a loser when the winneris in sight? Old Man Curry, waiting at the paddock gate, saw themovement and immediately began to search his pockets for tobacco. 

Jockey Merritt, strong of arm but weak of principle, was first torealize that something had happened. Elisha's speed checked with suchsuddenness that the rider narrowly escaped pitching out of thesaddle.... Had the horse stumbled ... Or been frightened?... What inthe world was it?... Merritt recovered his balance and quiteinstinctively drove the spurs home; the only response was a gruntfrom Elisha. The long racing stride shortened to a choppy one. Thehorse was not tired, nor was he quitting in the general acceptance ofthe term; he was merely stopping to a walk with all possible speed. Merritt was seized with panic. He drew his whip and began slashingsavagely. Elisha answered this by waving his tail high in the air, aprotest and a flag of truce--but run he would not. His pace grewslower and slower and at the paddock gate he was on even terms withthe drooping Elijah. "What ails that horse?" demanded the presidingjudge. "He won't run a lick! Acts as if he's taken a sulky streak allat once!"

"Yes, " said the associate. "The Bible horses are having a contest tosee which one of 'em can quit the fastest.... Queer-looking race, judge. And they bet on Elisha this time, too. "

"I'm glad of it!" exploding the other. "It serves 'em right. I liketo see a frame-up go wrong once in a while!"

Side by side Elijah and Elisha fell back toward the field, littleMose grinning from ear to ear, but industriously hand riding hismount; Jockey Merritt cursing wildly and plying rawhide and steelwith all his strength. The other horses, coming on with a closingrush, enveloped the pair, passing them and continued on toward thewire. 

Only one remark of Martin O'Connor's is fit for quotation. It camewhen his vocabulary was bare of vituperation, abusive epithet, andprofanity. 

"You can slip me fifty, Engle. That darned trick horse of yours waslast!"

An inquisitive soul is an itching thing and the gathering ofinformation was the Bald-faced Kid's ruling passion. He called at OldMan Curry's stable that evening with a bit of news which he hoped touse as the key to a secret. 

"Greetings!" said he at the tack-room door. "Thought you'd like toknow that Engle has sold Elisha. Pete Lawrence bought him for threehundred dollars. Engle says that's two-ninety-five more than he'dbring at a soap works. "

Old Man Curry had been reading by the light of the tack-room lantern;he pushed his glasses back on his forehead and smiled at hisinformant. 

"Oh, Elisha!" said he. "Yes, if you look in the second stall to theright, you'll find him. He's been straying among the publicans andsinners, but he's home again now where he belongs. I asked Pete to goover and buy him for me. "

"Good work!" said the Kid, seating himself. "There's quite a massmeeting over at Engle's barn. "

"So?" said Old Man Curry. 

"Yes indeed! They've got Jock Merritt up on the carpet and theyhaven't decided yet whether to hang him to a rafter or boil him inoil. Some of 'em think he pulled Elisha to-day. Merritt is giving 'ema powerful argument. Says he never rode a harder finish in his life, but that the horse took a sudden notion to quit and did it. Didn'tseem to be tired or anything, but just stopped running. O'Connor getsthe floor once in a while and rips and raves about that 'trick-horsething. ' He thinks you know something. Engle says you don't and neverdid, but that Elisha is a dog, same as he said at first. Wouldn'tsurprise me none if they got into a free-for-all fight over therebecause they're all losers and all sore. Jock Merritt is sorer'nanybody; he bet some of his own money and he thinks they ought togive it back to him.... Now, just between friends, what happened tothat horse to-day? You told me he wouldn't win, but at the head ofthe stretch he looked like a 1 to 10 chance. I thought he'd walk in. Then all at once he quit running. He wasn't pulled, but somethingstopped him and stopped him quick. What was it?"

Old Man Curry stroked his beard and regarded the Bald-faced Kid witha tolerant expression. 

"Well, now, " said he at length, "seeing as how you know so much, I'mgoing to tell you something more 'bout that 'Lisha hoss. He used tohave another name once. "

"Silver Star, " nodded the Kid. "I looked him up in the form charts. "

Old Man Curry nodded. 

"Eddie Caley--him they called the Cricket--owned the hoss in thefirst place. Raised him from a yearling. Now understand, I ain'texcusing the Cricket for what he done, and I ain't blaming himneither. He was sick most of the time, and a sick man gets hisnotions sort of twisted like. Maybe he figured the race track owedhim something for taking away his health. I don't know. He wasn't nohand to talk. 

"Anyhow, he had this one hoss and always the one idea in his head--toslip him over at such a long price that he could clean up enough toquit on. Caley was doing his own training and riding. I kept an eyeon the hoss, and it seemed to me Silver Star worked good enough towin, but every time he got in a race he'd quit at the head of thestretch. That struck me as sort of queer because he come fromstretch-running stock. His daddy was a great one to win from behind. Well, six or seven times Silver Star quit that way, and from the headof the stretch home the Cricket would lay into him, whip and spurboth. Wouldn't make the slightest difference to the hoss, buteverybody could see that Caley was doing his best to make him run. Folks got kind of sorry for him, sick that way, only one hoss and himsuch a dog. 

"Then one day Caley came to me and wanted the loan of some money. Hesaid the price had got long enough to suit him, but that he didn'thave anything to bet. Happened I had the bank roll handy and I lethim have two hundred. I can see the little feller now, with the redpatches on his cheeks and his eyes kind of shining with fever. 

"'This is the biggest cinch that ever came off on a race track!' hesays to me, coughing every few words. 'Don't let the price scare you. Don't let anything scare you. He'll be a good hoss to-day. Winsomething for yourself. '

"It's this way 'bout me: I've heard that kind of talk before. When Ibet, it's got to be on my own hoss. I thought two hundred was plentyto lose. Silver Star was 25 and 30 to 1 all over the ring and afriend of Caley's unloaded the two hundred in little driblets so'snobody would get suspicious and cut the price too far. The Cricketgot out of a sick bed to ride the race and Silver Star came frombehind and won by seven lengths. Could have made it seventeen easy asnot. I reckon everybody was glad to see Caley win--everybody but thebookmakers, but they hadn't any right to kick, seeing as he beat ared-hot favourite. 

"Caley went to bed that night and didn't get up any more. I used toread to him when he couldn't sleep. Maybe that's how he come to giveme the hoss, along with a little secret 'bout him. "

Old Man Curry paused, tantalisingly, and rummaged in his pockets forhis fine-cut. The Bald-faced Kid squirmed on his chair. 

"It was a trick that nobody but a jockey would ever have thought of, son. Caley taught the colt to stop whenever a certain word washollered in his ear. Dinged it into him, morning after morning, untilSilver Star got so's he'd quit as soon as he heard it, like a buggyhoss stops when you say 'Whoa' to him. Best part of the trick, though, was that all the whipping and spurring in the world couldn'tget him to running again. Caley taught him that for his ownprotection. It gave him an alibi with the judges. Couldn't they seehe was riding the hoss as hard as he knew how? I don't say it wasexackly _honest_, but----"

"Oho!" interrupted the Bald-faced Kid, "now I know why you had afront runner in that race! Between friends, old-timer, what was itMose hollered at Elisha when he came alongside?"

"Well, " said Old Man Curry, "that's the secret of it, my son, andit's this way 'bout a secret: you can't let too many folks in on it. I reckon it was a word spoken in due season, as Solomon says. Elisha, he won't hear it again unless he changes owners. "

PLAYING EVEN FOR OBADIAH

Old Man Curry, owner of race horses, looked out of his tack-room doorat a streaming sky and gave thanks for the rain. Other owners werecursing the steady downpour, for a wet track would sadly interferewith their plans, but Curry expected to start the chestnut coltObadiah that afternoon, and Obadiah, as Jockey Moseby Jones was wontto remark, was a mud-running fool on any man's track. The Bald-facedKid, who lived by doing the best he could and preferred to be calleda hustler rather than a tout, spoke from the tack-room interior. Hewas a privileged character at the Curry barn. 

"How does she look, old-timer? Going to clear up by noon?"

Old Man Curry shook his head. "Well, no, " said he. "I reckon not. Looks to me like reg'lar Noah weather, Frank. If a man's got a mudhoss in his barn, now's the time to start him. "

The Bald-faced Kid grunted absently. He was deep in a thick, leather-backed, looseleaf volume of past performances, technicallyknown as a form book, generally mentioned as "the dope sheets"--thelibrary of the turf follower, the last resort and final court ofappeal. The Kid's lower lip had a studious droop and the pagesrustled under his nervous fingers. An unlighted cigarette was behindhis ear. 

"What you looking for, son?"

"I'm trying to make Gaspargoo win his race to-day. He's in there witha feather on his back, and there'll be a price on him. He's beenworking good, too. He quits on a dry track, but in the mud he'sliable to go farther. His old feet won't get so hot. " Curry peeredover the Kid's shoulder at the crowded columns of figures andfootnotes, unintelligible to any but the initiated, and supposedly acomplete record of the racing activities of every horse in training. 

"Hm-m-m. Some folks say Solomon didn't write Ecclesiastes. Some sayhe did--after he got rid of his wives. "

The Bald-faced Kid laughed. 

"You and your Solomon! Well, get it off your chest! What does he saynow?"

"I think it must have been Solomon, because here's something thatsounds just like him: 'Of making many books there is no end; and muchstudy is a weariness of the flesh. ' It would weary a mule's flesh tostudy them dope books, Frank. There's so many things enter into therunning of hosses which ought to be printed in 'em and ain't. Forinstance, take that race right in front of you. " The old man put hisfinger upon the page. "I remember it well. Here's Engle's mare, Sunflower, the favourite and comes fourth. Ab Mears wins it with theblack hoss, Anthracite. Six to one. What does the book say 'boutSunflower's race?"

The Kid read the explanatory footnote. 

"'Sunflower, away badly, and messed about the first part of thejourney; had no chance to catch the leaders, but closed strong underthe whip. '"

"Uh-huh, " said Old Man Curry. "Good as far as it goes, but that'sall. Might as well tell a lie as part of the truth. Why not comeright out with it and say that Engle was betting on Anthracite thatday and the boy on Sunflower rode the mare to orders? That's whathappened. Engle and Mears and O'Connor and Weaver and some of therest of 'em run these races the night before over in O'Connor's barn. They get together and then decide on a caucus nominee. Why not putthat in the book?"

"Speaking of Mears, " said the Bald-faced Kid, "he thinks he'll winto-day with Whitethorn. "

"Well, " said the old man, "I'll tell you, Frank; it's this way 'boutWhitethorn; he'll win if he can beat Obadiah. The colt's ready andthis weather suits him down to the ground. He surely does love torun in the slop. Only bad thing 'bout it, Engle and Weaver are bothin that race, and since I trimmed that gang of pirates with Elishathey've had it in for me. Their jockeys act like somebody's told 'emthere's an open season on my hosses. They bump that little nigger ofmine every chance they get. Pretty near put him into the fence twicelast week. "

"Why don't you holler to the judges?"

"They haven't done any real damage, son. And here's another angle:these judges won't give a nigger any the best of it on a claim offoul agin a white boy. My Mose is the only darky rider here, and theother boys want to drive him out. Between Engle and his gang afterme, and the jockeys after Mose, we got our hands full. "

"I'll bet. Going to gamble any on Obadiah to-day?"

"If I like the price. None of the bookmakers here will ever die ofenlargement of the heart. If Obadiah is shorter than three to one, he'll run for the purse alone. The hoss that beats him on a sloppytrack will know that he's been going some. "

It happened just beyond the half-mile pole, in a sudden flurry ofwind and rain. The spectators, huddling under the grand-stand roof, saw the horses dimly as through a heavy mist. The colours wereindistinguishable at the distance, drenched and sodden. 

"Hello!" said the presiding judge, who had been wiping his fieldglasses. "One of 'em went down! What happened?"

"Don't know, " replied the associate judge. "I was watching that thingin front--Whitethorn.... Yes, and that horse is hurt, Major.... Theboy is all right, though. He's on his feet. "

"It's Old Man Curry's horse, " said the other. "Obadiah--and I sort offigured him the contender in this race, too.... The boy has gothim.... Looks like a broken leg to me.... Too bad.... Better send anofficer over there. "

Before the judges knew that anything had happened a shabby, beardedold man in a rusty black frock coat dodged across the track from thepaddock gate and splashed hurriedly through the infield. Old ManCurry never used binoculars; he had the eyes of an eagle. 

"Been looking for it to happen every day!" he muttered. "And a rightlikely colt, too. The skunks! The miserable little skunks!"

Whitethorn, the winner of the race, was back in the ring andunsaddled before the old man reached the half-mile pole. Jockey MosebyJones, plastered with mud from his bullet head to his boots, shakenand bruised but otherwise unhurt, clung to Obadiah's bridle. 

"Now, honey, you jus' stan' still!" he was saying. "Jus' stan' stillan' we git yo' laig fixed up in no time; no time a-a-a-tall. "

The colt stood with drooping head, drumming on the ground with thecrippled foreleg; from time to time the unfortunate animal shiveredas with a violent chill. Old Man Curry knelt in the mud, but rosealmost immediately; one glance at the broken leg was enough. Helooked at the little negro. 

"How did it happen, Mose?"

"Jockey Murphy done it, boss. He was on 'at thing of Weaver's. "

"A-purpose?"

"Sutny he done it a-purpose. He cut in on us an' knocked us agin therail. Come from 'way outside to do it. "

Old Man Curry began to take the saddle off the colt. A tall man in arubber coat, gum boots, and a uniform cap arrived on the scene, panting after his run from the grand stand. He looked at Obadiah'sleg, sucked in his breath with a whistling sound more expressive thanwords, and faced Old Man Curry. 

"Want the 'vet' to see him?" asked the newcomer. 

"No use in him suffering that long, " said the old man dully. "He'sruined. Might as well get it over with. "

Jockey Moseby Jones wailed aloud. 

"Oh, don' let 'em shoot Obadiah, boss!" he pleaded. "I'll take keero' him; I'll set up nights 'ith him. Can't you splint it? Ain't therenothin' we kin do fo' him?"

"Only one thing, Mose, " said Old Man Curry. "It's a kindness, Ireckon. " He passed the bridle to the uniformed stranger. "Don't betoo long about it, " said he. 

The colt, gentle and obedient to the last, hobbled off the tracktoward a sheltering grove of trees near the upper turn. Customdecrees that the closing scene of a turf tragedy shall not be enactedwithin sight of the grand stand. Two very young stableboys followedat a distance. 

"Run away, kids, " said the tall man, fumbling at his hip pocket. "Youdon't want to see this. "

Old Man Curry strode along the track, his shoulders squared, his facestern and his eyes blazing with the cold rage which sometimesovertakes a patient man. Little Mose trailed at his heels, whimperingand casting scared glances behind. After a time they heard themuffled report of a pistol. 

"He's out of his misery, sonny, " said the old man. "It's the bestway--the best way--and now I want you to tell them judges just how ithappened. "

But Jockey Murphy had already told his story, ably seconded by hisfriends, Grogan and Merritt. These boys had been interviewed byracing judges before and, consequently, were not embarrassed. 

"Judges--gentlemen, " said Murphy, cap in hand--a vest-pocket editionof a horseman, freckled, blue-eyed, and bow-legged--"this was how ithappened: That little nigger nearly spilled the whole bunch of us, tryin' to cut acrost to the rail goin' into the turn. We yelled athim, and he kind of lost his head--tried to yank his hoss around anddown he went. Awful slippery over there, judges. I had to pull upwith Fieldmouse, and couldn't get her to going again. She's a mean, skulking mare, and won't run a lick after she's been interferedwith.... Who else saw it? Why, Merritt was right there somewheres, and so was Grogan. They're all that I'm sure of. You might ask 'emwhether the nigger cut acrost or not. He's an awful reckless littlekid, and he'll kill somebody yet if he ain't more careful. "

Grogan and Merritt, called in support of this statement, perjuredthemselves like jockeys, and there was no conflicting note in thetestimony. Mose, coming late, told his story, but the judges wereswayed by the preponderance of evidence. It was three against one, and that one a very poor witness, for Mose was overawed by hissurroundings and contradicted himself several times out of purefright. In the end he was allowed to go with a solemn warning to bemore careful in the future. 

When this word was brought to Old Man Curry he lumbered heavily upthe steps and into the judges' stand, where he refused a chair anddelivered himself standing, the water dripping in tiny puddles fromthe skirt of his long black coat. 

"Gentlemen, " said he, "you're barking up the wrong tree. I've beenexpecting something like this ever since the meeting opened. Mylittle boy can't ride a race 'thout interference from these rascalsthat take their orders from Engle and his bunch. They've tried adozen times to put him over the fence, and now they've killed a goodhoss for me. I ain't going to stand it. I----"

"But the other boys all say----"

"Great King!" interrupted the old man wrathfully. "Of course they do!Told you the same identical story, didn't they? Ain't that proofthey're lying? Did you ever see three honest people that could agreewhen they was trying to tell the truth 'bout an accident? Did you?"

Quite naturally the judges were inclined to regard this as areflection upon their official conduct. Old Man Curry was reprimandedfor his temerity, and descended from the stand, his beard fairlybristling with righteous indignation. Little Mose followed him downthe track toward the paddock; he had to trot to keep up with the oldman's stride. 

"Might have knowed they'd team up agin us, " said the negro. "ThemIrish jockeys had a story all cooked to tell. "

Old Man Curry did not open his mouth until he reached his tack-room, and then it was only to stuff one cheek with fine-cut tobacco--hissolace in times of stress. After reflection he spoke, dropping hiswords slowly, one by one. 

"Weaver and Murphy and Engle.... It says in Ecclesiastes that athreefold cord is not easily broken, but I reckon it might be done, one cord at a time.... Well, Mose, they've made us take themedicine!"

"Sutny did!" chirped the little negro. "But they'll never git us tolick the spoon!"

The Bald-faced Kid often boasted that everybody's business was hisbusiness--a large contract on any race track of the Jungle Circuit. His stop watch told him what the horses were doing, and stableboys, bartenders, and waiters told him what their owners were doing, thelatter vastly more important to the Kid. At all times he used hiseyes, which were sharp as gimlets. Thus it happened that he was ableto give Old Man Curry a bit of interesting information. 

"Considering what these birds, Weaver and Murphy, did to you lastweek, " said the Kid, "I don't suppose you'd fight a bulldog for 'em, or anything like that?"

"Eh? What bulldog?" Old Man Curry could never keep abreast of thevernacular. 

"Getting down to cases, " said the Kid, "you're laying for Weaver andMurphy, ain't you?"

"I ain't said so in that many words, " was the cautious response. 

"You ain't going to let 'em kill a good colt for you and get awaywith it, are you? Weaver was only in that race to take care ofObadiah. Eagle's gang was down hook, line, and sinker on Whitethorn, and they cleaned up. Obadiah was the one they was leery of, so Weaverput Fieldmouse in the race and told Murphy to take care of you. It'ssimple as A, B, C. Wouldn't you get back at 'em if you had a chance?"

"I ain't signed any peace documents as I know of, " said the old man, a smouldering light in his eye. 

"Now you're talking!" said the Kid. "If you want to catch Weaver andMurphy dead to rights, I can tell how to go about it. "

"So do, Frank, " said Old Man Curry. "So do. My ear is open to yourcry. "

"In the first place, " said the Kid, lighting a cigarette, "I don'tsuppose you know that Weaver has been stealing weight off his horsesever since this meeting opened. "

"With Parker, the clerk of the scales?" ejaculated the old man. "I'veheard that couldn't be done. "

The Bald-faced Kid chuckled. 

"A smart owner can do anything, " said he, "and Weaver's smart. Atthese other tracks, stealing weight off a horse is the king of indoorsports, and they mostly work it through a stand-in with the clerk ofthe scales; but you're right about this fellow Parker. He's on thelevel, and they can't get at him. A jock has got to weigh in andweigh out on the dot when Parker is on the job. He won't let 'em getby with the difference of an ounce. "

"Then how----" began Old Man Curry. 

"There you go, busting through the barrier! Weaver is pulling thewool over Parker's eyes. Now here's what I saw yesterday: Weaverhad Exmoor in the third race, supposed to be carrying one hundredand ten pounds. Jock Murphy ain't much bigger'n a rabbit--tack andall, he won't weigh ninety-five. That would make, say, fifteen poundsof lead in the weight pad. Murphy got on the scales and was checkedout of the jock's room at one hundred and ten, all square enough, but when Weaver saddled Exmoor he left the weight pad off himentirely--slipped it to that big nigger swipe of his--Chicken LiverPete, they call him. "

"I know him, " said Old Man Curry. 

"Everybody knows him, " said the Kid. "Well, Chicken Liver put theweight pad under the blanket that he was carrying to throw over thehorse after the race. Exmoor won yesterday, but he didn't carry anounce of lead. "

"But how did Murphy make the weight after he finished?" demanded theold man. 

"Easiest thing in the world!" said the Kid. "While Murphy wasunsaddling the horse, Chicken Liver was right at his elbow, and bothof 'em had their backs to the judges. It looked natural enough forthe nigger to be there--waiting to blanket the horse the minute thesaddle came off of him. All Murphy had to do was grab under theblanket with one hand while he jerked the saddle off the horse withthe other--and there he was, ready to weigh one hundred and ten. I'llbet those two fellows have rehearsed that switch a thousand times. They pulled it off so slick that if I hadn't been watching for it Icould have been looking right at 'em and never noticed it. And thejudges didn't have the chance that I did, because they couldn't seeanything but their backs. Murphy pranced in, hopped on the scales, got the O. K. , and that was all there was to it. Pretty littlescheme, ain't it? And so darned simple!"

Old Man Curry combed his beard with both hands--with him a sign ofdeep thought. 

"Frank, " said he at length, "where does this Chicken Liver nigger gowhile the race is being run?"

"Across the track to the infield. That was where he went yesterday. Iwas watching him. "

"The infield.... Hm-m-m.... Thank you, Frank. "

"You could tip it off to the judges, " suggested the Kid, "and they'dhave Chicken Liver searched. Like as not they'd rule Weaver off forlife and set Murphy down----"

"There's a better way than searching that nigger, " said Old ManCurry. 

"You'll have to show me!"

"Son, " said the aged owner, "according to Solomon--and, oh, what aracing judge he would have made!--'he that hath knowledge sparethhis words. ' I'm sparing mine for the present, but that won't keep mefrom doing a heap of thinking.... Engle, Weaver, and Murphy.... MaybeI can bust two of these cords at once--and fray the other one alittle. "

Four men sat under the lantern in Martin O'Connor's tack-room on aWednesday night. They spoke in low tones, for they were engaged inrunning the fourth race on Thursday's programme. 

"I've let it be known in a few places where it'll do the most goodthat the mare can't pack a hundred and fifteen pounds and win at amile. " This was Weaver speaking, a small, wiry man with a droopingmoustache. "You know how talk gets around on a race track--tell theright man and you might as well rent the front page of the morningpaper. As a matter of fact, Fieldmouse _can't_ pack that weight andwin. "

"That's the way the form students will dope it out, " said Al Engle, otherwise the Sharpshooter, the smiling, youthful, gold-toothed blondwho directed the campaigns and dictated the policy of the turfpirates. "That much weight will stop most of 'em, but let her inthere under ninety pounds and Fieldmouse is a cinch. That littlesleight-of-hand stunt between Murphy and your nigger is working fine. They not only put it over on the judges, but none of the otherowners are wise. I'd try it myself some day if I wasn't afraidsomebody would fumble and give the snap away. "

"Huh!" growled the saturnine O'Connor. "Needn't worry about tippinganything off to them judges. They're both blind. Here's what bothersme: Old Man Curry is in that same race with Isaiah. "

"Well, what of that?" said Engle. "That old fool is all same as anightmare to you, ain't he?"

"Call him a fool if you want to, " was the stubborn rejoinder, "but hemade an awful sucker out of you with that trick horse of his. Anawful sucker. If Old Man Curry is a fool, there's a lot of wisepeople locked up in the bug houses. That's all I've got to say!"

"He's had your goat ever since the meeting opened, " grinned theSharpshooter. 

"That's all right, " said O'Connor. "That's a whole lot better than mybuying a goat from him--for a thousand dollars. " This by way ofreminding the Sharpshooter of something which he preferred to forget. Engle reddened. 

"Aw, what's the good of chewing the fat?" interrupted the fourth manbriskly. This was Ab Mears, of whom it was said that he trained hishorses to look into the betting ring on their way to the post and torun in accordance with the figures they saw upon the bookmakers'slates. "Let's not have any arguments, boys. All little palstogether, eh?... Now, getting down to business, as the fellow saidwhen he was digging the well, Isaiah is a pretty shifty old sellingplater when he's at himself; but you know and I know that the bestday he ever saw he couldn't beat Fieldmouse at a mile with a featheron her back. She'll walk home alone. The most Isaiah can do is tocome second----"

"He'll be lucky if he does that well, " interrupted Engle. "The marewill be in front of him all the way.... Same old stuff; wait for theclosing betting. Weaver, you keep on hollering your head off aboutthe weight; it'll scare the outsiders and they won't play her. Then, at the last minute, cut loose and load up the books with all they'lltake. "

"Just the same, " muttered O'Connor, "I'd feel a lot more comfortableif Curry wasn't in the race. That old boy is poison, that's what heis. The last couple of times----"

"Oh, shut up!" rasped Engle. "Elisha was the horse he trimmed uswith--Elisha! Get that through your head. This is Isaiah. There's asmuch difference in horses as there is in prophets. What you need isone of those portable Japanese foot warmers. "

The paddock is the place to go for information, particularly afterthe saddling bell rings. The owners are usually on exhibition at thattime. Nearly every owner will answer a civil question about hishorse; once in a great while one of them may answer truthfully. Inthis particular race we are concerned with but two owners, one ofwhom told the truth. 

Weaver, rat-eyed and furtive, answered all questions freely--almosttoo freely. 

"Ye-es, she's a right nice little mare, but they've weighted her outof it to-day. She can't pack a hundred and fifteen and win.... Thatmuch lead will stop a stake horse. Better stay off her to-day. Someother time. "

Old Man Curry, grave and polite, also answered questions. 

"Isaiah? Oh, yes. Well, now, sir, I'll tell you 'bout this hoss ofmine. I figure he's got a stavin' good chance to come second--astavin' good chance.... No, he won't be first. "

Just before the bugle blew, Mose received his riding orders. 

"If that mare of Weaver's gets away in front, don't you start chasingher. No use in running Isaiah's head off trying to ketch her. I wantyou to finish second, understand? Isaiah can beat all these otherhosses. Don't pay no 'tention to the mare. Let her go. "

Little Mose nodded. 

"'At Fieldmouse is sutny a goin' fool when 'ey bet stable money onhuh, " said he. "Let 'at ole mare go, eh?"

"Exackly, " said the old man, "but be sure you beat the rest of 'em. "

"Fieldmouse an' Murphy, " said Mose. "Huh-uh! 'At's a bad combinationfo' us, boss, a ba-ad combination. 'Membeh Obadiah?"

The Bald-faced Kid strolled into Isaiah's stall. 

"Chicken Liver's got it, " he whispered. "I saw Weaver pass it tohim. "

"That's what I've been waiting for, Frank, " said Old Man Curry. "Here, Shanghai! You lead him out on the track. I've got businesswith the children of Israel. "

The Fieldmouse money was beginning to pour into the ring, and theblock men were busy with their erasers. Each time the mare's pricewent down, Isaiah's price went up a little. Old Man Curry drew out atattered roll of currency and went from booth to booth, betting onhis horse at four to one. 

"Think you've got a chance to-day, old man?" It was the Sharpshooter, smiling like a cherub. 

"Well, now, " said Curry, "I'll tell you 'bout me; I'm always trying, so I've always got a chance. Looks like the weight ought to stop themare. "

"That's so, " said Engle. "Betting much?"

"Quite considerable for me, yes. Isaiah ain't a trick hoss, buthe----"

"Oh, you go to the devil!" said Engle. 

But Old Man Curry crossed the track instead. His first care was tolocate the negro known as Chicken Liver; this done, he watched thestart of the race. Nine horses were lined up at the barrier, and atleast six of the jockeys were manoeuvring for a flying start. Theofficial starter, a thick-set man with a long twisted nose, bellowedloudly from time to time. 

"No! No! You can't break that way!... You, Murphy! I'll fine you in aminute!... Get back there, Grogan! What did I tell you, Murphy?... Bring that horse up slow! _Bring him up!_ No! No! You can't breakthat way!"

Isaiah stood perfectly still in the middle of the track; on eitherside of him the nervous animals charged at the barrier or whirledaway from it in sudden, wild dashes. The starter's voice grew huskyand his temper hot, but at last the horses were all headed in theright direction, if only for the fraction of a second. Jockey Murphy, scenting a start, had Fieldmouse in motion even as the elasticwebbing shot into the air; she was in her racing stride as thestarter's voice blared out:

"You're off! Go on! _Go on!_"

The mare, always a quick breaker, rushed into the lead, Murphy takingher on an easy slant to the inner rail. Isaiah, swinging a bit wideon the first turn, settled down to work, and at the half-mile polewas leading the pursuit, taking the dust which Fieldmouse kicked upfive lengths in front. 

Chicken Liver, watching Murphy skim the rail into the home stretch, shuffled his feet in an ecstasy of exultation. 

"Come home, baby!" he shouted. "Come 'long home! You de bes' li'lole hawss--_uh!_"

Something small and hard jammed violently into the pit of ChickenLiver's stomach, and his song of victory ended in an amazed grunt. Old Man Curry was glaring at him and pressing the muzzle of aforty-five-calibre revolver against the exact spot where the thirdbutton of Chicken Liver's vest would have been had he owned such agarment. 

"Drop that weight pad, nigger, or I'll blow you inside out! _Dropit!_"

Chicken Liver leaped backward with a howl of terror. The next instanthe was well on his way to the Weaver barn, supplication floating overhis shoulder. 

"Don't shoot, misteh! Fo' de Lawd's sake, don't shoot!"

Old Man Curry picked up the weight pad and started for the gate. Hearrived in time to see the smile on Murphy's face as he swung underthe wire, three lengths in front of Isaiah, the other horses trailingfar in the rear. Murphy was still smiling broadly when he broughtFieldmouse back into the chalked circle, a privileged space reservedfor winners. 

"Judges!" piped the jockey shrilly, touching the visor of his capwith his whip. Receiving the customary nod, Murphy slid to the groundand attacked the cinch. It was then that Chicken Liver should havestepped forward with his blanket--then that the deft transfer shouldhave taken place, but Chicken Liver, where was he? Murphy's anxiouseyes travelled around the wide circle of owners and hostlers, and hissmile faded into a nervous grin. 

Now, after each race a few thousand impatient people must wait forthe official announcement--the one, two, three, without which notickets can be cashed--and the official announcement must wait uponthe weighing of the riders. For this reason no time is wasted in theceremony. 

"Hurry up, son, " said the presiding judge. "We're waiting on you. "

Murphy fumbled with the strap, playing desperately for time. As hetugged, his eyes were searching for the missing negro. He caught oneglimpse of Weaver's face, yellow where it was not white; he, too, wasraking the horizon for Chicken Liver. 

"What's the matter with you, Murphy?" demanded the judge. "Do youwant help with that tack?"

"No, sir, " faltered the jockey. "Th-this thing sticks somehow. I'llgit it in a minute. I----"

Old Man Curry marched through the ring and up the steps to theplatform of the judges' stand, and when Weaver saw what he carried inhis hand he became a very sick man indeed--and looked it. Al Englebacked away into the crowd and Martin O'Connor followed him, mumblingincoherently. 

"Maybe this is what Murphy is waiting for, judges, " said Old ManCurry with marked cheerfulness. "Maybe he don't want to git on thescales without it. "

"Eh?" said the presiding judge. "What is that?"

"Looks like a weight pad to me, " said Old Man Curry, "with quite amess of lead in it. Yes, it _is_ a weight pad. "

"Where did you get it?"

"Well, " said the old man, "I'll tell you 'bout that: Weaver's niggerhad it smuggled under a blanket, but he dropped it and I picked itup. Maybe Weaver thought the nigger was a better weight packer thanthe mare. I don't know. Maybe----"

"Young man, " commanded the presiding judge, "that'll do you. Takeyour tackle and get on the scales. Lively now!"

Murphy cast one despairing glance about him and slouched to hisundoing. The judge, weight pad in hand, followed him into theweighing room underneath the stand. He was back again almostinstantly, and his voice had an angry ring. 

"Change those numbers!" said he. "The mare is disqualified. Isaiah, first; Rainbow, second; put the fourth horse third. Mr. Weaver, comeup here, sir! And where's that nigger? I want him too. Murphy, I'llsee you later.... Don't go away, Mr. Curry. I need you. "

"That's what I call getting hunk with a vengeance, old-timer. " Thusthe Bald-faced Kid, at the door of Old Man Curry's tack-room. "Youcleaned up right, didn't you? Weaver's ruled off for life, and hishorses with him--he can't even sell 'em to another stable. Murphy'slost his license. Chicken Liver's out of a job. Engle and his bunchare in the clear, but they lost a lot of money on the mare. Regularold blunderbuss, ain't you? Didn't miss anybody. "

"Son, " said Old Man Curry, removing his spectacles, "Solomon had itright. He says: 'Whoso diggeth a pit shall fall therein. ' Weaver dugone big enough to hold his entire stable. And that reminds me: I betfifty dollars for you to-day, and here's the two hundred. Run it upif you can, but remember what Solomon says about that: 'He thatmaketh haste to be rich shall not be innocent. '"

"I'll take a chance, " said the Bald-faced Kid, reaching for themoney. 

BY A HAIR

"Son, " said Old Man Curry, "what's on your mind besides your hat? Youain't said a word for as much as two minutes, and any time you keepstill that long there must be something wrong. "

The Bald-faced Kid's glance rested for an instant upon the kindlyfeatures of the patriarch of the Jungle Circuit, then flickered awaydown the line of stables where other horsemen and race-trackfollowers were sunning themselves and waiting the summons to the noonmeal. 

Old Man Curry, his eyes half closed, a straw in the corner of hismouth, and the brim of his slouch hat resting upon the bridge of hisnose, seemed not to be conscious of this brief but piercing scrutiny. As usual with him, there was about this venerable person a beguilingair of innocence and confidence in his fellow man, a simple attitudeof trustfulness not entirely borne out by his method of handling aracing stable. Certain dishonest horsemen and bookmakers werebeginning to suspect that Old Man Curry was smarter than he looked. The Bald-faced Kid had never entertained any doubts upon thissubject. He remained silent, the thin edge of a grin playing abouthis lips. 

"I hope you ain't been trying to show any tinhorn gamblers the errorof their ways by ruining 'em financially, " said the old man, onedrowsy eye upon the Kid's face. "That's one of the things what justnaturally can't be done. Steady growth is the thing to fat a bankroll, Frank. I'm about to tell you how you can multiply yoursconsiderable. Last time you was here you had two hundred dollars, spoiled Egyptian money----"

"Oh, I guess it wasn't so darn badly spoiled at that!" interruptedthe Kid. "I didn't have any trouble getting rid of it. " He grinnedsheepishly. "Your friend Solomon called the turn on theget-rich-quick stuff. 'He that maketh haste'--what's the rest of it, old-timer?"

"'He that maketh haste to be rich shall not be innocent, '" quoted OldMan Curry, rolling out the syllables in sonorous procession. "But Ireckon not being rich is worrying you more than not being innocent. Who took the roll away from you?"

"Squeaking Henry got a piece of it, " admitted the Kid. "Did you everplay twenty-one--Black Jack, old-timer?"

Old Man Curry shook his head. 

"I never monkeyed much with cards, " said he, "but I've seen the gameplayed some--when I was younger. "

"Well, " said the Kid mournfully, "Squeaking Henry and a couple of hisfriends rung in some marked cards--on my deal. Of course thoseburglars could take one flash at the top of the deck and know justwhen to draw and when not to. I sat up there like a flathead and let'em clean me. What tipped it off was that when I was down to my lastsmack, with a face card in sight and a face card in the hole, Henrydrew to twenty and caught an ace. The mangy little crook! Oh, well, easy come, easy go. I'd have lost it some other way, I guess. But, say, what was this proposition of yours about fattening the bankroll? I've got seven dollars between me and the wolf, and he's soclose that I can smell his breath. "

"Seeing that you ain't got any more judgment than that, " was Old ManCurry's comment, "I don't know as I ought to tell you. "

"Oh, all right, " said the Kid, "if that's the way you feel aboutit--but maybe I've got some information I could trade you for it. "

"I never swapped hosses blind, " said Old Man Curry. 

"I won't ask you to, " said the Bald-faced Kid. "It's no news thatEngle's bunch is out for your scalp, is it?"

"No-o, " said the old man. "I kind of suspicioned as much. "

"They're after you strong, old-timer. First you walloped 'em withElisha, then you double-crossed 'em with Elijah, and then you gotWeaver and Murphy ruled off. At first Engle thought you was onlyignorant but shot full of blind luck. Lately he ain't been so sureabout the ignorance. Engle hates to give anybody else credit forbeing wise to the angles around this track. "

"Solomon said something about him, " remarked Old Man Curry gravely. 

"Go ahead; pull it!" said the Kid. 

"'Seest thou a man wise in his own conceit? There is more hope of afool than of him. ' That's what Solomon thought about the Englefamily, son. "

"Well, if I was you I wouldn't lay any fancy odds that Engle is afool, " warned the Kid. "There's one baby that you've got to figure onevery minute. You've got a horse in your barn that Engle is watchinglike a hawk. "

"Elisha?"

"Elisha. When does he start the next time?"

"In the Handicap. "

"The Handicap, eh? You must think pretty well of him. Some goodhorses in that race. Well, there won't be a price on him worthtaking; you can bet on that. "

Old Man Curry opened his eyes wide for the first time. 

"No price on him! Nonsense! He's a selling plater going up aginso-called stake horses! No price! Huh!"

"Even so, nevertheless, notwithstanding, and but, " said the Kid withexasperating calmness, "you won't get a price on him. I can quotesome myself. The voice of wisdom is speaking to you. "

"But he ain't never done anything that would justify starting himwith stake hosses, " argued Old Man Curry, feeling in his pockets forhis fine-cut. 

"Is there any law to prevent 'em figuring that he might?"

"But why is Engle worrying about the price on my hosses?" demandedCurry. 

"Maybe to get even for what you've done to him. Maybe because he'sgot some sort of an agreement with Abe Goldmark. You know Abe?"

"By sight, son, by sight. And that's the only way I want to knowhim. "

"You and me both, " said the Kid quickly. "I don't like that fellow'sface or the way he wears it, but you can't afford to overlook him anymore than you can overlook a rattlesnake. Goldmark is another one ofthe wise boys. He runs one book, but he's under cover with aninterest in five or six more. He comes pretty near being acombination in restraint of trade, Goldmark does. The Handicap isgoing to be the big betting race of the meeting. Goldmark has beentipped to keep his eye out for Elisha. On Elisha's record he ought tobe 15 or 20 to 1. "

"Longer than that!" said Old Man Curry. 

"I'm figuring these syndicate books, " said the Kid. "He'll openaround 3 to 1 and stay there whether there's a dollar bet on him ornot. False odds? Certainly, but they're taking no chances on you. They figure you won't be trying at that price. And another thing:This same Squeaking Henry, this marked-card gambler, has gone to workfor Goldmark. Three dollars a day for what he can find out. Is thisinformation worth anything to you?"

"It might be, son, " said Old Man Curry. "It might be. I'll let youknow later on. "

"On the level, " said the Kid, "you don't figure that Elisha has got achance to win that race--not with Regulator and Black Bill and MissAmber in it? They're no Salvators, I admit, still they're the best weever see in this part of the country. Black Bill is a demon over adistance, old-timer. He won that two-mile race last winter at SantaAnita. Elisha has never gone more than a mile and an eighth, and thisis a mile and a half. Honest, now, you don't think he can beat horseslike Black Bill and Regulator, do you?"

"Son, " said Old Man Curry, "I never think anything about a race untilthe night before. That's time enough. "

"But suppose they make him a short price? You wouldn't cut him looseand let him make a showing that would spoil him as a bettingproposition?"

"Well, maybe he won't be a short price, " said the old man. "You can'ttell a thing about it. It's this way with bookmakers: Once in a whilethey change their minds, and that's where an honest hossman gets acrack at 'em. Yes, they get to fooling with their little pieces ofchalk. I don't reckon Elisha will be less'n 20 to 1. There goes thegong at the boarding house. Might as well eat with me and nurse thatseven dollars all you can. "

The Bald-faced Kid rose with alacrity and bowed low, his hand uponhis heart. 

"You are the ideal host, " said he, "and I am the ideal hostee! Icould eat a horse and chase the driver. Lead the way, old-timer!"

The money which Squeaking Henry won by reason of the marked cards didhim very little good, remaining in his possession barely long enoughto cause his vest pocket to sag a trifle. He lost it in a friendlygame with the friends who were clever enough to plan the raid on theBald-faced Kid's bank roll, using Henry as a tool, much as thecoastwise Chinaman uses a cormorant in his fishing operations. Stripped of his opulence, Squeaking Henry found himself flat on themarket again. 

Henry was a tout, hence an easy and extemporaneous liar, but, alas, aclumsy one. He lacked the Bald-faced Kid's finesse; lacked also histireless energy, his insatiable curiosity, and the thin vein of puremetal which lay underneath the base. There was nothing aboutSqueaking Henry which was not for sale cheap; body and soul, he wason life's bargain counter among the remnants, and Abe Goldmark, examining the lot, found a price tag labelled three dollars a day. 

"Uh-huh, " said Henry. "I get you, Mr. Goldmark. You want me to stickaround Old Man Curry's barn and pump him. "

"Never mind the pumping, " said Goldmark. "The less you talk and thefewer questions you ask the better. Curry is no fool, understand. Hemight be just as smart as you are. Judging by the number of goodthings he's put over at this meeting, he's smarter. I want to knowwho calls on him, who his stable connections are, who he----"

"Aw, he ain't got no stable connections!" said Squeaking Henry ingreat disgust. "He plays the game alone, and when he wants to bet hewalks into the ring and goes to it. Never had a betting commissionerin his life, and if you want to know when the stable money is down, all you've got to do is watch Curry. Cinch!"

"Oh, a cinch is it?" sneered Goldmark. "Then I'm making a big mistaketo hire you to find out things. You know everything already, eh?"

"Well, I guess not _everything_, " mumbled the abashed Henry. 

"That's my guess, too!" snapped Goldmark. "I'm paying you to watchthat Curry stable; get me? And I want you to _watch_ it! I want toknow everything that happens around there from now on, understand?Particularly, I want a line on this Elisha horse. Know him when yousee him?"

"S-s-sure!" said Squeaking Henry. "Sure I do! Big, leggy bay with awhite spot on his forehead about the size of a nickel. Do I know him?Well!"

"I want to know when Curry works him--how far and how fast. I want toknow what the old man thinks of his chances in the Handicap. You canget me at the hotel every night after dinner. Better use thetelephone. In case you slip up or miss me, send word by Al Engle. "

"All right, " said Henry. 

"And say, " Goldmark actually grinned, "I hear this Curry is asoft-hearted old fellow. Why couldn't you tell him a hard-luck storyand get to sleep in his tack-room nights? Then you'd be right on theground. Try a hard-luck story on him. The one you sprang on me wasn'tso bad. "

"H-m-m-m, " mused Henry. "I might, and that's a fact. He ain't a badguy, Old Man Curry ain't. He stakes the hustlers every once in awhile. "

"Well, " said Goldmark insinuatingly, "if he should be such a suckeras to stake you, don't forget you was on my pay roll _first_; that'sall I ask. "

"Aw, whadda you take me for?" growled Squeaking Henry, virtuouslyindignant at the barest hint of duplicity. "I ain't that kind of aguy. "

Since the tout lives by his wits and his tongue, he is never withouta hard-luck story--a dependable one, tried, but seldom, if ever, true. He circles human nature, searching for the weak point and, having found it, delivers the attack. Squeaking Henry knew the armourplate to be thinnest on man's sympathetic side, and the hard-luckstory which he told Old Man Curry would have melted the heart of agolf club handicapper. The story was overworked and threadbare inspots, but it brought an immediate result. 

"And that's how I'm fixed, " whined Squeaking Henry in conclusion. "Ithink I can rustle the eats all right enough--one meal a dayanyway--and if I just had a place to sleep----" He paused andregarded Old Man Curry expectantly. 

"Come in, son, " said the patriarch. A wiser man than Squeaking Henrymight have found Curry's manner almost too friendly. "Come in. There's a spare cot here and you're welcome to it. Mose, my littlenigger, sleeps here too, but I reckon you won't mind him. He'sclean. "

Strange to say, it was Jockey Moseby Jones who minded. He minded verymuch, in plain English, waylaying Old Man Curry as he made therounds of the stalls that night, lantern in hand. 

"This yer Squawkin' Henry, boss, he's a no-good hound. He's no gooda-a-atall. They ketched him at Butte last year ringin' in hawss diceon 'e crap game 'mong friends an' 'ey jus' nachelly sunk his floatin'ribs an' kicked him out on his haid. Thass all they done to him, Mist' Curry. Betteh watch him clost, else he'll steal 'em gol'fillin's outen yo' teeth!"

"You know him, do you, Mose?" asked Old Man Curry. 

"Do I knows him!" ejaculated the little negro. "I knows him well'nough to wish yo' hadn't 'vited him to do his floppin' in yo'tack-room!"

"Ah-hah!" said Old Man Curry reflectively. "Mose, I reckon you neverheard what Job said?"

Jockey Moseby Jones heaved a deep sigh. 

"Heah it comes again!" he murmured. "No, boss; he said such a manythings I kain't seem to keep track of 'em all. Whut he say now?"

"Something about the wise being taken in their own craftiness; I'veforgotten the exact words. "

"Umph! Sho'lly yo' don't call Squawkin' Henry _wise_?"

"No-o, but he may have wise friends. Somehow I've sort of beenexpecting this visitor, Mose. You heard him tell about how bad offhis mother is. It seems a shame not to accommodate him, when all hewants is a place to sleep--and some information on the side. "

"Info'mation, boss?"

"Well, I can't exactly swear to it, Mose, but I think the children ofIsrael have sent this Henry person among us to spy out the land. That's a trick they learned a long time ago, after they got out ofEgypt. Joshua taught it to 'em. Ever since then they don't take anymore chances than they can help. They always want to know what theother fellow is doing--and it's a pretty good system at that. Beingas things are the way they are, a spy in camp, etcetry, mebbe whathoss talk is done had better be done by me. You _sabe_, Mose?"

"Humph!" sniffed the little jockey. "I got you long ago, boss, lo-ongago!"

Al Engle, sometimes known as the Sharpshooter, horse owner andrecognised head of a small but busy band of turf pirates, was leavinghis stable at seven-thirty on a Wednesday evening, intending toproceed by automobile to the brightly lighted district. Sleek, blond, youthful in appearance, without betraying wrinkle or line, Engle'sinnocent exterior had been his chief dependence in his touting days. He seemed, on the surface, to be everything which he was not. 

As he stepped forth from the shadow of the stable awning a handplucked at his sleeve. 

"It's me--Henry, " said a voice. "I've got a message forGoldmark--couldn't catch him on the phone. "

"Shoot it!" said Engle. 

"Tell him that Elisha has gone dead lame--can't hardly rest his footon the ground. "

"That'll do for Sweeney!" said the Sharpshooter. "Elisha worked finethis morning. I clocked him myself. "

"But that was this morning, " argued Squeaking Henry. "He must havebowed a tendon or something. His left foreleg is in awful shape. "

"Are you sure it's Elisha?" demanded Engle. 

"Come and see for yourself. You know the horse. Owned him for a fewweeks, didn't you? Curry is working on his leg now. You can peek inat the door of the stall and see for yourself. He won't even knowyou're there. "

Together they crossed the dark space under the trees, heading for athin ribbon of light which streamed from beneath the awning ofCurry's barn. Somewhere, close at hand, a piping voice was lifted insong:

 _"On 'e dummy, on 'e dummy line;_ _Rise an' shine an' pay my fine;_ _Rise an' shi-i-ine an' pay my fi-i-ine, _ _Ridin' on 'e dummy, on 'e dummy, dummy line. "_

"What's that?" ejaculated Engle, pausing. 

"Aw, that's only Curry's little nigger, Mose. He's always singing orwhistling or something!"

"I hope he chokes!" said Engle, advancing cautiously. 

The stall door was almost closed, but by applying his eye to thecrack Engle could see the interior. Old Man Curry was kneeling in thestraw, dipping bandages in a bucket of hot water. The horse waswatching him, ears pricked nervously. 

"If this ain't tough luck, I don't know what is!" Old Man Curry wastalking to himself, his voice querulous and complaining. "Toughluck--yes, sir! Tough for you, 'Lisha, and tough for me. Job knewsomething when he said that man born of woman is of few days and fullof trouble. Yes, indeed! Here I had you right on edge, and readyto--whoa, boy! Stand still, there! I ain't goin' to hurt ye, 'Lisha. What's the matter with ye, anyway? _Stand still!_"

The horse backed away on three legs, snorting with indignation. Englehad seen enough. He withdrew swiftly, nor did he pause to chuckleuntil he was fifty yards from Curry's barn. 

"Well, " said Squeaking Henry, "it was him, wasn't it?"

"Sure it was him, and he's got a pretty badly strained tendon, too. At first I thought the old fox might be trying to palm off one of hisother cripples on you, but that was Elisha all right enough. Yes, he's through for about a month or so. "

"That's what I figure, " said Henry. "The old man, though, he's gothis heart set on starting Elisha in the Handicap next Saturday. Hethinks maybe he can dope him up so's he won't feel the soreness. "

"In a mile and a half race?" said Engle. "I hope he tries it! He'lljust about ruin that skate for life if he does. Five-eighths, yes, but a mile and a half? No chance!"

"You'll tell Goldmark?"

"Yes, I'll tell him. So long. "

Engle swung away through the dark and Squeaking Henry watched himuntil he was swallowed up in the gloom. 

"That being the case, " said he, "and Elisha on the bum, I guess I'lltake a night off. This Sherlock Holmes stuff is wearing on thenerves. "

Al Engle delivered the message, giving it a strong backing ofpersonal opinion. 

"No, Abe, it's all right, I tell you. It's straight. I've seen thehorse myself, ain't I? Know him? Man alive, I had the skate in mybarn for nearly a month! I ought to know him. Why, there's noquestion about it. He's so lame he can hardly touch his foot to theground. If he starts, he's a million to one to win; a hundred to onehe won't even finish. Certainly I'm sure! You can go broke on it. Don't talk to me! Haven't I seen strained tendons before? Next to abroken leg, it's the worst thing that can happen to a race horse. "

While Engle was closeted with Goldmark, Old Man Curry wasentertaining another nocturnal visitor. It was the Bald-faced Kid, breathless, his brow beaded with perspiration. 

"Just got the tip that Elisha has gone lame, " said the Kid. "I was inthe crap game over at Devlin's barn when Squeaking Henry came in withthe news. I ran all the way over here. "

"Oho, so it was Henry, eh?" Old Man Curry rumbled behind hiswhiskers--his nearest approach to a laugh. "Henry, eh? Well, now, it's this way 'bout Henry. He's better than a newspaper because itdon't cost a cent to subscribe to him. He's got the loosest jaw andthe longest tongue in the world. "

"But on the level, " said the Kid earnestly, "is Elisha lame?"

"Come and see for yourself, " said Old Man Curry, taking his lanternfrom the peg. After an interval they returned to the tack-room, theBald-faced Kid shaking his head commiseratingly. 

"That would have been rotten luck if it had happened to a dog!" saidhe. "And the Handicap coming on and all. "

"There'll be a better opening price than 3 to 1 now, I reckon, " saidOld Man Curry grimly. 

"Opening price!" ejaculated the Kid, startled. "Say, what are youtalking about? You don't mean to tell me you're thinking of startinghim with his leg in this shape, old-timer?"

"'M--well, no, not in this shape, exackly. "

"But Lordy, man, the Handicap is on Saturday and here it is Wednesdaynight already. You can't fix up a leg like that in two days. You'regoing some if you get it straightened out in two weeks. Of course, you can shoot the leg full of cocaine and he'll run on it a littleways, but asking him to go a mile and a half--confound it, old-timer!That's murdering a game horse. You're liable to have a hopelesscripple on your hands when it's over. I tell you, if Elisha wasmine----"

"You'd own a real race hoss, son, " said Old Man Curry. "Now runalong, Frank, and don't try to teach your grandad to suck aigs. I wasdoctoring hosses before you come to this country at all, and I'mgoing to doctor this one some more and then go to bed. "

Shortly thereafter the good horse Elisha entertained a visitor whobrought no lantern with him, but operated in the dark, swiftly andsilently. Later a door creaked, there were muffled footfalls underthe stable awning and one resounding thump, as it might have been ashod hoof striking a doorsill. Still later Squeaking Henry, returningto his post of duty, saw a light in Elisha's stall and looked in atOld Man Curry applying cold compresses to the left foreleg of a gauntbay horse with a small splash of white in the centre of theforehead. 

"How they coming, uncle?" asked Henry. 

"Oh, about the same, I reckon, " was the reply. 

"You might as well hit the hay. You've been fooling with that legsince dark, but you'll never get the bird ready to fly by Saturday. "

"'Wisdom crieth without, '" quoted Old Man Curry sententiously. "'Sheuttereth her voice in the street. '"

"Quit kidding yourself, " argued Henry, "and look how sore he is. You're in big luck if he ain't lame a whole month from now. "

"Well, " said Old Man Curry, "Solomon says that the righteous manregardeth the life of his beast. "

"He does, eh?" Squeaking Henry chuckled unpleasantly. "There's awhole lot of things Solomon didn't know about bowed tendons. That legneeds something besides regards, I'm telling you. "

"And I'm listening, " said Old Man Curry patiently. "Wisdom will diewith you, I reckon, Henry, so take care of yourself. "

If the Jungle Circuit knew an event remotely approaching a turfclassic, it was the Northwestern Handicap, by usage shortened to "theHandicap. " It was their Metropolitan, Suburban, and Brooklyn rolledinto one. The winner was crowned with garlands, the jockey wasphotographed in the floral horseshoe, and the fortunate ownerpocketed something more than two thousand dollars--a large sum ofmoney on any race track in the land, but a princely reward to theaverage jungle owner. 

The best horses in training were entered each year and while ascornful Eastern handicapper would doubtless have rated them allamong the cheap selling platers, they were still the kings of thejungle tracks, small toads in a smaller puddle, and their annualstruggle was anticipated for weeks. Each candidate appeared in thelight of a possible winner because the purse was worth trying for andeach owner was credited with an honest desire to win. The Handicapwas emphatically the "big betting race" of the season. 

This year Black Bill, famed for consistent performance and ability tocover a distance of ground, was a pronounced favourite. Black Billhad been running with better horses than the jungle campaigners andwinning from them and it was popularly believed that he had beenshipped from the South for the express purpose of capturing theHandicap purse. His single start at the meeting had been won in whatthe turf reporters called "impressive fashion, " which is to say thatJockey Grogan brought Black Bill home three lengths in front of hisfield and but for the strength in his arms the gap would have been amuch wider one. 

Regulator, a sturdy chestnut, and Miss Amber, a nervous brown mare, were also high in public esteem, rivals for the position of secondchoice. 

"It's a three-horse race, " said the wiseacres, "and the others areoutclassed. Whatever money there is will be split by Black Bill, MissAmber, and Regulator. If anything happens to Bill, one of the otherswill win, but the rest of 'em won't get anything but a hard ride anda lot of dust. "

From his position on the block Abe Goldmark looked down on a surgingcrowd. He was waiting for the official announcement on the thirdrace. The crowd was waiting for the posting of the odds on theHandicap, waiting, money in hand, ready to dash at bargains. Al Engleforced his way through the press and Goldmark bent to listen. 

"The old nut is going to start him sure enough, " whispered theSharpshooter. "No--he won't warm him up. Would you throw a gallopinto a horse with his leg full of coke? Curry is crazy, but he ain'tquite as crazy as that. "

"The old boy was putting bandages on him at midnight last night, "grinned Goldmark. "Dang it, Al, a man ought to be arrested forstarting a horse in that condition. "

"The coke will die out before he's gone half a mile, " said Engle. "Might not even last that long--depends on how long they're at thepost. I saw a horse once----"

The melodious bellow of the official announcer rose above the hum ofthe crowd and there was a sudden, tense shifting of the nervoushuman mass. A dozen bookmakers turned leisurely to their slates, adozen pieces of chalk were poised aggravatingly--and a hoarse gruntof disappointment rose from the watchers. Black Bill the favourite, yes, but bet fives to win threes? Hardly. Wait a minute; don't goafter it now. Maybe it'll go up. Regulator, 8 to 5--Holy Moses! Whatkind of booking is this, anyway? Miss Amber, 2 to 1. 

"Make 'em _all_ odds on and be done with it!" sneered the gamblers. "Talk about your syndicate books! Beat five races at this track andif your money holds out you may beat the sixth, too. Huh!"

One bookmaker, more adventurous than his fellows, offered 4 to 5 onBlack Bill and was immediately mobbed. Then came the prices on theoutsiders. Simple Simon, 8 to 1; Pepper and Salt, 12 to 1; TedMitchell and Everhardt, 15 to 1; and so on. Last of all, the chalkpaused at Elisha--40 to 1. 

"Aw, be game!" taunted Al Engle. "Only 40--with what you know abouthim? He ought to be 100, 40, and 20! Be game!"

"Who's doing this?" demanded Goldmark. "Come on, gentlemen! Make yourbets! We haven't got all day. Black Bill, 6 to 10. Simple Simon, 40to 5. Thank _you_, sir. "

Out in the paddock Old Man Curry rubbed the red flannel bandage onElisha's leg, stopping now and then to answer questions. 

"Eh? Yes, been a little lame. Will he last? Well, it's this way; youcan't never tell. If it comes back on him--no, I didn't warm him up. Why not? That's _my_ business, young man. "

The Bald-faced Kid came also, alert as a fox, eager for any scrap ofinformation which might be converted into coin. He shook his headreprovingly at Old Man Curry. 

"I didn't think you'd have the heart, old-timer, " said he. "Honest toPete, I didn't! Don't you care what happens to this horse or what?"

"Son, " said the patriarch simply, "I care a lot. I care a-plenty. Ifyou've got any of that seven dollars left, you might put it on hisnose. "

"Him? To win? You're daffy as a cuckoo bird! Why, last night hecouldn't put that foot on the ground!"

"Well, of course, Frank, if you know that much about it, don't let meadvise you. If I had seven dollars and was looking for a soft spotI'd put it square on 'Lisha's nose. "

"You've been losing too much sleep lately, " said the Kid, edgingaway. "You want to win this race so much that you've bulled yourselfinto thinking that you can. "

"Mebbe so, Frank, mebbe so, " was the mild response, "but don't let meinfluence you none whatever. Go play Black Bill. What's his price?"

"Three to five. One to two in some books. "

"False price!" said the old man. "He ain't got no license to be oddson. "

"See you later!" said the Bald-faced Kid, and went away with apitying grin upon his face. The pity was evenly divided betweenElisha and his owner. 

Old Man Curry heaved little Mose into the saddle. 

"Mind now, son. Ride just like I told you. Stay with that black hoss. He'll lay out of it the first mile. When he moves up, you move uptoo. We've got a big pull in the weights and that'll count in thelast quarter. Stay with him, just like his shadow, Mose. "

"Yes, suh, " said Jockey Jones. "If I'm goin' to be his shadder, he'llsho' think the sun is settin' behind him when he starts down atstretch!"

Abe Goldmark craned his neck to see the parade pass the grand stand. Elisha was fifth in line, walking sedately, as was his habit. 

"Not so very frisky, but at that he looks better than I thought hewould, " was Goldmark's mental comment. "They must have shot all thecoke in the world into that old skate. As soon as he begins to runthe blood will pump into that sore leg and he'll quit. Black Billlooks like the money to me. He outclasses these other horses. "

Goldmark passed the eraser over his slate. Black Bill, 2 to 5. Elisha, 60, 20, and 10. 

A dozen restless, high-strung thoroughbreds and a dozen nervous, scheming jockeys can make life exceedingly interesting for anofficial starter, particularly if the race be an important one and aragged start certain to draw a storm of adverse criticism. The boyson the front runners were all manoeuvring to beat the barrier andthus add to a natural advantage while the boys on the top-weightedhorses were striving to secure an early start before the lead padsbegan to tell on their mounts. As a result the barrier was brokenfour times in as many minutes and the commandment against profanitywas broken much oftener. The starter grew hoarse and inarticulate;sweat streamed down his face as he hurled anathemas at horses andriders. 

"Keep that Miss Amber back, Dugan! Go through that barrier again andit'll cost you fifty! ---- ---- ----!!"

"I can't do nothing with her!" whined Dugan. "She's crazy; that'swhat she is!"

Through all the turmoil and excitement two horses remained quietly intheir positions waiting for the word. These were Black Bill andElisha, stretch runners, to whom a few yards the worst of the startmeant nothing. Out of the corner of his eye little Mose watchedJockey Grogan on the favourite. The black horse edged toward thewebbing, the line broke, wheeled, advanced, broke again and a thirdtime came swinging forward. As it advanced, Mose drove the bluntspurs into Elisha's side. A roar from the starter, a spattering rainof clods, a swirl of dust--and the Handicap was on. 

"Nice start!" said the presiding judge, drawing a long breath. 

Across the track, the official starter mopped his brow. 

"Not so worse, " said he. "Go on, you little devils! It's up to you!"

Away went the front runners, their riders checking them and ratingtheir speed with an eye to the long journey. Simple Simon, Pepper andSalt, and Ted Mitchell engaged in a brisk struggle for thepace-making position and the latter secured it. Miss Amber andRegulator were in fifth and sixth places respectively, and at thetail end of the procession was Black Bill, taking his time, barelykeeping up with the others. A distance race was no new thing to BlackBill. He had seen front runners before and knew that they had a habitof fading in the final quarter. Beside him was Elisha, matching him, stride for stride. 

Down the stretch they came, Ted Mitchell gradually increasing thepace. Jockey Jones heard the crowd cheering as he passed the grandstand and his lip curled. 

"We eatin' it now, 'Lisha hawss, " said he, "but nex' time we comedown yere they'll be eatin' _ow'_ dust an' don't make no mistake!Take yo' time, baby. It's a long way yit, a lo-ong way!"

Entering the back stretch there was a sudden shifting of the colouredjackets. The outsiders, nervous and overeager, were making theirbids for the purse, and making them too soon. The flurry toward thefront brought about a momentary spurt in the pace followedimmediately by the steady, machine-like advance of Regulator, but asthe chestnut horse moved up the brown mare went with him, on eventerms. 

"There goes Regulator! There he goes!"

"Yes, but he can't shake Miss Amber! She's right there with him! Oh, you Amber!"

"What ails Black Bill? He's a swell favourite, he is! He ain't done athing yet. "

"He always runs that way, " said the wise ones. "Wait till he hits theupper turn. "

Abe Goldmark, standing on a stool on the lawn, wrinkled his brow inperplexity. "About time for that bird to quit, " said he to himself. "He ain't got any license to run a mile with a leg like that!"

Jockey Moseby Jones was also beginning to wonder what ailed BlackBill. Grogan sat the favourite like a statue, apparently unmoved bythe gap widening in front of him. 

"We kin wait 'long as he kin, baby, " said Mose, comfortingly, "but Isut'ny don't crave to see 'em otheh hawsses so far ahead!"

At the end of the mile Black Bill and Elisha were still at the end ofthe procession. Miss Amber had managed to shove her brown nose infront, with Regulator at her saddle girth. Many an anxious eye wasturned on Black Bill; many saw his transformation but none wasbetter prepared for it than Jockey Moseby Jones. He saw the firstwrap slide from Grogan's wrists. 

"Come on, baby!" yelled Mose, bumping Elisha with his spurs. "Comeon! We got a race here afteh all! Yes, suh, 'is black hawss wakin'up! Show him something, baby! Show him ow' _class_!"

Jockey Grogan laughed and flung an insult over his shoulder. 

"Class? That skate?" said he. "Stay with us as long as you can. Thisis a-a-a horse, nigger, a-a-a horse!"

Black Bill was beginning to run at last, as the grand standacknowledged with frenzied yells. Yes, he was running, but a gauntbay horse was running with him, stride for stride. Old Man Curry, atthe paddock gate, tugged at his beard with one hand and fumbled forhis tobacco with the other. 

Side by side the black and the bay swept upon the flounderingoutsiders, overwhelmed them, and passed on. Side by side they turnedinto the home stretch, and only two horses were in front ofthem--Regulator and Miss Amber. The mare was under the whip. 

"You say you got a-a-a hawss there!" taunted Mose. "Show me how muchhawss he is!"

Grogan shook off the last wrap and bent to his work. Not until thendid he realise that the real race was beside him and not with thechestnut out in front. 

"Show him up, 'Lisha! Show him up!" shrilled Mose, and the bayresponded with a lengthened stride which gave him an advantage to bemeasured in inches, but Black Bill gamely fought his way back on eventerms again. Miss Amber dropped behind. The boy on Regulator wasusing his whip, but he might just as well have been beating a carpetwith it. Third money was his at the paddock gate. 

Seventy-five yards--fifty yards--twenty-five yards--and still the twoheads bobbed side by side. Jockey Michael Grogan, hero of many a hardfinish; cool, calculating, and unmoved by the deafening clamourbeating down from the packed grand stand, measured the distance withhis eye--and took a chance. His rawhide whip whistled through theair. Black Bill, unused to punishment, faltered for the briefestfraction of a second, and came on again, but too late. 

The presiding judge, an unprejudiced man with a stubby greymoustache, squinted across an imaginary line and saw the bay headbefore he saw the black. "_Jee-roozalum, my happy home!_" said he. "That was an awful tight fit, but the Curry horse won--by a whisker. Hang up the numbers. Lord! But that Elisha is a better horse than Igave him credit for being!"

"Yeh, " said the associate judge, "and the nigger outrode Grogan, ifanybody should ask you. He had a chance--if he hadn't let thathorse's head flop to go the bat!"

"It wasn't that, " said the other quickly. "The horse flinched when hehit him. "

"I been photographed and interviewed till I'm black in the face, "complained Old Man Curry, "and now you come along. You're worse thanthem confounded reporters!"

"You bet I am, " was the calm response of the Bald-faced Kid, "becauseI know more. And yet I don't know enough to satisfy me. Somebodyplayed Elisha, and it wasn't me. You never went near the bettingring. I watched you. "

"My money did. Quite a gob of it. "

"And you--you thought he'd win?"

"Didn't I tell you to bet on him?"

"Hell!" wailed the Bald-faced Kid. "He was _lame_--he couldn't walkthe night before! Bet on him? How could I after I'd seen him in thatfix?"

"Frank, " said the old man, "you believe everything you see, don'tyou?"

The Bald-faced Kid sat down and took his head in his hands. 

"Tell it to me, old-timer, " said he humbly. "I'm such a wise guy thatit hurts me; but something has come off here that's a mile over myhead. Tell me; I'm no mind reader. "

Old Man Curry combed his beard reflectively and gazed through thetack-room door into the dusk of the summer evening. 

"Son, " said he at length, "you never swapped hosses much, did you?"

"Never owned any to swap, " was the muffled response. 

"Too bad. You would have learned things. For instance, there's atrick that can be worked when you want to buy a hoss cheap and canget at him for a minute. It's done with a needle and thread and ahair from the hoss's tail. There's a spot in the leg where thetendons come together, and the trick is to pass that hosshair inbetween the tendons and trim off the ends just long enough so's youcan find 'em again. Best part of the trick is it don't hurt the hossnone, but he knows it's there and he won't hardly rest his foot onthe ground till it's pulled out. Then he's as good as new again. "

"Lovely!" groaned the Kid. "What makes you so close-mouthed, old-timer?"

"Experience, son, experience. 'He that hath knowledge spareth hiswords. ' I spared quite a-many. I knew there was a spy in camp, and Isewed up Elisha on Wednesday and let Henry see him. Al Engle cameover and peeked to make sure. I had the little nigger watching forhim. You saw Elisha that same night, and the whole kit and boiling ofyou got a couple of notions fixed in your heads--first, that it _was_Elisha; second, that he was a tol'able lame hoss. You expected, whenyou looked in that stall again, you'd see a big red hoss with a whitespot on his forehead--lame. Well, you did, but it wasn't the sameone. "

"Elijah!" said the Kid. "And you lamed him too?"

"I had to do it. People expected to see a lame hoss; I had to haveone to show 'em, didn't I? But nobody got a look at him in brightdaylight, son. After you went away Wednesday night I pulled out thehosshair, put Elisha in Elijah's stall, and vice versey, as they say. Then I worked on Elijah, and when Henry came along he didn't know thedifference. Them hosses look a lot alike, anyway; put a little daubof white stuff on Elijah's forehead, keep him blanketed up prettysnug, and--well, I reckon that's about all they was to it. "

"Fifty and sixty to one--going begging!" mourning the Kid. "Whydidn't you tell me what was coming off?"

"Because Henry was watching both of us, " was the reply. "And, speaking of Henry, it was you told me the sons of Belial had goneinto the spy business, so I p'tected your interests the best I could. Here's a little ticket calling for quite a mess of money. It's on theAbe Goldmark's book, and I didn't cash it because I wanted you tohave a chance to laugh at him when he pays off. Last I seen of him hewas sore but solvent. "

THE LAST CHANCE

It was the Bald-faced Kid who christened him Little Calamity because, as he explained, Jockey Gillis was a sniffling, whining, half portionof hard luck and a disgrace to the disreputable profession oftouting. "Every season, " said the Bald-faced Kid, "is a tough seasonfor a guy like that. He carries his hard luck with him. He's cockeyedsomething awful; his face was put on upside down; you can't tellwhether he's looking you in the eye or watching out for a policeman, and drunks shy clear across the betting ring to get away from him. That's the tip-off; when a souse won't listen to your gentle voice, it's time to change your system of approach. This Little Calamityperson has only got one thing in his favour, and that's an honestface; he _looks_ like a thief, and, by golly, he _is_ one. Hecouldn't sell a twenty-dollar gold piece for a dime or make a suckerput down a bet with the winning numbers already hanging on the boardin front of him. They all give him the once over and holler for thepolice. And as for his riding, he's about as much help to a horse asa fine case of the heaves. I'm darned if I know how he manages tolive!"

Little Calamity sometimes wondered about this himself. Of coursethere were the rare occasions when he was able to persuade aweak-minded owner to give him a mount on a hopeless outsider or ahorse entered only for the sake of the workout, but the five-dollarjockey fees were few and far between. They could not be stretched tocover the intervening periods, so Little Calamity did his best to bea petty larcenist with indifferent success. 

He infested the betting ring with a persistence almost pitiful, buthe had neither the appearance nor the manner which begets confidencein unlikely tales, and in his mouth the truth itself sounded like afabrication. He was a willing but an unconvincing liar, and the fewwho lingered long enough to listen to his clumsy attempts went awaysmiling. 

Little Calamity was nearer thirty than twenty, wrinkled and weazenedand bow-legged. Worse than everything else, he was cross-eyed. Thedirect and compelling gaze is an absolute necessity in the toutingbusiness because the average man believes that the liar will beunable to look him in the eye. Little Calamity could not look any manin the eye without first undergoing a surgical operation. He had fewacquaintances and no friends; he ate when he could slept where hecould, and life to him was just a continued hard-luck story. 

Imagine, then, the incredulous amazement of the Bald-faced Kid whenOld Man Curry informed him that Jockey Gillis had secured steadyemployment. 

"That shrimp?" said the Kid. "Why, if he had the ice-water privilegein hell he'd starve to death!"

"Frank, " said the old man, "I wish you wouldn't be so blame keerlesswith your figures of speech. There won't be any ice water for thewicked, it says in the Book, and, anyway, it ain't a fit subject tojoke about. It don't sound pretty. "

The Bald-faced Kid took this reproof with a sober countenance, for herespected the old man's principles even if he did not understandthem. 

"All right, old-timer. I'll take your word for it. Got a steady job, has he? For Heaven's sake, what doing?"

"Running a racing stable for a man named Hopwood. "

"Running a stable! What does Calamity know about training horses?"

"A heap more than Hopwood, I reckon, and, anyway, he'll only have onehoss to experiment on. Hopwood was over here this morning, visitingaround and getting acquainted, he said. Awful gabby old coot. He'sgot a grocery store up in Butte, and used to go out to the racetrack once in a while. Some of those burglars got hold of him andsold him something with four legs and a tail. They told him it was asure enough race hoss, and now he's down here to make his fortune. Gillis saw him first, I reckon. Hopwood has hired him by themonth--and a percentage of what he wins. "

At this the Bald-faced Kid laughed long and loud. 

"There's one of 'em born every minute, " said he, "but I didn't thinkthe supply was big enough to reach as far as Calamity. Didn't youtell this poor nut what he was up against, trying to horn his wayinto the Jungle Circuit with one lonely lizard and a human jinx tohandle him?"

"No-o, " said Old Man Curry, "I didn't. What would be the use! Youknow what Solomon says about that sort of thing, don't you?"

"I do not, " answered the Kid promptly, "but I'll be the goat asusual. What does he say?"

"'Answer not a fool according to his folly, lest thou also be likeunto him, '" quoted Old Man Curry, "and that's sound advice, my son. When a fool gets an idea crossways in his head, nothing but a coldchisel will get it out again, and, anyway, people don't thank you forpointing out their mistakes. It's human nature to get mad at a manthat can prove he knows more than you do. This Hopwood has got it allwhittled down to a fine point how he's going to do right well at theracing game, and the best way is to let him try it a while. It'llcost him money to find out that a grocery store is a safer place forhim than a race track. 'A whip for the horse, a bridle for the ass, and a rod for the fool's back. ' That's Solomon again. Hopwood has gotthe gad coming to him for sure. "

"Ain't that the truth!" exclaimed the Kid. "By the way, did hemention the name of the beetle that's going to do all this heavywork?"

"That's the best joke of all, " said Old Man Curry. "Hopwood stablesdown at the end of the line, where Gilfeather used to be. Go take alook at what they sold him for five hundred dollars. "

"I'll do that little thing, " said the Kid, rising. "If he's got anydough left, I may want to sell him something myself!"

Little Calamity was in the box stall, industriously grooming a tall, wild-eyed chestnut animal with four white stockings and a blaze, andas he worked he hummed a tune under his breath. The tune stopped whenhe became aware of a head thrust in at the open door. The Bald-facedKid glanced at the horse and his jaw dropped. 

"Well, by the limping Lazarus!" he ejaculated. "If they haven't goneand slipped him Last Chance! Yes, I'd know that darned old hay houndif he was stuffed and in a museum, and, by golly, that's where heought to be! Last Chance!"

"What's it _to_ you?" growled Little Calamity sullenly. "Can't youmind your own business?"

"Your boss is in big luck, " continued the visitor, pleasantlyignoring Calamity's manner. "The worst horse and the worst jock inthe world--a prize package for fair! Last Chance! His name ought tobe No Chance!"

"Now looka here, " whined Calamity, "I never tried to queer anythingfor you, did I? Live and let live; that's what I say, and let a guyget by if he can. If you was right up against it and had a chance tograb off eating money, you wouldn't want anybody around knocking, would you? On the level?"

He looked up as he finished, and the Bald-faced Kid's heart smotehim. Little Calamity's face was thinner than ever, there were hollowsunder his wandering eyes, and in them the anxious, wistful look of ahalf-starved cur which has found a bone and fears that it will betaken away from him. It occurred to the Kid that even a rat likeGillis might have feelings--such feelings as may be touched by hungerand physical discomfort. And there was no mistaking the desperateearnestness of his plea. 

"Things have been breaking awful tough for me around here, " he wenton. "Awful tough. You don't know. And then this Hopwood came along. It ain't my fault if the sucker thinks he's got another Roseben, isit? He wanted a trainer and a jockey, and somebody else would havepicked him up if I hadn't. It's the first piece of luck I've hadthis year. All I want is a chance to string with this fellow as longas he lasts and get a piece of change for myself. That ain't hurtingyou any, is it? He's my only chance to eat regular; don't go scaringhim away. "

The Kid was about to reply when a short, fat gentleman waddled aroundthe corner of the barn and paused, wheezing, at the door of thestall. A new owners' badge dangled prominently from his buttonhole, and this he fingered from time to time with manifest pride. He peeredin at Last Chance and beamed upon the Bald-faced Kid with the utmostfriendliness, his thick eyeglasses giving him the appearance of ajovial owl. 

"Well, " said he heartily, "I see you're looking him over, young man. He's mine; I just bought him, and I think I got him cheap. Prettyfine-looking horse, eh?"

The Kid nodded gravely. 

"You bet your life!" said he with emphasis. "Take it from me, he is_some_ horse!"

"Some horse is right!" chimed in Little Calamity fervently. "Justwait till I get him in shape, boss, and I'll show you how much horsehe is!"

"And that, " said the Bald-faced Kid, "is no idle statement. "

"Frank, " said Old Man Curry, "you're making more of a fool of thatHopwood than the Lord intended him to be, and it's a sin and ashame. Why can't you let him alone?"

"Because he hands me many a laugh, " said the Bald-faced Kid, "andlaughs are good for what ails me. He is a three-ring circus andconcert all by himself, but he doesn't know it, and that's what makeshim so good. And innocent? Say, the original Babes in the Woodhaven't got a thing on him. If he stays around here thesesharpshooters will have his shirt. "

"And you're helping them to get it with your lies. First thing youknow you'll have him betting on that hoss when he starts, and LastChance never won a race in his life and never will. He can quit sofast that it looks like he's going the wrong way of the track. Hopwood was around here to-day all swelled up with the stories you'vebeen feeding him. It ain't right, my son, and, what's more, it ain't_honest_. You might just as well pick his pockets and give themoney to the bookmakers. "

"The bookmakers won't get fat on what they take away from him, " wasthe careless rejoinder. "This fellow has got a groceryman's heart. He can squeeze a dollar until the eagle screams for help, and henever heard of Riley Grannan. If he bets at all it won't be morethan a ten-dollar note. Last Chance goes in the second raceto-morrow--nonwinners at the meeting--and I'm going down to thestable now to have a conference and give Calamity his ridingorders. "

"I wash my hands of you, " said the old man. "Fun is all right in itsplace, but fun that hurts somebody else has a way of coming home toroost. Don't forget that, my son. "

"Aw, who's going to hurt him?" was the sulky rejoinder. "I'm onlyhelping the chump to buy some of the experience that you spoke aboutthe other day. "

"Solomon says----" began Old Man Curry, but the Kid beat a hastyretreat. 

"Put him on ice till to-morrow!" he called back over his shoulder. "This is my busy day!"

For a horse that had never won a race, Last Chance made a gayappearance in the paddock. Little Calamity, conscious of hisshortcomings as a trainer, had done his best to offset them by extraactivities in his capacity as stable hand. The big chestnut had beengroomed and polished until his smooth coat shone like satin and blueribbons were braided in his mane. The other nonwinners were asorry-looking lot of dogs when compared with Last Chance, and theowner's bosom swelled with proud anticipation. 

"Look at the fire in his eye!" said Hopwood to the Bald-faced Kid. "See how lively he is!"

"Uh-huh, " said the Kid, who was present in the rôle of adviser. "Heseems to be full of pep to-day. "

As a matter of fact, Last Chance was nervous. He knew that a trip tothe paddock was usually followed by a beating with a rawhide whip anda prodding with blunt spurs, hence the skittishness of his behaviourand the fire in his eye. Given a decent opportunity he would havejumped the fence and gone home to his stall. 

When the bell rang Little Calamity came out of the jockeys' room, radiant as a butterfly in his new silks; he had the audacity to winkwhen he saw the Kid looking at him. 

"What do we do now?" demanded Hopwood, all in a flutter. "This is newto me, you know. "

"Well, " said the Kid, "I'd say it would be a right pious idea to getthis fiery steed saddled up, unless Calamity here is figuring onriding him bareback, which I don't think the judges would stand for. "

Later it was the Kid who gave Calamity his riding orders. "All right, boy, " said he. "Nothing in here to beat but a lot of lizards. Neverlook back and make every post a winning one. He can tow-rope thisfield and drag 'em to death!"

"_Pzzt!_" whispered the jockey. "Not so strong with it, not sostrong!"

While the horses were on their way to the post the Bald-faced Kidescorted Hopwood to a position in front of the grand stand. 

"You want to be handy in case he wins, " said the Kid. "You'll have togo down in the ring if he does. It's a selling race and they mighttry to run him up on you. "

"In the ring, eh?" said Hopwood, straightening his collar andplucking at his tie. "Do I look all right?" But the Kid was coughingso hard that he could not answer the question. 

"I can't see very far with these glasses, " said Hopwood, "and you'llhave to tell me about it. Where is he now?"

"At the post, " said the Kid. "The starter won't fool away much timewith those ... There they go now! Good start. "

Hopwood pawed at the Kid's arm. 

"I can't see a thing! Where is he? How's he doing?"

"He broke flying and he's right up in front. "

"That's good! That's fine!... And now? Where is he now?"

"Still up in front and winging, just winging. It's an exercise gallopfor him. How much did you bet?"

Hopwood took off his glasses and fumbled at them with hishandkerchief. 

"Where is he now?"

"Second, turning for home. He ought to win all by himself. They'rechoking to death behind him. "

"And I didn't bet a cent!" wailed the owner. "But I said he was agood horse, remember?"

"Sure you did, and he ... Oh, tough luck! Well, if that ain't a dirtyshame!"

"What is it?" chattered Hopwood. "What happened?"

"They bumped him into the fence, I think.... Yes, he's dropping back. And it looked like a cinch for him, too!... I'm afraid he won't getanything this time.... Too bad! Well, that's racing luck for you. It's to be expected in this game. Sometimes you win and sometimes youlose. Good thing you didn't bet. "

"I--I suppose so, " gulped the unhappy owner. "Well, next time, eh?"

"That's the proper spirit! Keep after 'em!"

Hopwood put on his glasses in time to see the finish of the race. First came four horses, well bunched; after them the stragglers. Lastof all a chestnut with four white stockings and a blaze gallopedheavily through the dust, snorting his indignation. Last Chance hadbeen hopelessly last all the way in spite of a rawhide tattoo on hisflanks. 

The Bald-faced Kid, wishing to forestall a conflict of evidence, madeit his business to have the first word with the principal witness. Hewalked beside Little Calamity as that dispirited midget shuffled downthe track from the judges' stand, saddle and tackle on his arm. Closebehind them was Hopwood, leading the horse. 

"Pretty tough luck, " said the Kid, "getting bumped in the stretchwhen you had the race won. " Little Calamity stared from under thepeak of his cap in blank, uncomprehending amazement. 

"Huh?" he grunted. "Bumped?... Aw, quitcha kiddin'!"

"Well, " said the Kid, "the boss couldn't see and I was telling himabout the race. It looked to me as if they bumped him. "

A gleam of intelligence lighted the straying eyes; instantly thejockey took his cue. 

"Oh!" said he, loudly, "you mean in the _stretch_! Yeh, he had aswell chance till then--goin' nice, and all, but the bumping took therun out of him. He'll beat the same bunch like breakin' sticks thenext time. " Then, under his breath: "_You're a pretty good guy afterall!_"

"Well, " was the ungracious rejoinder, "don't kid yourself that it'son your account. "

Since it was his practice never to accept the obvious but to searchdiligently for the hidden motive behind every deed, good or bad, Little Calamity gave considerable thought to the matter and at lastbelieved that he had arrived at the only possible explanation of theKid's conduct. "Boss, " said he that evening, "did you bet any moneyto-day?"

"Not a nickel, " was the answer. 

"Or give anybody any money to bet for you?"

"No. "

"Did anybody ask to be your bettin' commissioner?"

"No. Why?"

"Oh, nothing. I just wanted to know. "

Before Little Calamity went to sleep that night he reviewed thesituation somewhat as follows:

"My dope was wrong, but it's a cinch a hustler like the Kid ain'thangin' around the boss for his _health_.... And he didn't kick inwit' that alibi because he loves _me_ any too well.... I can't figurehim at all. "

If he could have heard a conversation then going on in Old ManCurry's tackle-room, the figuring would have been easier. 

"Frank, " said the old man, "I had my eye on you to-day. You ain't gotdesigns on that fool's bank roll, have you?"

The Bald-faced Kid blew a cloud of cigarette smoke into the air andwatched it float to the rafters before he answered question withquestion. 

"How long have you known me, old-timer?"

"Quite a while, my son. "

"You know that I get my living by doing the best I can?"

"Yes. "

"Did you ever know me to steal anything from a blind man? Or even onethat was near-sighted?"

"No-o. "

"Then don't worry about this Hopwood. "

"But he ain't blind--except in the Scriptural sense. "

"Think not, eh? Listen! That bird can't see as far as the sixteenthpole. Somebody has got to watch the races and tell him how well hishorse is going or else he'll never know. Think what he'd miss! I'mhis form chart and his eyes, old-timer, and all I charge him is alaugh now and then. Cheap enough, ain't it?"

Old Man Curry found his packet of fine-cut and thrust a large helpinginto his left cheek. "'For as the crackling of thorns under a pot, '"he quoted, "'so is the laughter of a fool. '"

The end of the meeting was close at hand; the next town on the JungleCircuit was preparing to receive the survivors. The owners wereplotting to secure that elusive commodity known as get-away money;some of them would have been glad to mortgage their chances for areceipted feed bill. Last Chance had started five times and each timeHopwood had listened to a thrilling description of the race; thechestnut's performances had been bad enough to strain the Kid'spowers of invention. 

On the eve of the final struggle of the nonwinners, the Kid sat ingrave consultation with Hopwood and Little Calamity and the raindrummed on the shingle roof of the tackle room. The fat man wasdowncast; he had been hinting about selling Last Chance at auctionand returning to Butte. 

"You don't mean to say that you're going to _quit_?" demanded theKid, incredulously. "Just when he's getting good?"

"What's the use?" was the dreary reply. "Luck is against me, ain'tit?"

"But he's always knocking at the door, ain't he? He's always right upthere part of the way. You can't get the worst of it every time, youknow. Be game. "

"I've had the worst of it every time so far, " said Hopwood, with adejected shake of his head. "Every time. I swear I don't know what'swrong with that horse. He _looks_ all right and he _acts_ all right, but every time he starts something happens. They bump him into thefence or pocket him or he gets a clod in his eye and quits. He's beenlast every time but one and then he was next to last. I--I'm sort ofdiscouraged, boys. "

"Aw, never mind, boss!" chirped Little Calamity, one eye on the Kidand the other wandering in the general direction of the owner. "To-morrow is another day and there ain't a thing left in thenonwinner class for him to beat. All the good ones are gone. Heworked fine this morning, and----"

"You've said that every time. "

"Yes, but you're overlooking the muddy track!" Hopwood blinked inperplexity as the Kid came to the rescue with a new story. 

"The muddy track? What difference will that make?"

"Listen to him! All the difference in the wide world!"

"Yeh, " chimed in Calamity. "You bet it makes a difference!"

"You're forgetting that Last Chance is by a mudder out of a mudder, "suavely explained the Kid. "His daddy used to win stakes kneedeep init. His mother liked mud so well they had to mix it with her oats toget her to eat regular. What difference will it make? Huh! Wait andsee!"

The owner rose, grunting heavily. 

"I hope you're right this time, " said he. "Lord knows I've haddisappointments enough. When I bought this horse they guaranteed himto win at least every other time he started----"

"With an even break in the luck, of course, " interrupted the Kid. "You've got to have luck too. "

"They didn't mention anything about luck when they took my money. "Hopwood was positive on this point. "They told me it was a sure thingand I wouldn't be in this mess if I hadn't thought it was.... Youboys talk it over between you. I'm going to ask Mr. Curry if he wantsto buy a horse. He can have him for half what he cost me. "

Hopwood turned up his collar and departed; the two conspiratorslistened until his footsteps died away down the row of stables. "WillCurry split on us?" asked Little Calamity, anxiously. 

"Not in a thousand years!" was the confident reply. "The old man is asport in his way. It's a queer way, but he's all right at that. Heplays his own string and lets you play yours. Hopwood will find outwhat Solomon says about buying strange horses, but the old man won'ttip your hand or mine. Queer genius, Curry is.... Well, your suckerhas lasted longer than I thought he would. "

"And now he's getting onto himself, " said Calamity mournfully. 

"He's not. He's getting cold feet. "

"To-morrow is the last crack we'll get at him.... _Can_ this beaglerun in the mud?"

"How do I know? I was only stringing him. "

Little Calamity sighed and the Kid rose to take his departure. 

"Wait a minute!" said the other. "Don't go yet. Maybe this horse_will_ do better in the mud. You don't know and I don't know, but he_might_. "

"What he might do ain't worrying me, " said the Kid. 

"Listen a second. Maybe you won't believe it, but I've been on the upand up with the boss. Honest, I have. I could have tipped one of theother hustlers to tout him and sink the money for a split, but--well, I didn't do it, that's all. He was white to me and I tried to bewhite too, see? I even told him not to bet on the horse until I gavehim the office, and so far we've been running for nothing but thepurse. You haven't touted him either----"

"Draw your bat and make a quick finish!" said the Kid shortly. "What's it all about?"

"Suppose I should talk him into putting a bet down to-morrow?"

"A bet on what?"

"On Last Chance. It ain't no crime for a man to bet on his own horse, is it? He told me he'd give me a percentage of what he won. Maybe theold crowbait will go better in the mud, and I'll ride him until hiseyes stick out a foot. We might accidentally get down there to thejudges' stand in front, and----"

"And still you haven't said anything, " interrupted the Kid. "You wantsomething; what is it?"

"I want you not to queer the play. Hopwood won't bet much; like asnot he won't bet anything without putting it up to you first. It's mylast chance to pick up a piece of change----"

"Last chance on Last Chance, " mused the Kid, "and that's a hunch, butI wouldn't play it with counterfeit Confederate money. "

"But if he comes to you, you won't knock it, will you?"

"I'll tell him that as an owner he ought to use his own judgment. Ifhe wants to bet, I'll see that he gets the top price. "

"You _are_ a good guy!" said Little Calamity. "I think Last Chancewill be a better horse to-morrow--somehow. "

The Bald-faced Kid shot a keen glance at the jockey. 

"What do you mean, a better horse? A powder on his tongue, maybe?"

Calamity shook his head. 

"I never hopped a horse; I wouldn't know how to go about it. If Igot to fooling with them speed powders I might give him too much andhave him climbing a tree on the way to the post.... Cheese it! Herecomes the boss!"

Hopwood entered, shaking the water from the brim of his hat, hislower lip sagging and an angry light in his eye. 

"Well, " asked the Kid from the doorway, "what did Curry say?"

"Umph!" grunted the fat man, disgustedly. "He read me a chapter outof Proverbs. It was all about the difference between a wise man and afool. Confound it! He needn't have rubbed it in!"

It was the last race of the day and from their sheltered pagoda thejudges looked out upon the river of mud which had been the homestretch. Forty-eight hours of rain had turned it into a grand canal. The presiding judge scowled as he examined the opening odds. "Nonwinners, eh? Same old bunch of hounds. Grayling, 2 to 1; IvyLeaf, 4 to 1; Montezuma, 10 to 1; Bluestone, 10 to 1; Alibi, 15 to 1;Stuffy Eaton, 25 to 1--and here's Last Chance again! I wonder whereHopwood got that horse? Remember him, two years ago at Butte? Ithought he was pulling a junk wagon by now. Last Chance, 50 to 1. Jockey Gillis; hm-m-m. There's a sweet combination for you! A horsethat can't untrack himself, a jockey that never rode a winner, and ahalf-witted grocer! Why couldn't the chump stick to the littlevillainies that he knows about--sanding the sugar and watering thekerosene? I declare, sir, if I had half an excuse I'd refuse theentry of that horse and warn Hopwood away from here! It would be anact of Christian charity to do it. "

The Bald-faced Kid, faithful to the bitter end, assisted in thepaddock as usual. Last Chance, his tail braided in a hard knot andminus the ribbons in his mane, submitted to the saddling process withunusual docility. His customary attitude of protest seemed to beswallowed up in a gloomy acquiescence to fate. It was as if he said:"You can do this to me again if you want to, but I assure you nowthat it is useless, quite useless. "

Calamity leaned down from the saddle and whispered in the Kid's ear:

"You can get 50 and 60 to 1 on him! The boss said he'd make a bet. Don't let him overlook it!"

When the bugle sounded, Hopwood grasped the bridle and led the horsethrough the chute to the track. The rain beat hard upon his hunchedshoulders and his feet plowed heavily through the puddles. Repeatedfailure had robbed him of the pride of ownership and all confidencein horseflesh. He was, as the Bald-faced Kid said to himself, "a sadlooking mess. " Hopwood spoke but once, wasting no words. 

"Make good if you're going to, " said he tersely, "because win or loseI'm _through_!"

"Yes, boss, and don't forget what I told you. To-day's the day to beton him. Go to it!"

Last Chance splashed away down the track and Hopwood turned on hisheel with a growl. 

"Come along!" said he to the Kid. "I might as well be all thedifferent kinds of fool while I'm about it!"

"Where to now?" asked the Kid innocently. 

"To the betting ring, " was the grim response. "I said I'd bet on himthis time and I will! Come along!"

From his perch on the inside rail the official starter eyed thenonwinners with undisguised malevolence. Some of them were canteringsteadily toward the barrier, some were walking and one, a blackbrute, seemed almost unmanageable, advancing in a series of wildplunges and sudden sidesteps. 

"Ah, hah, " said the starter, with suitable profanity. "Old Alibi hasgot his hop in him again! I'll recommend the judges to refuse hisentry. " Then, to his assistant: "Jake, take hold of that crazy blackthing and lead him up here. Don't let go of his head for a second orhe'll be all over the place! Lively now! I want to get out of thisrain.... Walk 'em up, you crook-legged little devils! _Walk 'em up, Isay!_"

Last Chance advanced sedately to his position, which was on the outerrail. Grayling, the favourite, had drawn the inner rail. Jake, obeying orders, swung his weight on Alibi's bit and dragged therearing, plunging creature into the middle of the line. At thatinstant the starter jerked the trigger and yelled:

"_Come on! Come on!_"

The whole thing happened in the flicker of an eyelid. As Jakereleased his hold, Alibi whirled at right angles and bolted for theinner rail, carrying Grayling, Ivy Leaf, Satsuma, and Jolson withhim. They crashed into the fence, a squealing, kicking tangle, abovewhich rose the shrill, frightened yells of the jockeys. This left butfour horses in the race, and one of them, old Last Chance, passedunder the barrier with a wild bound which all but unseated his rider. It was not his habit to display such unseemly haste in getting awayfrom the post and, to do him justice, Last Chance was no lesssurprised--and shocked--than a certain young man of our acquaintance. 

"Well, look at that lizard go!" gasped the Bald-faced Kid. _"Look--at--him--go!_"

"Honest Injun?" asked Hopwood. "Is he going--really?"

"Is he going! He's going crazy! And listen to this! That black thingcarried a big bunch of 'em into the fence and they're out of it! Onlyfour in the race and we're away flying! Do you get that? Flying!"

"Honest?"

"Can't you hear the crowd hissing the rotten start?"

"Well, " said Hopwood, "it--it's about time I had a little luck. "

"That skate has got something besides luck with him to-day!"exclaimed the Kid. "I wonder now--did he try a powder after all? Butno, he was quiet enough on the way to the post. "

Seeing nothing ahead of him but mud and water, Jockey Gillis steeredLast Chance toward the inner rail. 

"Don't you quit on me, you crab!" he muttered. "Don't you quit! Keepgoin' if you don't want me to put the bee on you again! Hi-ya!"

Montezuma, Bluestone, and Stuffy Eaton were the other survivors--badhorses all. Their riders, realizing that something had happened tothe real contenders, drove them hard and on the upper turn JockeyGillis, peering over his shoulder, saw that he was about to havecompetition. He began to boot Last Chance in the ribs, but the agedchestnut refused to respond to such ordinary treatment. 

"All right!" said Jockey Gillis, savagely. "If you won't run for thespurs, you'll run for _this_!" And he drove his clenched fist againstthe horse's shoulder. Last Chance grunted and did his best to leapout from under his tormentor. Failing in this he spurted crazily andthe gap widened. 

"There it goes again!" muttered the Kid, under his breath. "He'spretty raw with it. Now if the judges notice the way that horse isrunning they may frisk Calamity for an electric battery and if theyfind one on him--good night!"

"Where is he now?" demanded Hopwood. 

"Still in front--if he can stay there. "

"Honest--is he?"

"_Ask_ anybody!" howled the Kid, in sudden anger. "You don't need totake my word for it!"

At the paddock gate Last Chance was rocking from side to side withweariness and the pursuit was closing in on him. Jockey Gillismeasured the distance to the wire and waited until Montezuma andBluestone drew alongside. Twenty-five feet from home his fist thumpedLast Chance on the shoulder again. The big chestnut answered with afrenzied bound and came floundering under the wire, a winner by aneck. 

"He won!" cried Hopwood. "That--that was him in front, wasn't it?"

"That was what's left of him, " was the response. "Maybe we'd betternot cheer until the judges give us the 'official' on those numbers. I've got a hunch they may want to see Jock Gillis in the stand. " Andto himself: "The fool! He handed it to him again right under theirnoses! Does he think the judges are cockeyed too?"

"Here's our chance to get rid of the grocer, " said the presidingjudge to his associate. "Did you notice the way that horse acted?The boy's got a battery on him, sure as guns!"

One hundred yards from the wire Last Chance checked to a walk and asJockey Gillis turned the horse he tossed a small, dark object overthe inside fence. It fell in a puddle of water and disappeared fromsight. When the winner staggered stiffly into the ring, Gillisflicked the visor of his cap with his whip. 

"Judges?" he piped. 

The presiding judge answered the salute with a nod, but later whenthe rider was leaving the weighing room, he halted him with a curtcommand. 

"Bring that tack up here, boy!"

The investigation, while brief, was thorough. The judges examined thesaddle carefully for copper stitching, looked at the butt end of thewhip, ran their hands over Calamity's thin loins and last of all feltin his bootlegs for wires connected with the spurs. All this timeJockey Gillis might have been posing as a statue of outragedinnocence. 

"Nothing on him, " said the presiding judge shortly. "Hang up theofficial. "

Jockey Gillis bowed and saluted. 

"Judges, can I go now?" said he. 

"Yes, " said the presiding judge, "and don't come back. You're warnedoff, understand?"

"Judges, " whined Jockey Gillis, "I ain't done a thing wrong. That oldhorse, he----"

"Git!" said the presiding judge. "Now where is that man Hopwood? Ifhe bet much money on this race----"

The Bald-faced Kid was waiting at the paddock gate. He greeted LittleCalamity with blistering sarcasm. 

"You're a sweet little boy, ain't you? A _nice_ little boy! Here Istall for you for weeks and you didn't even tell me that the oldskate was going to have the Thomas A. Edison trimmings with himto-day!"

"Honest, " said the jockey, "I didn't think there was enough'lectricity in the world to make it a cinch. I took a long chancemyself, that's all. I had to do it. "

"And got caught with the battery on you, too. Didn't you know anybetter'n to slip him the juice right in front of the wire? Thinkthose judges are blind?"

"Well, " said Little Calamity, "I don't know how good their eyes are, at that. Jock Hennessey, he's been riding with a hand buzzer everytime the stable checks are down. This morning he loaned it to me. "

"Oh, it was a hand buzzer, eh?"

"Sure. I chucked it over the fence when I was turning him aroundafter the race. "

"Fine work. What did the judges say to you?"

"They warned me away from the track. I should worry. There's othertracks. Only thing is, they've got Hopwood in the stand now, andhe'll be fool enough to tell 'em this was the first time he bet onthe horse. Somehow, I'd hate to see the old bird get into trouble.... Say, by the way, how much did he bet?"

The Bald-faced Kid began to laugh. He laughed until he had to lean onthe rail for support. 

"Don't worry, " said he, at last. "The judges won't be too hard onhim. He hunted all over the ring until he found some 75 to 1 and thenhe bet the wad--two great big iron dobey dollars--all at once, mindyou!"

"Two dollars!" gasped Little Calamity. "_Two dollars?_"

"It serves you right for not letting me know about the buzzer! I'd havemade him bet more. As it stands, your cut will be seventy-five--if hesplits with you, and I think he will. That's a lot of money--when youhaven't got it. "

"Bah! Chicken feed!" This with an almost lordly scorn. "It's a goodthing those judges didn't take off my boots. Then they _would_ havefound something!" He fumbled for a moment and produced eightpasteboards. "I had sixteen dollars saved up and one of the boys betit for me--every nickel of it on the nose. Seventy-five dollars! I'mover eight hundred winner to the race!"

"Holy mackerel!" ejaculated the Kid. "What are you going to do withall that money?"

"I'm goin' to buy a diamond pin and a gold watch and a ring with ared stone in it and a suit of clothes and an overcoat and a derbyhat and a pair of silk socks and a porterhouse steak four inchesthick and a----"

"E--nough!" said the Kid. "Sufficient! If there's anything left over, you better erect a monument to the guy that discovered electricity!"

This happened long ago. Hopwood's grocery store still does aflourishing business. Over the cash register hangs a crayon portraitof a large yellow horse with four white stockings and a blaze. Theoriginal of the portrait hauls the Hopwood delivery wagon. Irritatedteamsters sometimes ask Mr. Hopwood's delivery man why he does notdrive where he is looking. 

SANGUINARY JEREMIAH

It was not yet dawn, but Old Man Curry was abroad; more than that, hewas fully dressed. It was a tradition of the Jungle Circuit that hehad never been seen in any other condition. The owner of the "Biblehorses, " in shirt sleeves and bareheaded, would have created asensation among his competing brethren, some of whom pretended tobelieve that the patriarch slept in his clothes. Others, not sopositive on this point, averred that Old Man Curry slept with one eyeopen and one ear cocked toward the O'Connor barn, where his enemiesmet to plot against him. 

Summer and winter, heat and cold, there was never a change in the oldman's raiment. The rusty frock coat--black where it was not green, grey along the seams, and ravelled at the skirts--the broad-brimmedand battered slouch hat, and the frayed string tie had seen fat yearsand lean years on all the tracks of the Jungle Circuit, and no mancould say when these things had been new or their wearer had beenyoung. Old Man Curry was a fixture, as familiar a sight as the fenceabout the track, and his shabby attire was as much a part of hisquaint personality as his habit of quoting the wise men of the OldTestament and borrowing the names of the prophets for his horses. 

The first faint golden glow appeared in the east; the adjoiningstables loomed dark in the half light; here and there lanterns moved, and close at hand rose the wail of a sleepy exercise boy, roused fromslumber by a liberal application of rawhide. From the direction ofthe track came the muffled beat of hoofs, swelling to a crescendo, and diminishing to a thin tattoo as the thoroughbreds rounded theupper turn. 

Old Man Curry squared his shoulders, turned his face toward the east, and saluted the dawn in characteristic fashion. 

"'A time to get and a time to lose; a time to keep and a time to castaway, '" he quoted. "Solomon was framin' up a system for hossmen, Ireckon. 'A time to get and a time to lose. ' Only thing is, Solomonhimself couldn't figure which was which with some of these rascals!_Oh, Mose!_"

"Yessuh, boss! Comin'!"

Jockey Moseby Jones emerged from the tackle-room, rubbing his eyeswith one hand and tugging at his sweater with the other. Later in theday he would be a butterfly of fashion and an offence to the eye inloud checks and conflicting colours; now he was only a very sleepylittle darky in a dingy red sweater and disreputable trousers. 

"Seem like to me I ain't had no sleep a-a-a-tall, " complained Mose, swallowing a tremendous yawn. "This yer night work sutny got me goin'south for fair. "

Shanghai, the hostler, appeared leading Elisha, the star of the Currybarn. 

"Send him the full distance, Mose, " said the aged owner, "and set himdown hard for the half-mile pole home. "

"_Hard_, boss?"

"As hard as he can go. "

"But, boss----" There was a note of strong protest in the jockey'svoice. 

"You heard me, " said Old Man Curry, already striding in the directionof the track. "Extend him and let's see what he's got. "

"Extend him so's _eve'ybody_ kin see whut he's got!" mumbled Moserebelliously. "Huh!"

In the shadow of the paddock Old Man Curry came upon his friend, theBald-faced Kid, a youth of many failings, frankly confessed. The Kidsat upon the fence, nursing an old-fashioned silver stop watch, forhe was "clocking" the morning workouts. 

"Morning, Frank, " said Old Man Curry. "You're early. "

"But not early enough for some of these birds, " responded the Kid. "You galloping something, old-timer?"

"'Lisha'll work in a minute or two. "

"Uh-huh. I kind of figured you'd throw another work into him beforeto-morrow's race. Confound it! If I didn't know you pretty well, I'dsay you ought to have your head examined! I'd say they ought to crawlyour cupola for loose shingles!"

"And if you didn't know me at all, Frank, you'd say I was just plaincrazy, eh?" Old Man Curry regarded his young friend with thoughtfulgravity. Here were two wise men of the turf approaching truth fromwidely varying standpoints, yet able to meet on common ground andexchange convictions to mutual profit. "Spit it out, son, " said OldMan Curry. "I'd sort of like to know how crazy I am. "

"Fair enough!" said the Bald-faced Kid. "Elisha's a good horse--acracking good horse--but to-morrow's the end of the meeting andyou've gone and saved him up to slip him into the toughest race onthe card--on a day when all the burglars at the track will belevelling for the get-away money! You could have found a softer spotfor him to pick up a purse, and, take it from me, the winner's end isabout all you'll get around here. The bookmakers lost a lot ofconfidence in human nature when you pulled that horsehair stunt on'em, and they wouldn't give you a price now, not even if you starteda nice motherly old cow against stake horses. As for Elisha--thebookies begin reaching for the erasers the minute they hear hisname! You couldn't bet 'em diamonds against doughnuts on that horse. They've been stung too often. "

"Maybe I wasn't aiming to bet on him, " was the mild reply. 

"Then why put him up against such a hard game?"

"Oh, it was a kind of a notion I had. I know it'll be a tough race. Engle is in there, and O'Connor and a lot more that have been undercover. 'Lisha is goin' a mile this morning. Better catch him when hebreaks. He's off!"

Whatever Jockey Moseby Jones thought of his orders, he knew betterthan to disobey them. He sent Elisha the distance, driving him hardfrom the half-mile pole to the wire, and the Bald-faced Kid'sastounded comments furnished a profane obbligato. 

"Take a look at that!" said he, thrusting the watch under Old ManCurry's nose. "Pretty close to the track record for a mile, ain't it?And every clocker on the track got him too! If I was you I'd peel thehide off that nigger for showing a horse up like that!"

"No-o, " said Old Man Curry, "I reckon I won't lick Mose--this time. You forgot that Jeremiah is goin' in the last race to-morrow, didn'tyou?"

"Jeremiah!" The Bald-faced Kid spoke with scorn. "Why, he bleedsevery time out! It's a shame to start him!"

"Maybe he won't bleed to-morrow, Frank. "

"He won't, eh?" The Bald-faced Kid drew out the leather-backed volumewhich was his constant companion, and began to thumb the leavesrapidly. "You're always heaving your friend Solomon at me. I'll giveyou a quotation I got out of the Fourth Reader at school--somethingabout judging the future by the past. Look here: '_Jeremiah bled andwas pulled up. ' 'Jeremiah bled badly. _' Why, everybody around hereknows that he's a bleeder!"

"There you go again, " said Old Man Curry patiently. "You study themdad-burned dope sheets, and all you can see is what a hoss _has_done. You listen to me: it ain't what a hoss did last week or lastmonth--it's what he's goin' to do to-day that counts. "

"A quitter will quit and a bleeder will bleed, " said the Kidsententiously. 

"And Jeremiah says the leopard can't change his spots, " said Old ManCurry. "Have it your own way, Frank. "

Exactly twenty-four hours later the Bald-faced Kid, peering acrossthe track to the back stretch, saw Old Man Curry lead a black horseto the quarter pole, exchange a few words with Mose, adjust the bit, and stand aside. 

"What's that one, Kid?" The question was asked by Shine McManus, aprofessional clocker employed by a bookmaker to time the variousworkouts and make a report on them at noon. 

"That's Jeremiah, " said the Kid. "The old man hasn't worked him muchlately. "

"Good reason why, " said Shine. "I wouldn't work a horse either if hebled every time he got out of a walk! There he goes!"

Jeremiah went to the half pole like the wind, slacked somewhat on theupper turn, and floundered heavily into the stretch. 

"Bleeding, ain't he?" asked Shine. 

"He acts like it--yes, you can see it now. "

As Jeremiah neared the paddock he stopped to a choppy gallop, and therailbirds saw that blood was streaming from both nostrils andtrickling from his mouth. 

"Ain't that sickening? You wouldn't think that Old Man Curry wouldabuse a horse like that!"

The Bald-faced Kid went valiantly to the defence of his aged friend. He would criticise Old Man Curry if he saw fit, but no one else hadthat privilege. 

"Aw, where do you get that abusing-a-horse stuff! It don't really_hurt_ a horse any more'n it would hurt you to have a good nosebleed. It just chokes him up so't he can't get his breath, and he quits, that's all. "

"Yes, but it looks bad, and it's a shame to start a horse in thatcondition. "

The argument waxed long and loud, and in the end the Kid wasvanquished, borne down by superior numbers. The popular verdict wasthat Old Man Curry ought to be ashamed of himself for owning andstarting a confirmed bleeder like Jeremiah. 

On get-away day the speculative soul whose financial operations showa loss makes a determined effort to plunge a red-ink balance into ablack one. On get-away day the honest owner has doubts and thedishonest owner has fears. On get-away day the bookmaker wears deepcreases in his brow, for few horses are "laid up" with him, and hewonders which dead one will come to life. On get-away day the toutredoubles his activities, hoping to be far away before his victimsawake to a sense of injury. On get-away day the program boy bawls hisloudest and the hot-dog purveyor pushes his fragrant wares with theutmost energy. On get-away day the judges are more than usuallyalert, scenting outward indications of a "job. " On get-away day thebetting ring boils and seethes and bubbles; the prices are short andarguments are long; strange stories are current and disquietingrumours hang in the very air. 

"Now, if ever!" is the motto. 

"Shoot 'em in the back and run!" is the spirit of the day, reduced towords. 

In the midst of all this feverish excitement, Old Man Currymaintained his customary calm. He had seen many get-away days on manytracks. Elisha was entered in the fourth race, the feature event ofthe day, and promptly on the dot, Elisha appeared in the paddock, steaming after a brisk gallop down the stretch. 

Soon there came a wild rush from the betting ring; the prices wereup and Elisha ruled the opening favourite at 7 to 5. Did Mr. Currythink that Elisha could win? Wasn't the price a little short? In caseMr. Curry had any doubts about Elisha, what other horse did hefavour? The old man answered all questions patiently, courteously, and truthfully--and patience, courtesy, and truth seldom meet in thepaddock. 

We-ell, about 'Lisha, now, he was an honest hoss and he would try ashard to win at 7 to 5 as any other price. 'Lisha was trained not tolook in the bettin' ring on the way to the post. Ye-es, 'Lisha had achance; he always had a chance 'count of bein' honest and doin' thebest he knowed how. The other owners? Well, now, it was this way: hecouldn't really say what they was up to; he expected, though, they'dall be tryin'. Himself person'ly, he only bothered about his ownhosses; they kept his hands full. Was Engle going to bet onCornflower? Well, about Engle--hm-m-m. He's right over there, sonny;better ask him. 

After Little Mose had been given his riding orders--briefly, theywere to do the best he could and come home in front if possible--OldMan Curry turned Elisha over to Shanghai and went into the bettingring. Elisha's price was still 7 to 5. The old man paused in front ofthe first book, a thick wallet in his fingers. The bookmaker, ared-eyed, dyspeptic-looking person, glanced down, recognised theflowing white beard under the slouch hat, took note of the thickwallet, and with one swipe of his eraser sent Elisha to even money. 

"That's it! Squawk before you're hurt!" grunted Elisha's owner, shouldering his way through the crowd to the next stand. 

This bookmaker was an immensely fat gentleman with purplish jowls andpiggy eyes which narrowed to slits as they rested upon the corpulentroll of bills which Old Man Curry was holding up to him. 

"Don't want it, " he wheezed. 

"What ails it?" Old Man Curry's voice rose in a high, piping treble, shrill with wrath. "It's good money. I got some of it from you. Yourslate says 6 to 5, 'Lisha. "

"Don't want it, " repeated the bookmaker, his eyes roving over thecrowd. "Get it next door. "

"That's a fine howdy-do!" snapped the exasperated old man. "I can'tbet on my own horse--at a short price, too!"

Word ran around the betting ring that Old Man Curry was trying to betso much money on Elisha that the bookmakers refused his wagers, andthere was an immediate stampede for the betting booths and a demandfor Elisha at any figure. 

The third bookmaker forestalled all argument by wiping out theprophet's price entirely, while the crowd jeered. 

"Does a bet scare you that bad?" asked Old Man Curry with sarcasm. 

"Any bet from you would scare me, professor. Any bet at all. Try thenext store. "

Old Man Curry worked his way around the circle, Elisha's pricedropping before his advance. His very appearance in the ring had beenenough to encourage play on the horse, and the large roll of billswhich he carried so conspicuously added a powerful impetus to therush on the favourite. 

"Curry's betting a million!"

"Elisha's a cinch!"

"The old coot's got 'em scared!"

Elisha dropped to even money, then went to odds on. At 4 to 5 andeven at 3 to 5 the crowd played him, and sheet and ticket writerswere kept busy recording bets on the Curry horse. 

Somewhere in the maelstrom Old Man Curry encountered the Bald-facedKid plying his vocation. He was earnestly endeavouring to persuade awhiskered rustic to bet more money than he owned on Cornflower at 3to 1. Though very busy, the young man was abreast of the situationand fully informed of events, as indeed he usually was. Retaining hisinterest in the rustic by the simple expedient of thrusting aforefinger through his buttonhole, the Kid leaned toward the old man. 

"See what your little nigger did, riding that horse out yesterdaymorning? You might have got 2 or 3 to 1 on him if Mose hadn't tippedhim off to every clocker at the track!"

Old Man Curry digested this remark in silence. 

"I hear that Engle is sending the mare for a killing, " whispered theKid. "Know anything about it?"

"Everything is bein' sent for a killing to-day, " said Old Man Curry. "Well, she'll have 'Lisha to beat, I reckon. And all he's runnin' foris the purse, Frank, like you said. I did my best to bet 'em untilthe price got too plumb ridiculous, but the children of Israelwouldn't take my money. "

The Bald-faced Kid glanced at the roll of bills which the old manstill held in his hand. 

"Well, no wonder!" he snorted. "Don't you know that ain't any way todo? You come in here and wave a chunk like that under their noses, and--by golly, you ought to have your head examined!"

"I reckon you're right, " said the old man apologetically. "All I askis please don't have me yanked up before the Lunacy Board till afterthe last race, because----"

"Aw, rats! Beat it now till I land this sucker!"

"Frank, " whispered the old man, "tell him to save a couple of dollarsto bet on Jeremiah!"

It was a great race. Cornflower, lightly weighted, able to set a paceor hold one, did not show in front until the homestretch was reached. Then the mare suddenly shot out of the ruck and flashed into thelead. But she soon had company. Honest old Elisha had been pluggingalong in the dust for the first half mile, but at that point he beganto run, and the Curry colours moved up with great celerity. Merritt, glancing over his shoulders, shook out the last wrap on the mare justas Elisha thundered into second place. Gathering speed with everyawkward bound, the big bay horse slowly closed the gap. At thepaddock there was no longer daylight between them, and Old Man Currystopped combing his beard. He knew what that meant. So did JockeyMerritt, plying whip and spur. So did Al Engle and those who had beengiven the quiet tip to play Cornflower for a killing. So did theBald-faced Kid, edging away from the rustic who, with a Cornflowerticket clutched in his sweating palm, seemed to be trying to swallowthe thyroid cartilage of his larynx. So did Jockey Moseby Jones, driving straight into the hurricane of cheers which beat down fromthe packed grand stand. 

"_Elisha! Elisha! Come on, you Elisha!_"

Now the gaunt bay head was at the mare's flank, now at the saddlegirth, now it blotted out the shoulder, now they were neck and neck;one more terrific bound, an ear-splitting yell from the grand stand, and Elisha's number went slowly to the top of the pole. 

The judges were examining the opening betting on the last race of themeeting. 

"Ah, we have Old Man Curry with us again!" said the presiding judge. "Jeremiah. If the meeting had another two weeks to run I'd ask himnot to start that horse again. I'm told he bled at his workout thismorning. By the way, the old man acted sort of grouchy after theElisha race. Did you notice it?"

"Yes, and I know why, " said the associate judge. "He tried to bet abarrel of money and the bookmakers laughed at him. As a general thinghe bets a few dollars in each book; this time he went at 'em toostrong. The bookies are a little leary of that innocent old boy. "

"Call him innocent if you want to. He's either the shrewdest horsemanon this circuit--or the luckiest, and I be damned if I can tellwhich! Hm-m-m. Jeremiah, 20 to 1. If he bled this morning, he oughtto be a thousand!"

So, also, thought the employer of Shine McManus, none other than thefat gentleman with the purple jowls, otherwise Izzy Marx, known tohis friends as "Easy Marks. " McManus was a not unimportant cog in thesecret-service department maintained by the bookmaker. 

"Listen, Mac!" wheezed Marx. "I want you to tail Old Man Curry fromnow until the barrier goes up, understand? Yes, yes, you _told_ methe horse bled this morning, but that old fox has got the miraclehabit; I'd hate to give him too long a price on a _dead_ horse, understand, Mac? If Curry is going to bet a plugged nickel on thishere Jeremiah, I'll hold him out and not take a cent on him. Stickaround close and shoot me back word by Abie. The rest of thesefellows have got 20 to 1 on him; he's 15 to 1 in this book until Ihear from you. Hurry, now!"

There were ten horses entered in the final race of the meeting, andnine of them were strongly touted as "good things. " The tenth wasJeremiah and the most reckless hustler at the track refused toconsider the black horse as a contender for anything but sanguinaryhonours. 

"Him? Nix! Didn't you hear about him? Why, he bled this morning inhis workout! No chance!"

Of course there were those who did not believe this, so they askedJeremiah's owner and Old Man Curry stamped up and down the paddockstall and complained querulously. They asked him if Jeremiah had achance and he replied that Elisha was a good hoss, a crackin' goodhoss, but they wouldn't let him bet his money. They asked him ifJeremiah was likely to bleed and he told them that a bookmaker whowouldn't take a bet when it was shoved under his nose ought to be runoff the track. They asked him what the other owners were doing andwere informed that he had a tarnation good mind to make a holler tothe judges. Word of this condition of affairs soon reached Mr. Marx. 

"The old nut is ravin' all over the place about how he couldn't get abet down on Elisha. Says if he wasn't allowed to bet on the besthorse in his barn he certainly ain't goin' to bet on the worst one. Oh, yes, and he's talkin' about makin' a holler to the judges!"

"Fat chance!" chuckled Marx, and Jeremiah went to 25 to 1. 

Clear and high above the hum of the betting ring rose the notes of abugle. The last field of the season was being called to the track andinstead of the usual staccato summons the bugler blew "Taps. "

"There she goes, boys!" bellowed the bookmakers. "That's good-by fora whole year, you know! Bet 'em fast! They're on the way to the post!Only a few minutes more!"

The final attack closed in around the stands. Men who had solemnlypromised themselves not to make another bet caught the fever andhurled themselves into the jam, bent on exchanging coin of the realmfor pasteboard tickets and hope of sudden prosperity. It was the lastrace of the season, wasn't it, and good-bye to the bangtails foranother year!

During this mad attack Abie squirmed through the mob and plucked atMarx's sleeve. It was his third report. 

"The old bird is settin' out there in the corner of the stall all byhimself, chewin' a straw. Says he's so disgusted he don't care if hesees the race or not. I started to kid him about bein' such a craband, honest, I was afraid he'd bite me!"

Mr. Marx grinned and chalked up 40 to 1 on Jeremiah. "Now let himbleed!" said he. 

The distance of the final event was three-quarters of a mile and thecrowd in the betting ring continued to swarm about the stands untilthe clang of the gong warned them that the race was on. Then therewas a wild rush for the lawn; even the fat Mr. Marx climbed down fromhis perch and waddled out into the sunshine, blinking as he turnedhis small eyes toward the back stretch. 

Now little Mose had been watching the starter carefully and hadthrown his mount at the barrier just as it rose in the air, but therewere other jockeys in the race who had done the same thing, andJeremiah's was not the only early speed that sizzled down to thehalf-mile pole. At least four of the "good things" were away to arunning start--Fireball, Sky Pilot, Harry Root, and Resolution. Jeremiah trailed the quartet, content to kick clods at the seconddivision. On the upper turn Fireball and Harry Root found the pacetoo warm for them and dropped back. Jeremiah found himself in thirdplace, coasting along easily under a strong pull. The presiding judgeturned his binoculars upon the black horse and favoured him with asearching scrutiny. 

"Ah, hah!" said he, wagging his head. "I thought as much. Jeremiahmay have bled this morning, but he ain't bleeding _now_ and thatlittle nigger is almost breaking his jaw to keep him from runningover the two in front!... Old Man Curry again! Oh, but he's a cuterascal!"

"I'd rather see him get away with it than some of these other owners, at that, " said the associate judge. 

"So would I ... I kind of like the old coot.... Now what on earth doyou suppose he's done to that horse since this morning?"

A few thousand spectators were asking variations of the samequestion, but one spectator asked no questions at all. The Bald-facedKid was reduced by stuttering degrees to dumb amazement. He hadignored Old Man Curry's kindly suggestion and had persuaded all andsundry to plunge heavily on Fireball. 

It really was not much of a contest. Sky Pilot, on the rail, swungwide turning into the stretch and carried Resolution with him. Like aflash Little Mose shot the black horse through the opening andstraightened away for the wire, an open length away for the wire, anopen length in the lead. 

"Come git him, jocks!" shrilled Mose. "Come git ol' Jeremiah to-day!"

The most that can be said for the other jockeys is that they tried, but Little Mose hugged the rail and Jeremiah came booming down thehome stretch alone, fighting for his head and hoping for some realcompetition which never quite arrived. The black horse won by threeopen lengths, won with wraps still on his jockey's wrists, and, asthe form chart stated, "did not bleed and was never fully extended. "

"Well, anyhow, " said Mr. Marx, as he wheezed back to his place ofbusiness, "Curry won't get anything but the purse again and that'llhelp some. If he brought a dead horse around here in a wagon, thebest he'd get from me would be 1 to 2!"

The judges, of course, were curious. They invited Old Man Curry intothe stand to ask him if he had bet on Jeremiah. 

"Gentlemen, " said he, removing his battered slouch hat, "I give youmy word, I never went near that betting ring but once to-day, andthat was to bet on a _real_ hoss. 'Elisha!' I says, and I shoved itat 'em. Judges, they laughed at me. They wouldn't take a cent. Not acent! And I was so mad----"

"Yes, yes, " said the presiding judge, soothingly, "but how do youaccount for Jeremiah bleeding in his work this morning and runningsuch a good race this afternoon?"

"Gentlemen, " said Old Man Curry, "I don't account for it. Solomon wasthe smartest man that ever lived, I reckon, and there was a lot ofthings he never figured out. I reckon now, if he'd been in thisbusiness----"

"Good-bye, Mr. Curry, " said the presiding judge, "and good luck!"

The Bald-faced Kid might see miracles with his eyes, but there wasthat about him which demanded explanation. Chastened in spirit, utterly humble and cast down, he called upon Old Man Curry. He foundhim seated in his tackle-room, reading the Old Testament by the lightof a lantern. 

"Come in, Frank.... Got the Lunacy Board with you?"

"Don't rub it in. And if you can spare the time, I wish you'd tell mewhat you've been up to with Jeremiah. "

"Oh, Jeremiah. Well, now, he's a better hoss than some folks think. There wasn't anything wrong with him but just them little bleedin'spells. When I got him cured of those----"

"Cured! Was he cured this morning? Didn't I see him bleed all overthe place?"

"You saw some blood, yes ... Frank, I wish't you wouldn't interruptme when I'm talkin'.... Well, about three weeks ago I met up with aman that claimed he had a remedy to cure bleeders. I let him try hishand on Jeremiah and he done a good job. Since then we've beenworkin' the black rascal at two in the mornin' when all you wisefolks was in bed.... Of course, I didn't want anybody to know it wasJeremiah I was figurin' on, so I gave 'em something else to thinkabout. I started 'Lisha the same day and I tried to get as many folksinterested in him as I could. I had the little nigger send him a mileso fast that a wayfarin' man and a fool couldn't help but see he wasready. And then I kind of distracted 'em some more by goin' into thebettin' ring with a big mess of one dollar bills with a fifty on theoutside. I held the money up where everybody could see it and Icarried on scandalous when the bookmakers wouldn't take it, I'd havecarried on a lot worse if one of them children of Israel had calledmy bluff. And then I got so mad because they wouldn't let me bet on'Lisha that they thought I'd lost interest in Jeremiah.... I've heardthat Jeremiah wasn't played. He was played all over the ring, twodollars at a time and it was my money that played him. But of coursethose bookmakers knew I was sulkin' out in the paddock and took thesucker money.... Anything else you want to know?"

"Yes!" The Bald-faced Kid had reached the bursting point. "WasJeremiah bleeding this morning or not?"

Old Man Curry stroked his beard thoughtfully. 

"Well, it was real _blood_, if that's what you want to know, " saidhe. "It took me some time to study that out. Last week Mose camearound here, squawkin' on one of them little toy balloons. I took itaway from him for fear it would make the hosses nervous--and then Igot to studying how it was made. Last night I done some shopping. Ibought a nice, fat hen and a glass pumping arrangement from a drugstore.... The hen, she passed away this mornin' about daybreak. Shebled quite a lot, but I got most of it in that rubber bag, and whenJeremiah was ready for his gallop----"

"You put it in his mouth?"

Old Man Curry nodded. 

"Oh, why didn't you tell me?" wailed the Bald-faced Kid. "I couldhave cleaned up!"

"I started in to tell you, son, and you said I ought to have my headexamined. And then, I kind of like to surprise folks, Frank. I knewyou wouldn't have the nerve to bet on a bleeder like Jeremiah, so Ihad some bettin' done for you. " Old Man Curry fumbled in his pocketand produced a roll of bills. "Solomon says there's a time to get, and I don't know of any better time than get-away day!"

ELIPHAZ, LATE FAIRFAX

When Old Man Curry's racing string arrived at the second stop on theJungle Circuit the Bald-faced Kid met the horse car in the railroadyards and watched the thoroughbreds come down the chute into thecorral. One by one he checked them off: Elisha, the pride of thestable; Elijah, Isaiah, Ezekiel, Esther, Nehemiah, Ruth, andJeremiah. The aged owner, straw in mouth and hands clasped behindhim, watched the unloading process narrowly giving an order now andthen and sparing no more than a nod for his young friend. This sortof welcome did not discourage the Kid. He was accustomed to the oldman's spells of silence, as well as his garrulous interludes. 

"They look all right, old-timer, " said the Kid, making conversationfor its own sake. "Yes, sir, they look good. The trip didn't bother'em much. Elisha, now, I'd say he was ready to step out and bust atrack record as soon as he gets the cinders out of his ears. Shouldn't wonder if he----"

The aimless chatter died away into amazed silence. Shanghai, thehostler, appeared at the head of the chute leading a large, coal-black horse. 

"Well, for Heaven's sake!" muttered the Kid, moving nearer the fence, his eyes glued on the black stranger. "Where did you pick up thatfellow?... One white forefoot. H-m-m!... Say, you don't mean to tellme this is Fairfax?"

Old Man Curry nodded. 

"Fairfax!" ejaculated the Bald-faced Kid disgustedly. "Well, how inthe name of all that is good, great, and wise did you get thatcrowbait wished on you?"

Old Man Curry threw away his straw and reached for his packet of finecut, a sure sign that he was about to unburden himself. 

"He wa'n't wished on me, Frank. Jimmy Miles was stuck with a feedbill, and at the last minute, just as I was loadin' my hosses, he----"

"He stuck you with _that_, " finished the Kid, pointing at the blackhorse. 

"Well, I dunno's I'd say _stuck_, " remarked Old Man Curry, lookingcritically at Fairfax. "Jimmy sold him to me for next to nothing. "

"And you can bet he didn't misrepresent the goods any!" said the Kid. "That's exactly what Fairfax is--next to nothing. He's so nearnothing that a lot of folks can't tell the difference. If you said tome: 'This is a black horse named Fairfax and that over there isnothing, ' I couldn't tell which was which. Old-timer, you're in bad. "

"Mebbe I am. " Old Man Curry's tone was apologetic and conciliating inthe extreme. "Mebbe I am. You ought to know 'bout hosses, Frank. Youmost gener'ly do. "

"Cut out the sarcasm, because here's one I _do_ know.... You made asucker of me on Jeremiah, but don't rub it in. This Fairfax lookslike a stake horse and on his breeding he ought to run like one, buthe simply can't untrack himself in any kind of going. If hay was twobits a ton and this black fellow had an appetite like a humming bird, he wouldn't be worth feeding. I'm telling you!"

"I hear you, Frank. " Old Man Curry pretended to reflect deeply, butthere was a shifting light in his eye. "Ah, hah! Your advice, then, would be to take him out and shoot him to save expense?"

"Oh, quit your kidding, old-timer. You've bought a race horse; now goahead and see what you can do with him. "

"Well, ain't that queer?" ejaculated the old man. "Ain't it? Greatminds run in the same channels, for a fact. You know, that's exacklywhat I was figgerin' to do! I ain't had time to look this black hossover yet--I bought him just before we pulled out of the railroadyards--but I've been expectin' to see what I could do with him. Whenever I get hold of a hoss that ought to run--a hoss that looksas if he could run, but ain't doin' it--the next thing I want to findout is _why_. If I thought there was a cold strain in Fairfax, Iwouldn't waste a minute on him, but I know he's bred right. His daddywas sure a go-getter from 'way up the creek and his mother was anice, honest little mare and game as a badger.... And, speakin' aboutbreeding, Frank, I don't know's you ever thought of it, but when itcomes to ancestors, a real thoroughbred hoss has got something on ahuman being. Even Fairfax over there had his ancestors picked out forhim by folks who knew their business and was after results--go backwith him as far as you like and that'll be true. A hoss or a marewithout class can't ring in on a family tree, whereas humans ain'tnoways near that partickler. Son, good looks has made grandfathersout of lots of men that by rights should have been locked up insteadof married. Did you ever think of that?"

The Bald-faced Kid laughed. 

"I think that you're putting up a whale of an argument to excuseyourself for shipping that black hay burner around the country. You'dsave breath by admitting that Miles slipped one over on you. "

"Mebbe he did and mebbe he didn't. Jimmy Miles don't know all thereis to be knowed about hosses--coming right down to it, I'd say he'spretty near ignorant. Like as not he's overlooked something aboutthis Fairfax. I tell you, on his breeding, the hoss ought to run. "

"And Al Engle ought to be in jail, but he ain't. He's here, big aslife. "

"And aspreading himself like a green bay tree, I reckon, " said theold man. "I've lopped a few branches off that rascal in my time, andif I have any luck I'll lop off a few more at this meeting.... OleMaje Pettigrew is still the presiding judge here, ain't he?"

"Sure. They can't get rid of him. "

"A lot of crooks would like to. " There was a trace of grimness in theold man's tone. "Pettigrew won't stand for no monkey business, pullin' a boss's head off on Monday and cuttin' him loose on Tuesday. They've got to be middlin' consistent p'formers to get by the major, and if Al Engle goes runnin' 'em in and out he'll get his jacketdusted good; you mark what I say!"

The Bald-faced Kid shook his head. 

"That's your hope talking now, " said he, "and not your common sense. These race-track judges have been after The Sharpshooter a long time, but I notice he's still wearing an owner's badge and coming in at thefree gate. He's a crook--no getting away from it--but he's gothigh-up friends. "

"Let him have 'em!" snapped Old Man Curry. "You know what Solomonsays? 'Though hand join in hand, the wicked shall not be unpunished. 'Let Engle have his pull; it won't buy him a nickel's worth with oleMaje Pettigrew. When he starts dealin' out justice, the cards comeoff the top of the deck and they lay as they fall. The major will gethim, I tell you!"

"I won't go into deep mourning if he does, " said the Kid. "Al Engleis no friend of mine, old-timer. If he was overboard in fifty feet ofwater and couldn't swim a lick, I'd toss him a bar of lead--that'show much I think of him. He did me a mean trick once and I haven'tgot over it yet. He--say! Don't you feed that black horse, or what?"

"Huh? _Feed_ him? Of course we feed him! Why?"

"You don't feed him enough or he wouldn't be trying to eat up the toprail of the fence. Take a look, will you?"

Sure enough, Fairfax was gnawing at the pine board; the grating raspof his teeth became audible in the silence. After a time the horsedropped his head and gulped heavily. 

"Suffering mackerel!" ejaculated the Kid. "He ain't really_swallowing_ those splinters, is he?"

The time came when the Bald-faced Kid recalled that Old Man Curry'snext remark was not a direct reply to his question. After a carefulsurvey of the black horse the patriarch of the Jungle Circuit spoke. 

"What Jimmy Miles don't know about hosses would fill a big book!"

Ten days later Fairfax, running in Old Man Curry's colours and underthe name of Eliphaz, won a cheap selling race from very badhorses--won it in a canter after leading all the way. The Bald-facedKid, a student to whom past performance was a sacred thing, wasshocked at this amazing reversal of form and sought Old ManCurry--and information. 

"I don't know how you do it!" said the youth. "All I can say is thatyou're a marvel--a wizard. This Fairfax----"

"Eliphaz, son, " said the old man. "Eliphaz. I got his name changed. "

"And his heart too, " said the Kid. "And maybe you got him a new setof legs, or lungs, or something? Well, Eliphaz, then--do you know howfast that bird stepped the first half mile?"

Old Man Curry nodded. 

"I reckon I do, " said he simply. "I bet quite a chunk on him. "

"But of course you wouldn't open up and tell a friend!" TheBald-faced Kid was beginning to show signs of exasperation. "You'rethe fellow that invented secrets, ain't you, old-timer? You're by aclam out of an oyster, you are! Never mind! Don't say it! I can tellby the look in your eye that Solomon thought the clam was the king ofbeasts. What I want to know is this: how did that black brute come tochange his heart at the same time with his name?"

"I dunno's there was ever anything wrong with his _heart_, " said OldMan Curry. "Lots of folks make that mistake and think a man's heartis bad when it's only his habits that need reformin'. Now Eliphaz, onhis breeding, he ought to----"

"Yes, yes! I know all about his breeding--by Stormcloud out ofFrippery--but he never ran to his breeding before. The way he ran forJimmy Miles you'd have thought he was by a steam roller out of awheelbarrow. What in Sam Hill have you been doing to him--sprinklingpowders on his tongue?"

The old man's eyes flashed wrathfully. 

"You know better'n that, Frank. All the help the black hoss had waswhat little bit Mose give him after the barrier went up. Ketch mehanding the drug habit to a dumb critter! I guess _not_!"

"Keep your shirt on, " was the soothing reply. "I'm only telling youwhat they say. They think Jimmy Miles didn't know the rightprescription. "

"A lot of things he don't know besides p'scriptions!" retorted OldMan Curry, still nettled. "Hosses, for one!"

"But you're getting away from the subject, old-timer. Ain't you goingto tell me what you've done to this horse to make him win?"

"Some day, Frank--some day. " The aged horseman combed his white beardwith his fingers and regarded his impatient young friend with benigntolerance. "You--got many clients, so far?" Thus tactfully did OldMan Curry recognise the fact that the Bald-faced Kid was what anotherman might have called a tout. 

"A few, yes, " said the Kid. "Pikers. "

"Well, sort of whisper to 'em that Eliphaz'll be a good bet the nexttime out. "

"If it's a dog race, there won't be any price on him, " was the sulkyresponse. 

"It won't be a dog race, " said Old Man Curry. "It'll be a hoss race. "

A few days afterward the Bald-faced Kid picked up the overnight entryslip and there found something which caused him to emit a long, lowwhistle. 

"Well, the poor old nut!" murmured the Kid. "Just because he thinkswell of the black horse, he's got no license to slip him in againstthe real ones.... Too much class here for Eliphaz. He may be able tobeat dogs and nonwinners, but Topaz and Miss Louise will run theeyeballs out of him. Let's see--Topaz won his last start----" and theBald-faced Kid fell to thumbing his form charts. 

Topaz and Miss Louise did not run the eyeballs out of Eliphaz; thesupposed contenders never got near enough to the black horse to givehim a race. Eliphaz burst out in front when the barrier rose andstayed there, triumphantly kicking clods in the faces of hispursuers. To quote from the form chart notes: "Eliphaz much too good;surprised the talent by winning as he pleased. "

He certainly surprised the Bald-faced Kid, and grieved him too, forthat youth had persuaded a most promising client to bet his lastdollar on Topaz. Topaz was second, which was some consolation, butthe horse without any license to start in such company passed underthe wire with three lengths to spare, his mouth wide open because ofa strong pull. That night Old Man Curry poured vinegar into thewound. 

"Well, son, " said he, "I hope and trust you remembered what I saidand cashed in on the black hoss to-day. They was offerin' 10 to 1 onhim in the openin' betting. He's an improved hoss, ain't he?"

"He's _another_ horse!" grunted the Kid. "Mose had to choke him allthe way down the stretch to keep him from breaking a track record!What on earth have you done to him?"

"That's what they'd all like to know, " chuckled the old man. "'A wordspoken in due season, how good it is!' I spoke one a few days ago. Did you heed it, Frank?"

"How in hell could I figure him to beat Topaz?" snarled the Kid. "Onhis past performance he ain't even in the same class with horses likehe beat to-day!"

Old Man Curry smiled and returned to Solomon. 

"'A scorner seeketh wisdom and findeth it not, but knowledge is easyunto him that understandeth. '"

"Yes--'unto him that understandeth!' That's the point; I don'tunderstand. Nobody understands. Here's a dead horse come to life andhe's got everybody guessing. Miracles are all right, but I'm nevergoing to bet on one until I know how it's done. Say, old-timer, ain'tyou going to tell me what's happened to Eliphaz?"

"No, but I'll tell you what Solomon says 'bout a loose tongue, myson. " Old Man Curry paused, for he was addressing the vanishing coattails of a much-disgusted young man. The Bald-faced Kid took himselfoff in a highly inflamed state of mind, and the patriarch, lookingafter him, shook his head sorrowfully. 

"'How much better is it to get wisdom than gold, '" he quoted, "butFrank, now--he wants 'em both at the same time!"

There were others who were earnest in their search for information, which became acute when Eliphaz, late Fairfax, won his fourth race, abrilliant victory over the best horses at the track. Among theseekers after knowledge, were Al Engle and Martin O'Connor, horsemenand turf pirates with whom Old Man Curry had been at war for sometime. Engle, sometimes called The Sharpshooter, was the chiefconspirator; O'Connor was his lieutenant. Engle, who was responsiblefor the skirmishes with Curry, had begun operations with the theorythat Old Man Curry was a harmless, brainless individual, "shot fullof luck, " he expressed it. Circumstances had caused him to alter hisopinion somewhat; he no longer pitied the owner of Eliphaz andElisha; he suspected him. O'Connor went even farther. He respectedand feared everything bearing the Curry tag, the latter feelingamounting almost to superstition. 

These two unworthies discussed the resurrection of Fairfax, the placeof the confab being O'Connor's tackle-room and the time being thenight following the fourth straight victory of the Curry colours asborne by Eliphaz. 

"If it ain't hop he's using on that horse, " said O'Connor, "I wishyou'd tell me what it is. A month ago Fairfax was a bum; now he'spretty near a stake horse and getting better every time he starts. Why couldn't we have a smart 'vet' look him over on the sly before hegoes to the post the next time? Then we could send word to the judgethat Curry was stimulating the horse and----"

"And create a lovely precedent, " sneered Engle. "Use your head alittle more; that's what it's for. A man that hops his horses asoften as you do can't afford to start any investigations along thatline. If you must throw something at Curry, throw a brick, not aboomerang.... And somehow I don't believe it's hop. Fairfax wasprobably a good horse all the time, but Jimmy Miles didn't know it;and, as for training, Jimmy couldn't train a goat for a buttingcontest, let alone a thoroughbred for a race! Curry is a wisehorseman--I'll give the old scoundrel that much--and he's got thisbird edged up. Take it from me, he's a cracking good selling plater. I'd like to have him in my barn. "

O'Connor laughed unpleasantly. He resented Engle's easy and arrogantassumption of mental superiority, and was thankful for a chance toremind The Sharpshooter of one skirmish in which all the honours hadgone to Old Man Curry. 

"G'wan, run him up like you did Elisha, " said O'Connor. "Grab him outof a selling race. My memory ain't what it used to be, Al, but seemsto me you took one of Curry's horses away from him and framed him upfor a killing. Did I dream it, or did the skate run last? Go on andgrab another horse away from the old boy!"

"Will you ever quit beefing about the money you lost on that race?"snapped Engle. 

"Will I ever forget who got me into it?" countered O'Connor. "And ifyou'll take a tip from me--which you won't because you think you'resmarter than I am--you'll let Old Man Curry's horses alone. It ain'tin the cards that you or me can monkey with those Bible horseswithout getting hurt. Grab this Fairfax, or whatever they call himnow, but count me out. "

"No-o, " said The Sharpshooter, his lips pursed and his brow wrinkled. "I don't want to grab him. I'd rather get him some other way. "

"Buy him, then. "

Engle shook his head. 

"Curry wouldn't sell--not to me, anyway. He might to some one else. Isaw Jimmy Miles this afternoon, and he was crying about what awonderful horse he'd sold for nothing. I wonder where I could gethold of Jimmy?"

The following evening the Bald-faced Kid called upon his aged friendand interrupted a heart-to-heart session in Old Man Curry'stackle-room. 

"Hello, old-timer! Hello, Jimmy! Am I butting in here?"

Jimmy Miles, a thin, sandy-haired man with pale-blue eyes and aretreating chin, answered for both. 

"No, nothing private. I've been tryin' to tell Curry here that hekind of took a mean advantage of me when he bought Fairfax so cheap. "

"Eliphaz, " corrected the old man, "and it wa'n't no advantage becauseyou was crazy to sell. "

"I'd been drinkin' or I wouldn't have been such a fool, " whinedMiles. "Booze in--brains out: the old story. If I hadn't been rightup against it, I wouldn't have sold the horse at all--attached to himthe way I was. I'd worked with him a long time, gettin' him ready towin, and it was a mistake to let him go just when he was shapin' up. I--I'd like to buy him back. Put a price on him, old man. "

Miles stooped to extinguish a burning match end which the Kid hadthrown on the floor, and in that instant the Bald-faced Kid caughtOld Man Curry's eye and shook his head ever so slightly. 

"He ain't for sale, " said the owner of Eliphaz. 

"Not for cash--and your own figure?" persisted Miles. Again awordless message flashed across the tackle-room. This time the Kid, yawning, stretched one hand high over his head. 

"Two thousand dollars!" said Old Man Curry promptly. 

Miles gulped his astonishment. 

"Why--why, you _got_ him for a hundred and fifty!" he cried. 

"He's a better hoss than when I got him, " said the old man, "and he'swon four races. Maybe he'll win four more. You asked for my figure. You got it. Two thousand. Not a cent less. "

Miles argued and pleaded, but the old man was firm. 

"It ain't as if I was wantin' to sell, " he explained. "I never wantto sell--when the other man wants to buy. That's business, ain't it?Two thousand--take it or leave it. "

"I'll see you later, " said Miles. "You might come down some. "

Hardly was he out of the room before Old Man Curry turned to hisremaining guest. 

"Well, Frank, " said he, "you know something. What is it?"

"I know Miles is trying to buy the black horse for Al Engle. "

Old Man Curry's fist thumped upon his knee. 

"Engle! How did you find that out, son?"

The Bald-faced Kid grinned. 

"Everybody ain't as close-mouthed as you are, old-timer. Engle, O'Connor, and Jimmy Miles split a quart of wine in the restaurantunder the grand stand after the last race to-day and the waiter hungaround and got an earful. O'Connor was against the deal from thejump. He says nobody can win any money on a Bible horse withoutqueering his luck. Engle knows you wouldn't sell to him so he sentMiles after you and told him what to say. He'd like to run that horsein his colours next Saturday and win the Handicap with him. "

"You're sure he ain't intending to lay him up with the books and havehim pulled, or something?"

"Not at this track, old-timer. You see, Engle is just the leastlittle bit leery of Pettigrew. They talked it all over and decidedthat it wouldn't be healthy for him to buy a four-time winner andmake a bad showing with him the first time out. He wants the horsefor a gambling tool, all right enough, but he won't be foolish enoughto do any cheating with Eliphaz at this track. Engle says himselfthat he don't dare take a chance--not with old Pettigrew laying forhim--on general principles. Engle thinks that if he buys the blackhorse and wins a good race with him first time out it may pull thewool over Pettigrew's eyes. He says Eliphaz is a cinch in theHandicap next Saturday. "

Old Man Curry fingered his beard for some time in silence. 

"Blast the luck!" said he suddenly. "Why didn't I know Miles wasarepresentin' Al Engle?"

"You'd have said three thousand, eh?"

"No, " said Old Man Curry. "No, son. Fifteen hundred. "

"_Fifteen hundred!_ You're crazy!"

"Mebbe I am, but Solomon, he says that even a fool, if he keeps hismouth shut tight enough, can pass for a wise man.... Frank, I wishyou'd go out and find Jimmy Miles. Sort of hint to him that if hecomes back here he won't be throwed out on his head. Do that for me, and mebbe you won't lose nothing by it. "

The negotiations for the purchase of Eliphaz were long drawn out, buton Friday evening at dusk Old Man Curry went into the stall and saidgood-bye to his four-time winner. 

"Don't be so skittish!" said the old gentleman. "I ain't come to putthe strap on ye.... Habit is a great thing, black hoss, a greatthing. In this case I'm kind of dependin' on it. You know what thedog done, don't ye? And the sow that was washed, she went wallerin'in the mire, first chance she got. That's in the New Testament, butPeter, he got the notion from Solomon and didn't give him crediteither.... Good-bye, black hoss, and whatever happens, good luck!"

This was at dusk, but it was close to eleven o'clock when thetransaction was completed by transfer of a fat roll of bills, whichOld Man Curry counted very carefully. 

"Four hundred--five hundred--Jimmy, this hoss has got a engagementfor the Handicap to-morrow--seven hundred--seven-fifty--Was youthinkin' of startin' him?"

"M--well, yes. I think he's got a chance, " said Miles. 

"A royal chance--'Leven hundred--twelve hundred.... In that case, price bein' satisfactory and all, I oughtn't to hold out anyinfo'mation. This black hoss shouldn't be worked to-morrow mornin'. He got his last workout to-day; the full distance, and he's ready. Iwasn't even goin' to warm him up before takin' him to the paddock. Some hosses run better hot; some run better cold.... Fourteenhundred--fifteen hundred, and O. K. --Better not forget that, Jimmy. "

"I won't, old-timer. Guess I better take him now, eh?"

"As well now as any other time. He's your hoss. "

Major Ewell Duval Pettigrew was an early riser, but he was barelyinto his trousers when a bell boy tapped at his door. The major wassmall and plump, with a face like a harvest moon, if you can imaginea harvest moon wearing a bristling moustache and goatee. Horsemenknew to their sorrow that the major owned a long memory, a shorttemper, and strong prejudices. Consistent racing was his cry and woeto the in-and-outer. 

"Somebody to see me, eh?" sputtered the major. "Blankety blank it toblank! Man can't even get his breakfast in peace! Oh, Mr. Curry. Showthe gentleman up, boy. "

"Judge, " said Old Man Curry, after shaking hands, "there's somethingyou ought to know. I bought that Eliphaz hoss from JimmyMiles--bought him cheap. "

"And a good bargain, suh, " remarked Major Pettigrew. 

"Mebbe. Well, Miles has been pesterin' me for a week wantin' to buythe hoss back. Said he never would have sold him if he hadn't been inlicker. He kind of thought I took advantage of him, he said, but itwa'n't true, judge, not a word of it. So last night I let him buy thehoss back--for cash. This mornin' the hoss is in Al Engle's barn. "

"Ah!" Major Pettigrew twisted his goatee until it stuck out straightfrom his chin. "Engle, eh?"

"He knew I never would have sold that hoss to him, so he sent Miles, "explained Old Man Curry. "I--I've had some trouble with Engle, judge. I beat him a few times when he wasn't lookin' for me to win. In case anything happens, I thought I better see you and explain howEngle got hold of the hoss--through another party. "

"Yes, suh, " said Major Pettigrew. "I understand yo' positionperfectly, suh. Suppose, now, you had not sold the animal. Would yousay he had a chance to win the Handicap?"

"Judge, " said Old Man Curry earnestly, "I would have bet on him fromhell to breakfast. Now I don't know's I would put a nickel on him. "

"Neither would I, suh. And, speaking of breakfast, Mr. Curry, willyo' join me in a grilled kidney?"

"Thank you just the same, judge, but I reckon I better be gettin'back to the track. I had my breakfast at sunup. I thought you oughtto know the straight of how this black hoss come to change owners. "

"I am indebted to you, suh, " said the major, with a bow. 

Jockey Merritt, wearing Engle's colours, stood in the paddock stalleyeing Eliphaz and listening to the whispered instructions of the newowner. 

"Get him away flying, jock, and never look back. He's a fast breaker. Keep him in front all the way, but don't win too far. "

"Bettin' much on him?" asked Merritt. 

"Not a nickel. He opened at even money and they played him to 4 to5. I don't fancy the odds, but you ride him just the same as if thelast check was down--mind that. On his workout yesterday morning he'sready for a better race than any he's shown so far, so bring him homein front. "

The bugle blared, the jockeys were flung into the saddles and theparade began. The race was at seven-eighths, and as the horses passedthe grand stand on the way to the post Jockey Merritt heard his namecalled. Major Pettigrew was standing on the platform in front of thepagoda, bawling through a megaphone. 

"Boy, bring that black hoss over here!"

Merritt reined Eliphaz across the track, touched the visor of his capwith his whip, and looked up inquiringly. 

"Son, " said Major Pettigrew, "you're on the favourite, so don't makeany mistakes with him. I want to see you ride from start tofinish--and I'm goin' to be watchin' you. That's all. "

"I'll do my best, judge, " was Merritt's answer. 

"You see that the hoss does his best, " warned the major. "Proceedwith him, son. "

The Handicap was a great race, but we are concerned with but onehorse--Eliphaz, late Fairfax. When the barrier rose Jockey Merrittbooted the spurs home and tried to hurl the big black into the lead. He might as well have tried to get early speed out of a porpoise. Eliphaz grunted loudly and in exactly five lumbering jumps was inlast place; the other horses went on and left the favourite snortingin the dust. Jockey Merritt raked the black sides with his spurs andslashed cruelly with his whip--the favourite would not, could not getout of a slow, awkward gallop. 

"Blankety blank it!" exclaimed Major Pettigrew to the associatejudge. "What did I tell you, eh? Sure as a gun, Engle laid him up, and the books made him favourite and took in a ton of money! Look athim, will you? Ain't that pitiful?"

"He runs like a cow, " said the major's assistant. "Merritt iscertainly riding him, though. He's whipping at every jump. "

It was a long way around the track, and probably only one man wasreally sorry for Eliphaz. Old Man Curry, at the paddock gate, shookhis head as the black horse floundered down the stretch, last byfifty yards, the blunt spurs tearing at his sides and the rawhideraising welts on his shoulders. 

The winning numbers had dropped into position before Eliphaz cameunder the wire. Major Pettigrew took one look at the horse and calledto the official messenger. 

"Find Engle and tell him I want to see him!"

"Well, old-timer, here we are again with our hat in our hand!" It wasthe Bald-faced Kid, at the door of Old Man Curry's tackle-room. "Thistime you've put one over for fair! Major Pettigrew has just passedout his decision to the newspaper boys. "

"Ah, hah!" said the old man, looking up from the Book of Proverbs. "His decision, eh? Was he--kind of severelike?"

"Oh, no--o! Not what you'd call severe. I suppose he could haveordered Engle boiled in oil or hung by the neck or something likethat, but the major let him down light. All he did was to rule himoff the turf for life!"

"Gracious Peter! You don't tell me!"

"Yes, and his horses too. The whole bunch! Engle is almost crazy. Heswears on his mother's grave that he's in-no-cent and he's going toappeal to the Jockey Club and have Eliphaz examined by a 'vet' andthe Lord knows what all. Oh, he's wild! It seems that Pettigrewwanted him to prove that he'd backed the horse and he couldn'tproduce the losing tickets. If Merritt hadn't half killed the horse, Pettigrew would have got him too. "

"Well, well!" said the old man, turning back to Proverbs. "I was justreadin' something here. 'He that seeketh mischief, it shall come untohim. ' Engle has been seekin' mischief a long time now and look whathe's got. "

"Too true, old-timer, " said the Bald-faced Kid, "but who was itordered the mischief wrapped up and delivered to him? Come through!"

"Hold up your right hand!" said Old Man Curry. 

"Cross my heart and hope to die if I ever tell!" said the Kid. "Nowthen, come clean. "

"Frank, " said the old man, "do you remember when we was unloadin' thehosses and ketched Eliphaz bitin' at the fence?... You do? Then youought to be ashamed to ask any questions, because if you know hosseslike you should know 'em--in your business--you wouldn't need to askquestions. 

"Eliphaz is a cribber, and a cribber is a hoss that sucks itself fullof wind like a balloon. I knew the minute I see him drop his head andswallow that way that cribbin' was what ailed him. That explained hisbein' such a bad race hoss. Jimmy Miles probably never done a thingto correct that habit--didn't know he had it, likely. 

"Well, the first thing I did was to keep the hoss's head tied high inthe daytime, because no hoss will crib unless he can get his headdown. Then at night I put on a cribbin' strap and buckled it tightaround his neck. He could get his head down all right, but hecouldn't suck any air. With that habit corrected, Eliphaz was a greathoss. 

"When I found out that Engle wanted to buy him, I let Eliphaz criball day Friday, after he'd been worked, and when I sold him I didn'tsell the strap. That's all, Frank. When he went to the post he was sofull of air that if Merritt hadn't been settin' on him he'd have goneup like a balloon. That's why I warned you not to let anybody bet onhim.... Did you do pretty well, Frank?"

"I got a toothful while some other folks was getting a meal, "answered the Kid. "Just one thing more: where did you get thatname--Eliphaz?"

"That was a sort of a joke, " confessed the old man. "Once there was aparty named Job, and he had all sorts of hard luck. Some of that hardluck was in not bein' able to lose his friends. They used to come andsee him and hold a lodge of sorrow and set on the ground and talk andtalk--whole chapters of talk--and the windiest one of 'em all----"

"I get you!" chuckled the Bald-faced Kid. "That was Eliphaz!"

Old Man Curry nodded. 

"'Knowledge is easy unto him that understandeth, '" he quoted. 

"Yes, but an inside tip now and then never hurt anybody, " said theBald-faced Kid. "Declare me in on the next miracle, will you?"

THE REDEMPTION HANDICAP

"Well, old sport, are you going to slip another one over on 'emto-day?"

"What do you think of Jeremiah's chances, Mr. Curry?"

"Can this black thing of yours beat the favourite?"

"There's even money on Jeremiah for a place; shall I grab it?"

Old Man Curry, standing at the entrance to a paddock stall, lent anunwilling ear to these queries. He was a firm believer in the truth, but more firmly he believed in the fitness of time and place. Thewhole truth, spoken incautiously in the paddock, has been known toaffect closing odds, and it was the old man's habit to wager at posttime, if at all. Those who pestered the owner of the "Bible stable"with questions about the fitness of Jeremiah and his chances to befirst past the post went back to the betting ring with theirenthusiasm for the black horse slightly abated. Old Man Curryadmitted, under persistent prodding, that if Jeremiah got off well, and nothing happened to him, and it was one of his good days, and hedidn't get bumped on the turn, and the boy rode him just right, andhe could stay in front of the favourite, he might win. Pressedfurther, a note of pessimism developed in the patriarch'sconversation; he became the bearded embodiment of reasonable doubt. Curry's remarks, rapidly circulating in the betting ring, may havemade it possible for Curry's betting commissioner, also rapidlycirculating at the last minute, to unload a considerable bundle ofCurry's money on Jeremiah at odds of 5 and 6 to 1. 

One paddock habitué, usually a keen seeker after information, mighthave received a hint worth money had he come after it. Old Man Currynoted the absence of the Bald-faced Kid, and when the bugle soundedthe call to the track he turned the bridle over to Shanghai, thenegro hostler, and ambled into the betting ring in search of hisyoung friend. The betting ring was the Kid's place of business--iftouting is classed as an occupation and not a misdemeanour--but OldMan Curry did not find him in the crowd. It was not until thehorseman stepped out on the lawn that he spied the Kid, his elbows onthe top rail of the fence, his chin in his hands, and his backsquarely turned to the betting ring. He did not even look around whenthe old man addressed him. 

"Well, Frank, I kind of expected you in the paddock. "

The Kid was staring out across the track with the fixed gaze of onewho sees nothing in particular; he grunted slightly, but did notspeak. 

"Jeremiah--he's worth a bet to-day. "

"Uh-huh!" This without interest or enthusiasm. 

"I saw some 5 to 1 on him just now. "

The Kid swung about and glanced listlessly toward the betting ring. Then he looked at the horses on their way to the post. The old manread his thought. 

"You've got a couple of minutes yet, " said he. "Mebbe more; there'ssome bad actors in that bunch, and they'll delay the start. "

The Kid looked again at the betting ring; then he shook his head. "Aw, what's the use?" said he irritably. "What's the use?"

Old Man Curry's countenance took on a look of deep concern. 

"What ails you, son? Ain't you well?"

"Well enough, I guess. Why?"

"Because I never see you pass up a mortal cinch before. "

The Kid chuckled mirthlessly. "Old-timer, " said he, "I'm up against acinch of my own--but it's a cinch to lose. "

He returned to his survey of the open field, but Old Man Currylingered. He stroked his beard meditatively. 

"Son, " said he at length, "Solomon says that a brother is born foradversity. I don't know what a father is born for, but I reckon it'sto give advice. Where you been the last week or ten days? It'smighty lonesome round the stable without you. "

"I'm in a jam, and you can't help me. "

"Mebbe not, but it might do some good to talk it all out of yoursystem. You know the number, Frank. "

"You mean well, old-timer, " said the Kid; "and your heart's in theright place, but you--you don't understand. "

"No, and how can I 'less you open up and tell me what's the matter?If you've done anything wrong----"

"Forget it!" said the Kid shortly. "You're barking up the wrong tree. I'm trying to figure out how to do right!"... 

That night the door of Old Man Curry's tack room swung gently open, and the aged horseman, looking up from his well-thumbed copy of theOld Testament, nodded to an expected visitor. 

"Set down, Frank, and take a load off your feet, " said he hospitably. "I sort of thought you'd come. "

For a time they talked horse, usually an engrossing subject, butafter a bit the conversation flagged. The Kid rolled many cigaretteswhich he tossed away unfinished, and the old man waited in silencefor that which he knew could not long be delayed. It came at last inthe form of a startling question. "Old-timer, " said the Kidabruptly, "you--you never got married, did you?"

Old Man Curry blinked a few times, passed his fingers through hisbeard, and stared at his questioner. "Why, no, son. " The old manspoke slowly, and it was plain that he was puzzled. "Why, no; I neverdid. "

"Did you ever think of it--seriously, I mean?"

Old Man Curry met this added impertinence without resentment, for thelight was beginning to dawn on him. He drew out his packet of finecut and studied its wrappings carefully. 

"I'm not kidding, old-timer. Did you ever think of it?"

"Once, " was the reply. "Once, son, and I've been thinking about itever since. She was the right one for me, but she got the notion Iwasn't the right one for her. Sometimes it happens that way. Shefound the man she thought she wanted, and I took to runnin' round thecountry with race horses. After that she was sure I was a lost souland hell-bent for certain. This was a long time ago--before you wasborn, I reckon. "

After a silence, the Kid asked another question:

"Well, at that, the race-track game is no game for a married man, isit?"

"M-m-well, " answered the patriarch thoughtfully, "that's as how aman's wife looks at it. Some of 'em think it ain't no harm to gambles'long's you can win, but the average woman, Frank, she don't wantthe hosses runnin' for her bread and butter. You can't blame her forthat, because a woman is dependent by nature. If the Lord had figuredher to git out an' hustle with the men, He'd have built herdifferent, but He made her to be p'tected and shelteredlike. A singleman can hustle and bat round an' go hungry if he wants to, but heain't got no right to ask a woman to gamble her vittles on anyproposition whatever. "

"Ain't it the truth!" ejaculated the Bald-faced Kid, with a depth offeeling quite foreign to his nature. "You surely spoke a mouthfulthen!" Old Man Curry raised one eyebrow slightly and continued hisdiscourse. 

"For a man even to figger on gettin' married, he ought to havesomething comin' in steady--something that bad hosses an' worse mencan't take away from him. He oughtn't to bet at all, but if he doesit ought to be on a mortal cinch. There ain't many real cinches on arace track, Frank; not the kind that a married man'd be justified inbettin' the rent money on. Yes, sir, a man thinkin' 'bout gettin'married ought to have a job--and stick to it!"

"And that job oughtn't to be on a race track either, " supplementedthe Kid, his eyes fixed on the cigarette which he was rolling. "Butthat ain't all I wanted to ask you about, old-timer. Suppose, now, afellow had a girl that was too good for him--a girl that wouldn'twipe her feet on a gambler if she knew it, and was brought up tothink that betting was wrong. And suppose now that this fellow wasn'teven a gambler. Suppose he was a hustler--a tout--but he'd asked thegirl to marry him without telling her what he was, and she'd said shewould. What ought that fellow to do?"

Old Man Curry took his time about answering; took also a largeportion of fine cut and stowed it away in his cheek. 

"Well, son, " said he gently, "it would depend a lot on which thefellow cared the most for--the race track or the girl. "

The Kid flung the cigarette from him and looked up, meeting the oldman's eyes for the first time. "I beat you to it, old-timer! Win orlose, I'm through at the end of this meeting. There's a fellow overin Butte just about my age. He was a hustler too, and a pal of mine, but two years ago he quit, and now he's got a little gents'furnishing-goods place--nothing swell, of course, but the business isgrowing all the time. He's been after me to come in with him on apercentage of the profits, and last night I wrote him to look for mewhen they get done running here. That part of it is settled. No morerace track in mine. But that ain't what I was getting at. Have I gotto tell the girl what I've been doing the last five years?"

"Would you rather have her find out from some one else, Frank?"

"No-o. "

"If you want to start clean, son, the best place to begin is with thegirl. "

"But what if she throws me down?"

"That's the chance you'll have to take. You've been taking 'em allyour life. "

"Yes, but nothing ever meant as much to me as this does. "

"Well, son, the more a woman cares for a man the more she'llforgive. "

"Did Solomon say that?" demanded the Kid suspiciously. 

"No, _I_ said it. You see, Frank, it was this way with Solomon: hehad a thousand wives, more or less, and I reckon he never had time tostrike a general average. He wrote a lot 'bout women, first and last, but it seems he only remembered two kinds--the ones that was too goodto live and the ones that wasn't worth killin'. It would have beenmore helpful to common folks if he'd said something 'bout the generalrun of women. You'd better tell her, Frank. "

The Bald-faced Kid sighed. 

"I'd rather take a licking. You're sure about that forgivingbusiness, old-timer?"

"It's the one best bet, my son. "

"Pull for it to go through, then. Good night--and thank you. "

Left alone, Old Man Curry turned the pages for a time, then readaloud:

"'There be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, fourwhich I know not: The way of an eagle in the air; the way of aserpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea, andthe way of a man with a maid--_the way of a man with a maid_. ' Well, after all, the straight way is the best way, and the boy's on theright track. "

A few days later Old Man Curry, sunning himself in the paddock, caught sight of the Kid. That engaging youth had a victim pinned in acorner and, programme in hand, was pointing the way to prosperity. 

"Now, listen, " he was saying; "you ain't taking a chance when you beton this bird to-day. Didn't I tell you that the boy that rides him ismy cousin? And ain't the owner my pal? What better do you want thanthat? This tip comes straight from the barn, and you can get 20 to 1for all your money!"

The victim squirmed and wriggled and twisted and would have brokenaway but for the Kid's compelling eye. At last he thought ofsomething to say:

"If this here Bismallah is such a hell-clinkin' good race horse, howcome they ain't _all_ bettin' on him?"

"Why ain't they?" the Kid fairly squealed. "Because we've been luckyenough to keep him under cover from everybody! That's why! Nobodyknows what he can do; the stable money won't even be bet here forfear of tipping him off; it'll be bet in the pool rooms all over theCoast. He'll walk in, I tell you--just _walk_ in! Why, say! Youdon't think I'd tell you this if I didn't know it was _so_? Herecomes the owner. I'll go talk with him. You wait right here!"

It was really the owner of Bismallah, who, speaking out of the cornerof his mouth, told the Bald-faced Kid to go to a warmer clime. Thehustler returned to his victim instead. 

"He says it's all fixed up; everything framed; play him across theboard. Come on!"

The victim allowed himself to be dragged in the direction of thebetting ring, and Old Man Curry watched the proceedings with awhimsical light in his eye. Later he found a chance to discuss thematter with the Kid. The last race was over, and Frank was throughfor the day. 

"You're persuadin' 'em pretty _strong_, ain't you, son?" asked theold man. "You used to give advice; now you're makin' 'em _take_ itwhether they want to or not. "

"Where do you get that stuff?" demanded the Kid, bristlingimmediately. 

"Why, I saw you working on that big fellow in the grey suit. I wasafraid you'd have to hit him on the head and go into his pocket afterit. Looked to me like he wasn't exackly crazy to gamble. "

"Oh, him!" The tout spat contemptuously. "Do you know what that pikerwanted to bet? Six dollars, across the board! I made him loosen upfor fifteen, and he howled like a wolf. "

"The hoss--lost?" By the delicate inflection and the pause before thefinal word, Old Man Curry might have been inquiring about the lastmoments of a departed friend. The Kid was looking at the ground, sohe missed the twinkle in the old man's eyes. 

"He ran like an apple woman, " was the sullen response. "Confound it, old-timer, I can't pick 'em every time!"

"No, I reckon not, " said the patriarch. "I--reckon--not. " He lapsedinto silence. 

"Aw, spit it out!" said the Kid after a time. "I'd rather hear yousay it than feel you thinking it!"

Old Man Curry smiled one of his rare smiles, and his big, wrinkledhand fell lightly on the boy's shoulder. 

"What I was thinking wasn't much, son, " said he. "It was this: if youcan make total strangers open up and spend their substance forsomething they only think is there, you ought to get rid of an awfullot of shirts and socks and flummery--the things that folks can see. If you can sell stuff that _ain't_, you surely can sell stuff that_is_!"

"I'm sick of the whole business!" The words ripped out with a snarl. "I used to like this game for the excitement in it--for the kick. Iused to like to see 'em run. Now I don't give a damn, so long as Ican get some coin together quick. And the more you need it the harderit is to get! To-day I had four suckers down on different horses inthe same race, and a sleeper woke up on me. Four bets down and not abean!"

The twinkle had gone from the old man's eyes. 

"Four hosses in one race, eh? Do you need the money that bad, son?"

For answer the Kid plunged his hand into his pocket and brought out afive-dollar gold piece and a small collection of silver coins whichhe spread upon his palm. 

"There's the bank roll, " said he, "and don't tell me that Solomonpulled that line about a fool and his money!"

The old man calmly appraised the exhibit of precious metals before hespoke. 

"How come you to be down so low, son?"

"I was trying to win myself out a little stake, " was the sulkyanswer; "but they cleaned me. That's why I'm hustling so hard. It's arotten game, but it owes me something, and I want to collect itbefore I quit!"

"Ah, hah!" said Old Man Curry, stroking his beard meditatively. "Ah, hah! You haven't told her yet. "

"No, but I'm going to. That's honest. "

"I believe you, son, but did it ever strike you that mebbe shewouldn't want you to make a fresh start on money that you got thisway? Mebbe she wouldn't want to start with you. "

"Dough is dough. " The Bald-faced Kid stated this point in the mannerof one forestalling all argument. "At one time and another I'vehandled quite a lot of it that I got different ways, but I never yethad any trouble passing it off on folks, and they didn't hold theirnoses when they took it either. Anything that'll spend is good money, and don't you forget it!"

"But this girl, now--mebbe she won't think so. "

"What she don't know won't hurt her. "

"Son, what a woman don't know she guesses and feels, and she may havethe same sort of a feelin' that I've got--that some kinds of moneynever bring anybody luck. A while ago you said this game was rotten, and yet you're tryin' to cash in your stack and pick up all thesleepers before you quit. Seems to me I'd want to start _clean_. "

"Dough is dough, I tell you!" repeated the Kid stubbornly. He turnedand shook his fist at the distant betting ring where the cashierswere paying off the last of the winning tickets. "Look out for me, all of you sharks!" said the boy. "From now till the end of themeeting it's packing-house rules, and everything goes!"

"'A wise son heareth his father's instruction, '" quoted Old ManCurry. 

"I hear you, old-timer, " said the Kid, "but I don't get you. Nextthing I suppose you'll pull Solomon on me and tell me what he saysabout tainted money!"

"I can do that too. Let's see, how does it go? Oh, yes. 'There isthat maketh himself rich, _yet hath nothing_; there is that makethhimself poor, yet hath great riches. ' That's Solomon on the moneyquestion, my boy. "

"Huh!" scoffed the unregenerate one. "Solomon was a king, wasn't he, with dough to burn? It's mighty easy to talk--when you've got yours. I haven't got mine yet, but you watch my smoke while I go after it!"

Old Man Curry trudged across the infield in the wake of the goodhorse Elisha. Another owner, on the day of an important race, mighthave been nervous or worried; the patriarch maintained his customarycalm; his head was bent at a reflective angle, and he nibbled at astraw. Certain gentlemen, speculatively inclined, would have givenmuch more than a penny for the old man's thoughts; having bought themat any price, they would have felt themselves defrauded. 

Elisha, the star performer of the Curry stable, had been combed andgroomed and polished within an inch of his life, and there were blueribbons in his mane, a sure sign of the confidence of Shanghai, thehostler. He was also putting this confidence into words and tellingthe horse what was expected of him. 

"See all them folks, 'Lisha? They come out yere to see you winanotheh stake an' trim that white hoss from Seattle. Grey Ghost, thass whut they calls him. When you hooks up with him down in frontof that gran' stan', he'll think he's a ghost whut's mislaid hisgraveyard, yes, indeedy! They tells me he got lots of that ol' earlyspeed; they tells me he kin go down to the half-mile pole in nothin', flat. Let him _do_ it; 'tain't early speed whut wins a mile race;it's _late_ speed. Ain't no money hung up on that ol' half-mile pole!Let that white fool run his head off; he'll come back to you. Lawdy, all them front runners comes back to the reg'lar hosses. Run the samelike you allus do, an' eat 'em up in the stretch, 'Lisha! GreyGhost--pooh! I neveh seen _his_ name on no lamp-post! I bet befo' yougit th'ough with him he'll wish he'd saved some that ol' early speedto finish on. You ask me, 'Lisha, I'd say we's spendin' this yerefirst money right _now_!"

It was the closing day of the meeting, always in itself an excuse fora crowd, but the management had generously provided an addedattraction in the shape of a stake event. Now a Jungle Circuit stakerace does not mean great wealth as a general thing, but this was oneof the few rich plums provided for the horsemen. First money wouldmean not less than $2, 000, which accounted for the presence of theGrey Ghost. The horse had been shipped from Seattle, where he hadbeen running with and winning from a higher grade of thoroughbredsthan the Jungle Circuit boasted, and there were many who professed tobelieve that the Ghost's victory would be a hollow one. There wereothers who pinned their faith on the slow-beginning Elisha, for hewas, as his owner often remarked, "an honest hoss that always did hislevel best. " Eight other horses were entered, but the general opinionseemed to be that there were only two contenders. The others, theysaid, would run for Sweeney--and third money. 

Old Man Curry elbowed his way through the paddock crowd, calmlynibbling at his straw. He was besieged by men anxious for his opinionas to the outcome of the race; they plucked at the skirts of hisrusty black coat; they caught him by the arms. Serene and untroubled, he had but one answer for all. 

"Yes, he's ready, and we're tryin'. "

In the betting ring Grey Ghost opened at even money with Elisha at 7to 5. The Jungle speculators went to the Curry horse with a rush thatalmost swept the block men off their stands, and inside of threeminutes Elisha was at even money with every prospect of going toodds-on, and the grey visitor was ascending in price. The sturdy bigstretch-runner from the Curry barn had not been defeated at themeeting; he was the known quantity and could be depended upon to runhis usual honest race. 

The Ghost's owner also attracted considerable attention in thepaddock. He was a large man, rather pompous in appearance, hairlesssave for a fringe above this ears, and answered to the name of "Con"Parker, the Con standing for concrete. He had been in the cementbusiness before taking to the turf, and there were those who hintedthat he still carried a massive sample of the old line above hisshoulders. When cross-examined about the grey horse, he blunted everysharp inquiry with polite evasions, but he looked wiser than anyhuman could possibly be, and the impression prevailed that he knewmore than he would tell. Perhaps this was true. 

The saddling bell rang, and the jockeys trooped into the paddock, followed by the roustabouts with the tackle. Old Man Curry, waitingquietly in the far corner of Elisha's stall, saw the Bald-faced Kidwriggling his way through the crowd. He came straight to the old man. 

"Elisha's 4 to 5 now, " he announced breathlessly, "and they're stillplaying him hard. The other one is 5 to 2. Looks like a false priceon the Ghost, and I know that Parker is going to set in a chunk onhim at post time. What do you think about it?"

"You goin' to bet your own money, son?"

"I've got to do it--make or break right here. "

"How strong are you?"

"Just about two hundred bones. "

"Ah, hah!" Old Man Curry paused a moment for thought and sucked athis straw. "Two hundred at 5 to 2--that'd make seven hundred, wouldn't it? Pretty nice little pile. "

The Kid's eyes widened. "Then you don't think Elisha can beat theGhost to-day?"

"I ain't bettin' a cent on him, " said the old man. "Not a cent. " Andthe manner in which he said it meant more than the words. 

"Then, shall I--?"

Old Man Curry glanced over at the grey horse, standing quietly in hisstall. 

"Play that one, son, " he whispered. 

After the Kid had gone rocketing back to the betting ring, Curryturned to Jockey Moseby Jones. 

"Mose, " said he, "don't lay too far out of it to-day. This grey hosslasts pretty well, so begin workin' on 'Lisha sooner than usual. He'sready to stand a long, hard drive. Bring him home in front, boy!"

"Sutny will!" chuckled the little negro. "At's bes' thing I do!"

When the barrier rose, a grey streak shot to the front and wentskimming along the rail, opening an amazingly wide gap on the field. It was the Ghost's habit to make every post a winning one; he likedto run in front of the pack. 

As he piloted the big bay horse around the first turn into the backstretch, Jockey Mose estimated the distance between his mount and theflying Ghost, taking no note of the other entries. Then he began tourge Elisha slightly. 

"Can't loaf much to-day, hawss!" he coaxed. "Shake yo'self! Li'l mo'steam!"

The men who had played the Curry horse to odds on and thought theyknew his running habits were surprised to see him steadily moving upon the back stretch. It was customary for Elisha to begin to run atthe half-mile pole--usually from a tail-end position--but to-day hewas mowing down the outsiders even before he reached that point, andon the upper turn he went thundering into second place--with theGhost only five lengths away. The imported jockey on Parker's horsecast one glance behind him, and at the head of the stretch he satdown hard in his saddle and began hand riding with all his might. Close in the rear rose a shrill whoop of triumph. 

"No white hawss eveh was _game_, 'Lisha! Sic him, you big red rascal, sic him! Make him dawg it!"

But the Ghost was game to the last ounce. More than that, he hadsomething left for the final quarter, though his rider had notexpected to draw upon that reserve so soon. The Ghost spurted, for atime maintaining his advantage. Then, annihilating incredibledistances with his long, awkward strides and gathering increasedmomentum with every one, Elisha drew alongside. Again the Ghost wascalled on and responded, but the best he had left and all he hadleft, was barely sufficient to enable him to hold his own. Oppositethe paddock inclosure, with the grand stand looming ahead, the horseswere running nose and nose; ten yards more and the imported jockeydrew his whip. Moseby Jones cackled aloud. 

"You ain't _stuck_ on 'is yere white sellin' plater, is you, 'Lisha?Whut you hangin' round him faw, then? Bid him good night _an'good-bye_!"

He drove the blunt spurs into Elisha's sides, and the big bay horseleaped out and away in a whirlwind finish that left the staggeringGhost five lengths behind and incidentally lowered the track recordfor one mile. 

It was a very popular victory, as was attested by the leaping, howling dervishes in the grand stand and on the lawn, but there weresome who took no part in the demonstration. Some, like Con Parker, were hit hard. 

There was one who was hit hardest of all, a youth of pleasingappearance who drew several pasteboards from his pocket and scowledat them for a moment before he ripped them to bits and hurled thefragments into the air. 

"Cleaned out! Busted!" ejaculated the Bald-faced Kid bitterly. "Theold scoundrel double-crossed me!"

The last race of the meeting was over when Old Man Curry emerged fromthe track office of the Rating Association. The grand stand wasempty, and the exits were jammed with a hurrying crowd. The bettingring still held its quota, and the cashiers were paying off the lineswith all possible speed. As they slapped the winning tickets upon thespindles, they exchanged pleasantries with the fortunate holders. 

"Just keep this till we come back again next season, " said they. "We're lending it to you--that's all. "

Old Man Curry made one brisk circle of the ring, examining every lineof ticket holders, then he walked out on the lawn. The Bald-faced Kidwas sitting on the steps of the grand stand smoking a cigarette. Curry went over to him. "Well, Frank, " said he cheerfully, "how didyou come out on the day?"

The boy stared up at him for a moment before he spoke. 

"You ought to know, " said he slowly. "You told me to bet on that greyhorse--and then you went out and beat him to death!"

"Ah, hah!" said the old man. 

"I was crazy for a minute, " said the Kid. "I thought you'ddouble-crossed me. I've cooled out since then; now I'm only sorrythat you didn't know more about what your own horse could do. Thattip made a tramp out of me, old-timer. "

"Exackly what I hoped it would do, son, " and Old Man Curry fairlybeamed. 

"_What's that?_" The cigarette fell from the Kid's fingers, and hislower jaw sagged. "You thought Elisha could _win_--and you went andtouted me on to the other one?"

Old Man Curry nodded, smiling. 

As the boy watched him, his expression changed to one of deepdisgust. He dipped into his vest pocket and produced his silver stopwatch. "Here's something you overlooked, " he sneered. "Take it, andI'll be cleaned right!"

Old Man Curry sat down beside him, but the Kid edged away. "Iwouldn't have thought it of you, old-timer, " said he. 

"Frank, " said the old man gently, "you don't understand. You don'tknow what I was figgerin' on. "

"I know this, " retorted the Kid: "if it hadn't been for you, Iwouldn't have to go to Butte alone!"

"You've told her, then?"

"Last night. "

"And I was right about the forgivin' business, son?"

"Didn't I say she was going to Butte with me? We had it all fixed toget married, but now----"

"Well, I don't see no reason for callin' it off. " Old Man Curry'scheerfulness had returned, and as he spoke he drew out hisold-fashioned leather wallet. "You know what I told you 'bout badmoney, son--tainted money? You wouldn't take my word for it thatgamblers' money brings bad luck; I just nachelly had to fix up somescheme on you so that you wouldn't have no bad money to start outwith. " He opened the wallet and extracted a check upon which the inkwas scarcely dry--the check of the Racing Association for thewinner's portion of the stake just decided. "I wouldn't want you tohave bad luck, son, " the old man continued. "I wanted you to havegood luck--and a clean start. Here's some money that it wouldn't hurtanybody to handle--an honest hoss went out and run for it and earnedit, an' he was runnin' for you every step of the way! Here, take it. "He thrust the check into the boy's hand--and let it stand to hiscredit that he answered before looking at it. 

"I--I had you wrong, old-timer, " he stammered: "wrong from the start. I--I can't take this. I ain't a pauper, and I--I----"

"Why of course you can take it, son, " urged the old man. "You saidthis game owed you a stake, and maybe it does, but the only money youcan afford to start out with is clean money, and the only clean moneyon a race track is the money that an honest hoss can go out and runfor--and win. No, I can't take it back; it's indorsed over to you. "

Then, and not before, did the Kid look at the figures on the check. 

"Why, " he gasped, "this--this is for twenty-four hundred andsomething! I don't _need_ that much! I--we--_she_ says three hundredwould be plenty! I----"

"That's all right, " interrupted Old Man Curry. "Money--cleanmoney--never comes amiss. You can call the three hundred the stakethat was owin' to you; the rest, well, I reckon that's just myweddin' present. Good-bye, son, and good luck!"

A MORNING WORKOUT

"Well, boss, they sutny done it to us again to-day. Look like itgittin' to be a _habit_ on thisyere track!"

Thus, querulously, Jockey Moseby Jones, otherwise Little Mose, as hetrudged dejectedly across the infield beside his employer, Old ManCurry, owner of Elisha, Elijah, Ezekiel, Isaiah, and other horsesbearing the names of major and minor prophets. Mose was still in hissilks--there were reasons, principally Irish, why the little negrofound it more comfortable to dress in the Curry tack room--and thepatriarch of the Jungle Circuit wore the inevitable rusty frock coatand battered slouch hat. Side by side they made a queer picture: thesmall, bullet-headed negro in gay stable colours, and the tall, bearded scarecrow, the frayed skirts of his coat flapping at hisknees as he walked. Ahead of them was Shanghai, the hostler, leadinga steaming thoroughbred which had managed to finish outside the moneyin a race that his owner had expected him to win: expected it to theextent of several hundred dollars. "Yes, suh, it gittin' to be ahabit!" complained Little Mose. "Been so long since I rode into 'atring I fo'get what it feels like to win a race!"

"It's a habit we're goin' to break one of these days, Mose. Whathappened!"

"Huh! Ast me whut didn't happen! Ol' 'Lijah, he got off good, an'first dash--_wham_! he gits bumped by 'at ches'nut hawss o' Dyer's. Itaken him back some an' talk to him, an' jus' when I'm sendin' himagain--_pow_! Jock Merritt busts ol' 'Lijah 'cross 'e nose 'ith hiswhip. In 'e stretch I tries to come th'oo on inside, an' two of 'emIrish jocks pulls oveh to 'e rail and puts us in a pocket. 'Niggeh, 'they say to me, 'take 'at oat hound home 'e long way; you sutny nevehgit him th'oo!' They was right, boss! 'Lijah, he come fourth, sewedup like a eagle in a cage!"

"H'm-m. And the judges didn't pay any attention when you claimed afoul?"

Little Mose gurgled wrathfully. "Huh! I done claim _three_ fouls!Judges, they say they didn't see no foul a-a-a-tall! Didn't see usgit bumped; didn't see Jock Merritt hit 'Lijah; didn't see uspocketed. 'Course they didn't; they wasn't _lookin'_ faw no foul! On'is track we not on'y got to beat hawsses; we got to beat jocks an'judges too. How we goin' lay up any bacon agin such odds as that?"

"It can't last, Mose, " was the calm reply. "'There shall be no rewardto the evil man; the candle of the wicked shall be put out. '"

"It burnin' mighty bright jus' now, boss. Sol'mun, he say that?"

Old Man Curry nodded, and Little Mose sniffed sceptically. "Uh huh. Sol'mun he neveh got jipped out of seven races in a row!"

"Seven, eh!" The old man counted on his fingers. "Why, so it is, Mose! This is the seventh time they've licked us, for a fact!" OldMan Curry began to chuckle, and the jockey eyed him curiously. 

"You sutny enjoy it mo'n I do, boss, " said he. 

"That's because you don't read Solomon, " replied the owner. "Listen:'A just man falleth seven times and riseth up again. ' Mose, we're dueto rise up and smite these Philistines. "

"Huh! Why not smite some 'em Irish boys first? You reckon 'em crookedjudges kin see us when we risin' up?"

"We'll have to fix it so's they can't overlook us, Mose. "

"Ought to git 'em some eyeglasses then, " was the sulky response. 

"Seven and one--that's eight, Mose. We've got Solomon's word for it. "

Jockey Moseby Jones shook his head doubtfully. "Mebbe so, boss, mebbeso, but thisyere Sol'mun's been dead a lo-o-ng time now. He neveh gotup agin a syndicate bettin' ring an' crooked judgin'. He neveh rodeno close finish 'ith Irish jocks an' had his shin barked on 'efence. You kin take Sol'mun's word faw it, boss, but li'l Moseby, he's f'um Mizzoury. He'll steal a flyin' start nex' time out an' tryto stay so far in front that no Irish boy kin reach him 'ith alariat!"

A big, jovial-looking man, striding rapidly toward the stables, overtook them from the rear and announced his presence by slappingOld Man Curry resoundingly on the back. "Tough luck!" said he with agrin. "Awful tough luck, but you can't win all the time, you know, old-timer!"

"Why, yes, " said Curry quietly; "that's a fact, Johnson. Nobody but ahog would want to win _all_ the time. And I wish you wouldn't wallopme on the back thataway. I most nigh swallered my tobacco. "

Johnson laughed loudly. "How do you like our track?" he asked. 

"Your track is all right, " answered the old man, with just a shade ofemphasis placed where it would do the most good. "A visitor don'tseem to do very well here, though, " he added. 

"The fortunes of war!" chuckled Johnson. 

"Ah, hah, " said Curry. "My boy here can tell you 'bout that. He saysthe other jockeys fight him all the way round the track. "

"Well, " said Johnson, "you know why that is, don't you? The boysain't stuck on his colour, and you can't blame 'em for that, Curry. If you had a boy like Walsh, now, it would be different. "

"I'll bet it would!" was the emphatic response of Old Man Curry. 

"I think I can get Walsh for you. "

"No-o. " Old Man Curry dropped his hand on the negro's shoulder. "No. Mose has been ridin' for me quite some time now. He suits me firstrate. "

"You're the doctor, " grinned Johnson. "Do as you think best, ofcourse. I'm only telling you how it is. "

"Thankee. I reckon I'll play the string out the way I started. Luckmight change. "

"Yes, it'll run bad for a while and then turn right round and getworse. So long!" Johnson hurried on toward the stables, laughingloudly at his ancient jest, and Old Man Curry looked after him with ameditative squint in his eyes. 

"'As the crackling of thorns under a pot, '" he quoted soberly. "A manthat laughs all the time ain't likely to mean it, Mose, but I don'tknow's I would say that Johnson is exackly a fool. No, he's a prettywise man, of his breed. He owns a controllin' interest in this track(under cover, of course), he's got a couple of books in the ring, andthe judges are with him. I reckon from what he said 'bout Walsh thathe's in with the jockey syndicate. No wonder he wins races! Sure, hecould get Walsh for me, or any other crook-legged little burglarthat would send word to Johnson what I was doing! Mose, yonder goesthe man we've got to beat!"

"Him too, boss?" Little Mose rolled his eyes. "Hawsses, judges, jocks, an' Johnson! Sutny is a tough card to beat!"

"'A just man falleth seven times and riseth up again, '" repeated theold man, "'but the wicked shall fall into mischief. ' That's the restof the verse, Mose. "

"Boss, " said the little negro earnestly, "I don' wish nobody no hardluck, but if somebody got to fall, I hope one of them Irish jockswill fall in front an' git jumped on by ten hawsses!"

"Don't make any mistake about it, Curry is wise. He may look like aMethodist preacher gone to seed, but the old scoundrel knows what'sgoing on. He ain't a fool, take it from me!"

The speaker was Smiley Johnson, who was addressing a small butextremely select gathering of turf highwaymen who had met in histackle-room to discuss matters of importance. They were all men whowould willingly accept two tens for a five or betray a friend forgain: Smiley Johnson, Billy Porter, Curly McManus, and Slats Wilson. All owned horses and ran them in and out of the money, as theypleased, and not one of them would have trusted the others as far asa bull may be thrown by the tail. 

"We can trim the old reprobate, " continued Johnson, "but we can'tkeep him from finding out that the clippers are on him. "

"And who cares if he does know?" demanded Slats Wilson. "I'm infavour of making it so raw that he'll take his horses and gosomewhere else. Look at what he did last season. Got Al Engle and alot of other people ruled off, didn't he? Raised particular hell allover the circuit, the psalm-singing old hypocrite!"

"He's got a fine, fat chance to get anybody ruled off around thistrack, " interrupted Curly McManus. "These judges ain't reformers. They know who's paying their salaries. "

"Sure they do, " assented Wilson, "but the longer this old rip hangson the more chance there is to get into a jam of some kind. He's anatural-born trouble maker. If he loses many more races the way helost that one to-day, I wouldn't put it past him to go to thenewspapers with a holler. That would hurt. I'm in favour of givinghim the gate!"

"When he hasn't won a race?" argued Johnson. "Use your head, Slats. Let him run his horses, and bet on 'em. He may squawk, but he can'tprove anything, and when he's lost enough dough he'll quit. "

"Is there any way that we could frame up and get him ruled off?"asked Porter. 

"The ruling wouldn't stand, " said Johnson. "Curry has got too manyfriends higher up, and if we should try it and fall down it wouldgive the track a black eye. The sucker horsemen would be leery ofus. "

"If any framing is to be done, " announced McManus, "count me out now. You fellows know Grouchy O'Connor? Him and Engle framed on Curry tillthey were black in the face, and what did it get 'em? Not a nickel'sworth! You've got to admit that Al Engle was smart as they make 'em, but O'Connor tells me that Curry made Al look like a selling-plater:had him outguessed at every turn on the track. Let Curry run hishorses, and our boys will take care of the little nigger. "

"That Elisha is quite a horse, " commented Johnson. "If they take careof him, they'll go some. "

"What's the use of worrying about Elisha?" asked McManus. "Curryhasn't started him yet at the meeting. He's trying to pick up somedough with Elijah and Isaiah and the others. They ain't so verymuch. "

"Well, Elijah would have been right up there to-day if it hadn't beenfor a little timely interference now and then. " Johnson grinnedbroadly as he spoke. 

"A little timely interference!" ejaculated Wilson. "The boys dideverything to that horse but knock him over the fence!"

"And the judges didn't see a thing!" chuckled Johnson. 

"Say, let's get down to business!" said Porter. "What I want to knowis this, Johnson: when are you going to cut loose with Zanzibar? Yousaid we'd all be in with that; there'll be a sweet price on him, andwe ought to clean up. "

"Zanzibar is about ready, " answered Johnson. "You'll know in plentyof time, and he's a cinch. "

"And nobody knows a thing about him, " said McManus. 

"Good reason why, " laughed Porter. "That's a pretty smart trick:working him away from the track. "

"It's the only thing to do, " said Johnson. "Zanzibar is a nervouscolt, and if I worked him on the track with the other horses he'd goall to pieces. That's why I have Dutchy take him out on a countryroad and canter him. It keeps him from fretting before a race. "

"How fast can he step the three-quarters?" asked Wilson. 

"Fast enough to run shoes off of anything around here, " said Johnson. "You needn't worry about that. We won't have to put him up againstthe best, though. Zanzibar didn't do anything last season, and he'sbound to get a price in almost any kind of a race. "

"You're sure he's under cover?"

"If he ain't under cover, a horse never was. He gets his work beforesunrise, and at that most of it is just cantering. I've set him down, though, and I know what he can do. "

"It sounds all right, " admitted McManus. 

"Where do we bet this money?" demanded Porter. 

Johnson laughed. "That's a fool question! The less he's played at thetrack the better. We'll unload in the pool rooms on the Coast, sameas we did before. Wilson here can enter Blitzen in the same race, andthey can't get away from making Blitzen the favourite: on form they'dhave to pick him to win easy. I'll let it leak out that I'm onlysending Zanzibar for a workout and to see whether he's improved anyover last season. The pool rooms won't know what hit 'em. "

"Hold on!" said McManus suddenly. "Suppose Curry gets into the race. "

"Bonehead!" growled Wilson. "You've got Curry on the brain. Outsideof Elisha there's no class to his string of beetles, and Elisha is adistance horse. Three-quarters is too short for him. "

"He can't get going under half a mile!" supplemented Porter. 

"Well, " apologised McManus, "I like to figure all the angles. "... 

Old Man Curry also liked to figure all the angles. He had theutmost confidence in Solomon's statement concerning the righteousman and the seven falls, but this did not keep him from taking theordinary precautions when preparing for the eighth start and thepromised rising up. He knew that the big rawboned bay horse Elijahwas a vastly improved animal, but he also desired to know thecompany in which Elijah would find himself the next time out. Hisinvestigations, while inconspicuous were thorough, and soon broughthim in contact with the name of an equine stranger. 

"Zanzibar, eh?" thought the old man as he left the office of theracing secretary. "Zanzibar? And Johnson owns him. H'm-m. I'll haveto find out about that one, sure. The others don't amount to much. But this Zanzibar? If I only had Frank now!"

Since the Bald-faced Kid's retirement from the turf the Currysecret-service department had consisted of Shanghai and Mose, andthere were times when the shambling hostler could be much wiser thanhe looked. It was Shanghai who drew the assignment. 

"Boy, " said Old Man Curry, "Johnson has got a colt named Zanzibarthat starts next Saturday. I thought I knew all the hosses intrain-in' round here, but I've overlooked this one. Find out all youcan 'bout him. "

"Yes, suh!" answered Shanghai. "Bes' way to do that would be to bus'into a crap game. Misteh Johnson got a couple cullud swipes whutmight know somethin'--crap-shootin' fools, both of 'em--an' whilesI'm rollin' them bones I could jus' let a few questions slip out. Yes, suh, that's good way, but when you ain't shoot-in' yo' money inthe game they jus' nachelly don' know you 'mong them present. If yougot couple nice, big, moon-face' dollahs to inves', they can't he'pbut notice you. They got to do it!"

Old Man Curry smiled and dipped two fingers and a thumb into his vestpocket. 

"_Thank_ you, suh!" chuckled Shanghai, trying hard to appearsurprised. "Thank you! This sutny goin' _com_bine business withpleasuah!"

"Get away with you!" scolded Old Man Curry. 

Now, nearly every one knows that the simon-pure feed-box information, the low-down and the dead-level tip, may be picked up behind any barnwhere hostlers, exercise boys, and apprentice jockeys congregate. Tongues are loosened at such a gathering, and the carefully guardedsecrets of trainers and owners are in danger, for the one absorbingtopic of conversation is horse, and then more horse. 

Shanghai knew exactly where to go, and departed on his missionwhistling jubilantly and chinking two silver dollars in his pocket. 

At the end of three hours he returned, his hamlike hands thrust deepinto empty pockets, and the look in his eye of one who has watchedrosy dreams vanish. 

"Where you been all this time?" snapped his employer wrathfully. "'Asvinegar to the teeth, and as smoke to the eyes, so is a sluggard tothem that send him. ' I declare, Solomon must have had some blackstable boys! What you been at, you triflin' hound?"

Shanghai smiled a sorrowful smile and shook his head. 

"Well, you see, kunnel"--Shanghai always gave his employer a highmilitary rank when in fear of rebuke--"you see, kunnel, it took 'emlonger'n usual to break me this mawnin'. I start' off right good, butI sutny bowed a tendon an' pulled up lame. Once I toss six passes atthem gamblehs----"

"Never mind that! What did you find out about Zanzibar?"

"Oh, him!" Shanghai blinked rapidly as if dispelling a vision. "Zanzibar? Why, kunnel, they aimin' to slip him oveh Satu'day. "

"Ah, hah!" Old Man Curry tugged at his white beard. "Ah, hah. Ithought so. Had him under cover, eh? Where have they been workin'him?"

"Out on the county road 'bout two miles f'um yere. You know that nicestretch with all them trees? Every mawnin', early, they takes himout----"

"_Who_ takes him out?"

"Li'l white boy they calls Dutchy. "

"Nobody else goes with him?"

Shanghai shook his head. 

"How old is this boy?" asked the canny horseman. 

"How ole? Why, kunnel, I reckon he's risin' fifteen, mebbe. "

"Smart boy?"

Shanghai cackled derisively. 

"I loaned him a two-bit piece, kunnel, an' he tol' me all he knowed!"

Old Man Curry fell to combing his beard, and Shanghai retreated tothe tackle-room where he found Little Mose. 

"The boss, he pullin' his whiskehs an' cookin' up a job on somebody, "remarked the hostler. 

"Huh!" grunted Mose. "It's time he 'uz doin' somethin'! Betteh notleave it _all_ to Sol'mun!"

The cooking process lasted until evening, by which time Old Man Curryhad ceased to comb his beard and was rolling a straw reflectivelyfrom one corner of his mouth to the other. 

"You, Shanghai!"

"Yes, suh! Comin' up!"

"Find that little rascal Mose and tell him I want to see him. "

"Yes, suh. "

"And, Shanghai?"

"Yes, suh. "

"I believe I've found the way to rise up!"

"Good news!" ejaculated the startled negro, backing away. But tohimself the hostler said: "_Rise up?_ Sweet lan' o' libuhty! I wondehwhut bitin' the ole man now?"

It was a small and very sleepy exercise boy whom Smiley Johnsontossed into the saddle at four o'clock on Saturday morning: a boywhose teeth were chattering, for he was cold. 

"Canter him the usual distance, Dutchy, " said the owner. "Then sethim down, but not for more than half a mile. Understand?"

"Y-yes, sir, " stammered the boy, rubbing his eyes with the back ofone hand. 

"Don't let him get hot, now!"

"No, sir; I won't. "

"All right. Take him away!"

Johnson slapped Zanzibar on the shoulder, and the colt moved off inthe gloom. His rider, whose other name was Herman Getz, huddledhimself in the saddle and reflected on several things, including thehard life of an exercise boy, the perils of the dark, and the hot cupof coffee which he would get on his return. 

Wrapped in these meditations, he had travelled some distance beforehe became aware of a dark shape in the road ahead. Coming closer, Herman saw that it was a horse and rider, evidently waiting for him. 

"Howdy, Jockey Walsh!" called a voice. 

The shortest cut to an exercise boy's heart is to address him asJockey. Herman's heart warmed toward this stranger, and he drewalongside, trying to make out his features in the darkness. 

"'Taint Walsh, " said Herman, not without regret. "It's Getz. "

"Jockey Getz? I don' seem to place you, jock. Where you been ridin'?East?"

"I ain't a jock. I'm only gallopin' 'em. Who are you?"

"Jockey Jones, whut rides faw Misteh Curry. If you ain't a jock, yousutny ought to be. You don't set a hawss like no exercise boy. Thasswhy I mistook you faw Walsh. "

"What horse is that?"

"This jus' one 'em Curry beetles. Whut you got, jock?"

"Zanzibar. "

"Any good?"

"Well, " was the cautious reply, "he ain't done anything yet. "

The boys jogged on for some time in silence. "You sutny set him nicean' easy, " commented Mose. "Le's breeze 'em a little an' see how youhandle a hawss. " Mose booted his mount in the ribs, chirruped twice, and the horse broke into a gallop. Herman immediately followed suit, and soon the riders were knee to knee, flying along the lonely road. 

"Shake him up, jock!" urged Little Mose. "That all you kin get out ofhim? Shake him up, if you knows how!"

Of course Herman could not allow any one to hint that he did not knowhow. He went out on Zanzibar's neck and shook him up vigorously, ŕ laTod Sloan in his palmy days. The colt began to draw ahead. From therear came shrill encouragement. 

"Thass whut I calls reg'luh race ridin', jock! Let him out if he gotsome lef'! Let him out!"

Carried away by these kind words, Herman forgot his instructions:forgot everything but the thrill of the race. He drove his heels intoZanzibar's sides and crouched low in the saddle. The cold dawn windcut like a knife. After a time there came a wail from the rear. 

"Nothin' to it, jock! You too good! Too good! Wait faw me. "

Herman drew rein, and soon Mose was alongside again. "Canter 'em awhile now, " said he. "Say, who taught you to ride like that?"

"Nobody, " answered Herman modestly. "I just picked it up. "

"A natchel-bawn race rideh. Sometimes you finds 'em. I wish't I couldset a hawss down like that. Show me again. "

"It's easy, " bragged Herman, and proceeded to demonstrate thatstatement. Again the compliments floated from the rear, coupled withrequests for speed, and yet more speed. Mose was not an apt pupil, however, for he required a third lesson, and at the end of itZanzibar was blowing heavily. Mose suggested that they turn and goback. "If I could git that much out of a hawss, I wouldn't take offmy cap to no jock!" said he. "Whyn't you make Johnson give you amount once in a while?"

"He says I ain't smart enough, " was the sulky reply. 

Little Mose laughed. "He jus' pig-headed, thass all ail him! You liketo git a reg'luh job ridin' faw a good man?"

"_Would_ I!"

"Well, I knows a man whut wants a good boy. See that tree yondeh?That big one? Le's see who kin get there first!"

"It--it's pretty far, ain't it?"

"Shucks! Quahteh of a mile, mebbe. Come on!"

But it was nearer half a mile, and the three brisk sprints had toldon the colt. Boot him never so hard, it was all Herman could do tokeep Zanzibar on even terms with Mose's mount. 

"You on'y foolin' 'ith me. He kin do betteh than that! We in thestretch now; _shake him up_!"

Zanzibar was shaken up for the fourth and last time--shaken up to thelimit--and Mose was generous enough to say that the race was a deadheat. 

As the boys brought the horses to a walk, another negro stepped outfrom behind a tree, a blanket on his arm. Mose slipped from thesaddle and tossed the bridle to Shanghai. 

"Ain't you goin' to ride back to the track?" demanded Herman. 

"No. My boss, he always wants this skate blanketed an' led round awhile.... Sufferin' mackerel, jock! What you goin' do 'ith thathawss? Shave him?"

Then for the first time Herman realised that Zanzibar was latheredwith sweat; for the first time also he recalled his instructions. 

"I can't take him back like that!" he cried. "Johnson'll kill me! Hetold me not to get this horse hot: and look at him!"

"He sutny some _warm_, " said Shanghai critically. "He steamin' like akettle!"

"Whut if he is?" asked Mose. "We kin fix that all hunky-dory, an'Johnson, he won't neveh know. "

"How can we fix it?"

"Got to let that sweat dry first, " warned Shanghai. 

"And then wipe it off, " said Mose. 

"It comes off easy when it's dry, " supplemented Shanghai as hestarted down the road with the other horse. 

"Let him stand a while, " said Mose. "We'll tie him up to this tree. Pity you ain't ridin' some 'em races Johnson's jock tosses off. Onceround that limb's enough. He'll stand. "

And for rather more than half an hour the good colt Zanzibar shiveredin a cold wind while Herman warmed himself in the genial glow offlattering speeches and honeyed compliments. 

"He looks dry now, " said Mose at length. "We'll rub him down withgrass. See how easy it comes off an' don't leave no marks neither. Mebbe you betteh not say anythin' to yo' boss 'bout this. "

"Say, you don't think I'm a fool, do you?"

"Sutny not! I see yo' a pretty wise kid, all right!"

"If I could only get that reg'lar job you was talkin' about!"

"It boun' to come, jock, boun' to come! You be steerin' 'em down 'atol' stretch one of these days, sure! If we jus' had a li'l wateh, now, we could do a betteh job on 'is hawss. "

"He's shakin' a lot, ain't he?" asked Herman. 

"Nuhvous, thass all ail him. My side 'mos' clean a'ready; how yougettin' along?"

Smiley Johnson stood at the entrance to his paddock stall shakinghands with acquaintances, slapping his friends on the back, andpassing out information. "I don't know a great deal about thishorse, " he would remark confidently. "He wasn't much account lastseason--too nervous and high-strung. I'm only sending him to-day tosee what he'll do, but of course he never figured to beat horses likeBlitzen. Not enough class. "

Curly McManus forced his way into Zanzibar's stall and moved to thefar corner where Johnson followed him. 

"Curry is in the betting ring, " McManus whispered. 

"Well, what of that?"

"He's betting an awful chunk of dough on Elijah; they're giving him 4and 5 to 1. "

"The more he bets the more he'll lose. "

"But it ain't like him to unbelt for a chunk unless he _knows_something. "

Johnson chuckled. 

"Most of his betting is done in books where I've got an interest. D'you think they'd be laying top prices on Elijah if they didn't knowsomething too?"

"I guess that's right, Smiley. You didn't warm this one up to-day. Why?"

"It would make him too nervous: the crowd, and all. "

"He's fit, is he?"

"Fitter than a snake! We're getting 8 and 10 to 1 in the pool roomsall over the Coast, and I wish we'd gone even stronger with him. Herecomes Curry now. Listen to me kid him!"

The old man entered the paddock from the betting ring, bound forElijah's stall. Johnson halted him with a shout. "Well, oldStick-in-the-mud! You trying to-day?"

"I'm always tryin', " answered Curry mildly. "My hosses are alwaystryin' too. "

"Wish you a lot of luck!"

"Same to you, sir; same to you. "

"But everybody can't win. "

"True as gospel. I found that out right here at this track. "

Old Man Curry continued on his way as calm and untroubled as if hispockets were not loaded down with pasteboards calling for a smallfortune in the event of Elijah's winning the race. His instructionsto Little Mose were brief:

"Get away in front and stay there. "

A few moments later Johnson and McManus leaned over the top rail ofthe fence and watched the horses on their way to the post. 

"That colt of yours looks a little stiff to me, " said McManuscritically. 

"Nonsense! He may be a bit nervous, but he ain't stiff. "

"Well, I _hope_ he ain't. Curry's horse looks good. "

Later they levelled their field glasses at the starting point. Johnson could see nothing but his own colours: a blazing cherryjacket and cap; McManus spent his time watching Little Mose andElijah. 

"Smiley, that nigger is playing for a running start. "

"Let him have it. Zanzibar'll be in front in ten jumps. Hennesseyknows just how to handle the colt, and he's chain lightning on thebreak. "

"I suppose the boy on Blitzen'll take care of the nigger if he hasto. Slats gave him orders. _They're off!_"

Johnson opened his mouth to say something, but the words died awayinto a choking gurgle. Instead of rushing to the front, the cherryjacket was rapidly dropping back. It was McManus who broke thestunned silence. 

"In front in ten jumps, hey? He's _last_ in ten jumps, that's what heis: stiffer'n a board! And look where Curry's nigger is, will you?"

"To hell with Curry's nigger!" barked Johnson. "Look at the colt!He--he can't untrack himself: runs like he was all bound up somehow!Something has gone wrong, sure!"

"You bet it has!" snarled McManus. "Quite a pile of dough has gonewrong, and some of it was mine too!"

A comfortable ten lengths to the good at the upper turn, Little Moseaddressed a few vigorous remarks to his mount. 

"This a nice place faw us to stay, 'Lijah! Them Irish boys all behin'us! Nobody goin' bump you to-day! Nobody goin' slash you 'ith nowhip! Go on, big red hawss! Show 'em how we risin' up!"

"The nigger'll win in a romp!" announced McManus disgustedly. 

"Oh, dry up! I want to know what's happened to Zanzibar!"

"I can tell you what's _going_ to happen to him, " remarked theunfeeling McManus. "He's going to finish last, and a damn bad last atthat. Why, he can't get up a gallop! Didn't you know any more than tostart a horse in that condition?"

"But how the devil did he get stiff all at once?" howled Johnson. 

"That's what you'd better find out. How do we know you didn't crossus, Johnson? It would be just like you!"

Old Man Curry, watching at the paddock gate, thrust his hands underthe tails of his rusty frock coat and smiled. 

"'A just man falleth seven times and riseth up again!'" he quotedsoftly. "And the wicked: well, they'll have a mighty lame hoss ontheir hands, I reckon. "

Mose began checking Elijah, several lengths in front of the wire. 

"Don't go bustin' a lung, hawss, " said he. "Might need it again. Youwinnin' by a mile. A-a-a mile. Sol'mun was right, but maybe hewouldn't have been if I hadn't done some risin' up myse'f thismawnin'! Whoa, hawss! This where they pay off! We th'oo faw the day!"

Old Man Curry was striding down the track from the judges' stand whenhe met a large man whose face was purple and his language purplealso. 

"Man, don't talk like that!" said Curry reprovingly. "And ca'm downor you'll bust an artery. You can't win _all_ the time: that's whatyou told me. "

Johnson sputtered like a damp Roman candle, but a portion of hisremarks were intelligible. 

"Oh, Zanzibar?" said Old Man Curry. "He's a right nice colt. He oughtto be. He pretty nigh run the legs off my 'Lisha this mornin'. "

"Wha--_what's that_?"

"Yes, " continued Old Man Curry, "they had it back an' forth up thatroad, hot an' heavy. I expect maybe Zanzibar got a chill fromsweatin' so hard. "

Out of the whirl of Mr. Johnson's remarks and statements of intentionCurry selected one. 

"No, " said he, "I reckon you won't beat that German kid to death. Hedidn't know any better. You won't lay a finger on him, because why?He's on a railroad train by now, goin' home to Cincinnati. I reckonedhis mother might like to see him. And you ain't goin' to make notrouble for me, Johnson. Not a mite. You might whip a little kid, youbig, bulldozin' windbag, but I reckon you won't stand up to a man, nomatter how old he is!"

"I--I'll have your entries refused!"

"Don't go to no such trouble as that, " was the soothing reply. "Therewon't be no more Curry entries at this track. A just man might falldown seven times again in such a nest of thieves an' robbers! Tellthat to your judges, an' be damned!"

And, head erect, shoulders squared, and eyes flashing, Old Man Currystarted for the betting ring to collect his due. 

EGYPTIAN CORN

"Well, you great big hammer-headed lobster, what have you got to sayfor yourself, eh? _Don't_ stand there and look wise when I'm talkingto you! Ain't there a race in this country long enough for you towin? A mile and a half ought to give you a chance to open up andstep, but what do you do? You come last, just beginning to warm upand go some! Sometimes I think I ought to sell you to a soap factory, you clumsy false alarm, you ugly old fraud, you cross between a mudturtle and a carpenter's bench, you----"

At this point Slim Kern became extremely personal, speaking his mindconcerning the horse Pharaoh, his morals, his habits, and hisancestors. Some of his statements would have raised blisters on asalamander, but Pharaoh listened calmly and with grave dignity. 

Pharaoh was not handsome. He was, as Slim had said, a hammer-headedbrute of imposing proportions. But for his eyes no turfman would havelooked at him twice. They were large, clear, and unusuallyintelligent; they redeemed his homely face. Without them he wouldhave been called a stupid horse. 

An elderly gentleman sat on a bale of hay and listened to Slim'speroration. As it grew in power and potency the listener ceased tochew his straw and began to shake his head. When Slim paused forbreath, searching his mind for searing adjectives, a mild voice tookadvantage of the silence. 

"There now, Slim, ain't you said enough to him? Seems like, if it wasme, I wouldn't cuss a hoss so strong--not _this_ hoss anyway. Heain't no fool. Chances are he knows more'n you give him credit for. Some hosses don't care what you say to 'em--goes in one ear and outthe other--but Pharaoh, he's wise. He knows that ain't love talk. He's chewin' it over in his mind right now. By the look in his eye, he's askin' himself will he bite your ear off or only kick you intothe middle of next week. Cussin' a hoss like that won't make him winraces where he never had a chance nohow. "

"I know it, " said Slim. "I know it, Curry, but think what a wonderfulrelief it is to me! Take a slant at him, standing there all dignifiedup like a United States senator! Don't he look like he ought to knowsomething? Wouldn't you think he'd know where they pay off? He makesme sore, and I've just got to talk to him. I've owned him a wholeyear, and what has he done? Won once at a mile and a quarter, andhe'd have been last that time if the leaders hadn't got in a jam onthe turn and fell down. He was so far behind 'em when they piled upthat all he had to do was pull wide and come on home! He had senseenough for that. I've started him in all the distance races on thiscircuit; he always runs three feet to their one at the finish, buthe's never close enough up to make it count. He must have some notionthat they pay off the second time around, and it's all my boy can doto stop him after he goes under the wire. Why won't he uncork some ofthat stuff where it will get us something? Why won't he? I don'tknow, and that's what gets me. "

Old Man Curry rose, threw away his straw, and circled the horse threetimes, muttering to himself. This was purely an exhibition ofstrategy, for Curry knew all about Pharaoh: had known all about himfor months. 

"What'll you take for him?" The question came so suddenly that itcaught Slim off his balance. 

"Take for him!" he ejaculated. "Who wants an old hammer-head likethat?"

"I was thinkin' I might buy him, " was the quiet reply, "if the priceis right. I dunno's a hoss named Pharaoh would fit in with a stableof Hebrew prophets, 'count of the way Pharaoh used Moses and theIsrulites, but I might take a chance on him--if the price is right. "

Now, Slim would have traded Pharaoh for a nose bag or a sack ofshorts and reckoned the intake pure gain, but he was a horseman, andit naturally follows that he was a trader. 

"Well, now, " said he, "I hadn't thought of selling him, Curry, andthat's a fact. "

"Did anybody but me ever think of buyin' him?" asked the old maninnocently. 

"He's got a wonderful breeding, " said Slim, ignoring the question. "Yes, sir; he's out of the purple, sure enough, and as for age he'sjust in his _prime_. There's a lot of racing in him yet. Make me anoffer. "

"You don't want me to talk first, do you? I don't reckon I could makea real offer on a hoss that never wins 'less all the others falldown. Pharaoh ain't what you might call a first-class buy. From hislooks it costs a lot to keep him. "

"Not near as much as you'd think, " was the quick rejoinder. "Pharaoh's a dainty feeder. "

"Ah, hah, " said Old Man Curry, stroking his beard. "About as daintyas one of them perpetual hay presses! That nigh foreleg of his hasbeen stove up pretty bad too. How he runs on it at all beats me. "

"He's sound as a nut!" declared Slim vehemently. "There ain't a thingin the world the matter with him. Ask any vet to look him over!"

"Well, Slim, I dunno's he's worth the expense. Come on, now; tell mewhat's the least you'll take for him?"

"Five hundred dollars. "

"Give you a hundred and fifty cash. "

"Say, do you want me to make you a present of him?" demanded Slim, indignantly sarcastic. "Maybe you think I'd ought to throw in ahalter so's you can lead him away!"

"No, " said Old Man Curry. "I won't insist on a halter. I got plentyof my own. You said yourself he wa'n't no good and I thought youmeant it. I was just askin' if you'd sell him; that was all. Keep himtill Judgment Day, if you want him. No harm done. " Old Man Currybegan to walk away. 

"Hold on a minute!" said Slim, trying hard to keep the anxious noteout of his voice. "Be reasonable, old-timer. Make me an offer for thehorse: one that a sensible man can accept. "

Old Man Curry paused and glanced over his shoulder. 

"Why, " said he, faintly surprised, "I kind of thought I'd done thata'ready!"

"_Look_ at him!" urged Slim. "Did you ever see a more powerful horsein your life? And smart too. A hundred and fifty dollars! One side ofhim is worth more than that!"

"Likely it is, " agreed the old man solemnly. "Seems to me I saw apiece in the paper 'bout a cannery where they was goin' to put uphoss-flesh!"

"I admit he's had a lot of bad luck, " persisted Slim, "but getPharaoh warmed up once and he'll surprise you. Didn't you see howfast he was coming to-day?"

"The numbers was up before he got in, " was the dry response. "What'sthe good of a hoss that won't begin to run until the race is over?You said yourself he only won for you when all the others fell down. It's kind of difficult to frame up races that way. Jockeys hate totake the chances. Will two hundred buy him? Two hundred, right inyour hand?"

"Oh, come over here and set down!" said Slim. "You ain't in anyhurry, are you? Nothing you've said yet interests me. On the level, you ain't got a suspicion of what a good horse this is!"

"No, but I kind of suspicion what a bad hoss he is. " Old Man Curryresumed his seat on the bale of hay and produced his packet offine-cut tobacco. "You tell me how good he is, " said he, "and I'lllisten, but before you open up here's what Solomon says: 'The simplebelieveth every word, but the prudent man looketh well to his going. 'Hoss tradin' is no job for a simple man, but I made a livin' at itbefore you was born. Now fire away, and don't tell me this Pharaoh isa gift. 'Whoso boasteth himself of a false gift is like clouds andwind without rain. ' I reckon Solomon meant mostly wind. Now you cancut loose an' tell me how much hoss this is. "

Two hours later Old Man Curry arrived at his barn leading Pharaoh. Hehad acquired the hammer-head for the sum of $265 and Slim had thrownin the halter. Shanghai, Curry's hostler and handy man, stared at thenew member of the racing string with open-mouthed and pop-eyedamazement. 

"Lawd's sake! What _is_ that, a cam-u-el?"

"No, I don't reckon he's a camel, exactly, " replied the old man. "Idon't know just what he is, Shanghai, but I'm aimin' to find outsoon. The man I got him from allowed as he was a race hoss. "

"Huh-uh, kunnel! He sutny don' ree'semble no runnin' hawss to _me_. Ineveh yet see a head shape' like that on anything whut could run. "Shanghai came closer and examined the equine stranger carefully. "Yo'an ugly brute, big hawss: ugly no name faw it. Oh-oh, kunnel; he gota knowin' eye, ain't he? If this hawss is wise as he look, he oughtto be a judge in the Soopreme Cote! Yes, suh; somepin' besides bonein that ole hammeh-head!"

"I bought him for his eyes, " said Old Man Curry. "His eyes and hisname. This is Pharaoh, Shanghai. "

"Faro, eh?" The negro chuckled. "Thass a game where yo' gits actiontwo ways: bet it is or it ain't. Now, mebbe this yere Faro is a racehawss, an' mebbe he ain't, but if yo' eveh puts him in with earlyspeed an' a short distance to go, betteh play him with a copper, kunnel. He got same chance as a eagle flyin' a mile 'gainstpigeons. "

"The thing to do, " said Old Man Curry with his kindly smile, "is tofind out the eagle's distance. "

Little Mose was dreaming that he had piloted the winner of the BurnsHandicap and was being carried to the jockey's room in a floralhorseshoe which rocked in a very violent manner. The motion became sopronounced that Mose opened his eyes, and found Old Man Curry shakinghim. 

"Get up, you lazy little rascal! Got a job for you this mornin'. Turnout!"

The jockey sat up, yawning and knuckling his eyes. 

"Solomon must have had at least one little black boy, " said the oldman. "'Love not sleep lest thou come to poverty. ' Hurry up, Mose!"

"Yes, suh, " mumbled the drowsy youngster. "Reckon Sol'mun neveh hadto gallop a string an' ride 'em too. I sutny earns whut I gits when Igit it. "

Dawn was breaking when Jockey Moseby Jones emerged from the tack roomto find Old Man Curry and Pharaoh waiting for him. As they werewalking to the track the owner gave his orders. 

"One trouble with this hoss, " said he, "is that the boy who has beenridin' him wasn't strong enough in the arms to keep his head up. "

"That ol' hawss has got a head whut weighs a thousan' pounds!"murmured Mose sulkily. "'Spect he'll 'bout yank both arms outen me!"

"You're pretty stout for a boy your size, " said the old man, "an' youmay be able to hold this big, hard-stridin' hoss together an' shakesomething out of him. Send him two miles, Mose, keep his head up ifyou can, an' ride him every jump of the way. "

"But, boss, they ain't no two-mile races in thisyer part o' thecountry!"

"Keep on, an' you'll talk yourself into a raw-hidin' yet, littleblack boy. I ain't askin' you to tell me 'bout the races on thejungle tracks. All you got to think about is can you handle as muchhoss as this over a distance of ground. If you can, an' he's got thestayin' qualities I think he has, you an' me an' Pharaoh may go on along journey--down into Egypt after corn. Git up on him, Mose, an'let's see what you both can do. "

The hammer-head loafed away at a comfortable stride and his firstmile showed nothing, but his second circuit of the track was arevelation which caused Old Man Curry to address remarks to his stopwatch. It took every ounce of Mose's strength to fight Pharaoh to astandstill: the big brute was just beginning to enjoy the exerciseand wanted to keep on going. 

"Well, think you can handle him?"

"Boss, " panted little Mose, "I kin do--everything to thisyerhoss--but stop him. He sutny--do love to run--once he git goin'. Allthe way--down the stretch--he was asayin' to me: 'Come on, jock!Lemme go round again!' Yes, suh, he was beggin' me faw 'notheh mile!"

"Ah-hah, " said Old Man Curry. "That's the way it looked to me. Well, to-morrow we'll let him do that extra mile, but we'll get up earlier. By an' by when he's ready, we'll let him run four miles an' see howhe finishes an' what the watch says. "

Little Mose rolled his eyes thoughtfully. 

"Seem like I ain't heard tell of but _one_ fo'mile race, " he hinted. "'Tain't run in Egypt neitheh. They runs it down round 'Frisco. TheThawntum Stakes is whut they calls it. Boss, you reckon Pharaoh kinpick up any corn in California?"

Old Man Curry's eyes twinkled, but his voice was stern. 

"If I was a little black boy, " said he, "an' I was wantin' my boss totake me on a trip down into Egypt, I wouldn't call it California. IfI knew anything 'bout a four-mile stake race, I'd try to mislay thename of it. If I had been ridin' a big, hammer-headed hoss, I don'tthink I'd mention him except in my prayers. If I was goin' aftercorn, I don't believe I'd say so. "

Mose listened, nodding from time to time. 

"Boss, " said he earnestly, "I sutny always did want to see whutthisyer Egypt looks like. Outside of that, I neveh heard nothin', Idon't know nothin', an' I can't tell nothin'. Beginnin' now, a clamhas got me beat in a talkin' match!"

Old Man Curry smiled and combed his long, white beard. 

"That is the very best way, " said he, "to earn a trip down intoEgypt. 'A talebearer revealeth secrets, but he that is of a faithfulspirit concealeth the matter. '"

"Thass me all oveh!" chuckled Mose. "I bet I got the faithfulest an'the concealin'est spirit whut is!"

Port Costa is a small town on the Carquinez Straits, that narrowribbon of wind-swept water between San Pablo and Suisun Bays. Theearly empire builders, striving to reach the Pacific by rail, foundit necessary to cross the Carquinez Straits, and to that end built ahuge ferryboat capable of swallowing up long overland trains. It wasthen that Port Costa came into being: a huddle of hastily constructedframe saloons along the water front and very little else. All day andall night the big ferryboat plied between Benicia and Port Costa, transferring rolling stock. While the trains were being made up onthe Port Costa side passengers in need of liquid sustenance paidvisits to the saloons. They got exactly what the transient may expectin any country. 

Henry Ashbaugh sat at a table in Martin Dugan's place and eyed thebartender truculently. He had purchased nothing, for the mostexcellent of reasons, but he had patronised the free lunchextensively. 

"You don't need to look at me like that, " said Henry when the silencebecame unbearable. "I'm waiting for a friend and when he comes he'llbuy. "

At this critical juncture the swinging doors opened to admit thefriend, a tall, elderly man with a patriarchal white beard, clad in abattered black slouch hat and a venerable frock coat. Ashbaugh jumpedup with a yell. 

"Well, you old son of a gun! It's good for sore eyes to see you! Howlong has it been, eh?"

"Quite some years, " answered Old Man Curry, allowing himself to beguided to the bar. "And how's the world been usin' you, Henry?"

"It's been using me rough, awful rough, " replied Ashbaugh. "I ain'teven got the price of a drink. "

Curry laid a silver coin upon the bar. 

"Have one with me, " said he. 

"Don't mind if I do, " said Ashbaugh, and poured out a stiff libationof water-front whisky. Old Man Curry took water, and the wisebartender, after one look at the stranger, drew it from a faucet. 

"How!" said Henry, tilting the poison into his system. 

"My regards!" said Old Man Curry, sipping his water slowly. 

"Same old bird!" ejaculated Ashbaugh, clapping Curry on the back. "Solomon on the brain! Speaking of birds, though, did you ever seeone that could fly with only one wing?"

"I never did, " was the grave response. "Have another?"

"If you force me, " said Ashbaugh, pouring out a second heavy dose. Old Man Curry took more water. Ashbaugh gulped once and passed theback of his hand over his lips. 

"We have talked of birds, " said he, wheedlingly. "Leave us now talkof centipedes. "

"No, " said Curry quietly. "No, I reckon not, Henry. There's somethingelse to talk about. You got my telegram?"

"This afternoon, " said Ashbaugh with a lingering glance at thebottle. "That's why I'm here. "

"You've still got your place out on the Martinez road?" asked Old ManCurry. 

"I can't get rid of it, " was the answer. 

"I'd like to take a hoss down there and put him up for a few weeks, Henry. "

"The place is all yours!" said Ashbaugh with wide gestures. "Allyours! A friend of mine can have anything I've got, and no questionsasked. Where is this here horse?"

"They'll be takin' him out of a freight car about now, " said Curry. "Could I git him down to your place to-night?"

"You can if you walk it. "

"Is the road as good as it used to be?"

"Same road. Just like it was when you used to train horses on it. "

"Mebbe we ought to be going, " suggested Old Man Curry. 

"Then you won't talk about centipedes?"

"Oh, well, " smiled the old man, "I might discuss a three-leggedcritter with you--once. "

"Put that bottle back on the bar!" said Ashbaugh. 

The overnight entry slips, given out on the day before the running ofthe Thornton Stakes, bore the name of the horse Pharaoh, togetherwith that of his owner, C. T. Curry, whereat the wise men of the Westchuckled. A few of them had heard of Old Man Curry, a queer, harmlessindividual who owned bad horses and raced them on worse tracks. Ahasty survey of turf guides brought the horse Pharaoh to unfavourablelight as a nonwinner in cheap company, and in no sense to beconsidered as a competitor in the second greatest of Western turfclassics. In addition to this, those who made it their business toknow the business of horsemen were able to state positively that nosuch horse as Pharaoh had arrived at the Emeryville track outside ofOakland. Consequently, when the figuring was done (and a great dealof figuring is always done on the eve of an important stake race), the Curry entry was regarded as among the scratches. 

On paper, the rich purse was a gift to the imported mare Auckland. Australian horses, bred to go a distance, had often won this longestof American stakes, and Auckland was known to be one of the very bestanimals ever brought across the Pacific. It was only a question ofhow far she would win, and the others were considered as competingfor second and third money. On the night before the race all the talkwas of Auckland; all the speculation had to do with her price, andhow many dollars a man might have to bet to win one. At noon on theday of the race a horse car was shunted in on one of the spur tracksat Emeryville, and a group of idlers gathered to watch the unloadingprocess. No little amusement was afforded them by the appearance andcostume of the owner, but Old Man Curry paid not the slightestattention to the half-audible comment, and soon the "Bible horses"found their feet on the ground once more. 

Among the loafers were some "outside men" employed by the bookmakers, and these endeavoured to acquire information from Old Man Curry, without success. The negro Shanghai proved more loquacious. Hetrudged at the end of the line leading a big hammer-headed brutewhich he often addressed as "Faro. "

"Who owns these hawsses?" repeated Shanghai. "Mist' Curry--thass himin front--he owns 'em. We got here jus' in time, I reckon. Thisyerhawss whut I'm leadin', he goes in that Thawntum Stakes to-day. "

"Nix!" said the outside man. "Just off the cars, and he's going tostart? It can't be done!"

"I ain't heard the boss say he'd scratch him, " said Shanghai. 

"But how long have you been on the way?"

"Oh, I reckon 'bout five days. Yes, suh; we been exackly five days_an'_ nights gettin' here. "

"Then you're kidding about that horse going to start in the ThorntonStakes. "

"No, suh; I ain't kiddin' nobody. Thass whut we brought him oveh faw:to staht him in them Thawntum Stakes. I reckon he'll have to do thebes' he know how. "

"Are you going to bet on him?"

"Says _which_?" Shanghai showed a double row of glistening ivories. "No, indeedy! Hawss got to show me befo' I leggo my small change!This Faro, he can't seem to win no mile races, so the boss he thinkshe might do betteh in a long one. But me, I ain't bettin' on him, nosuh!"

Only five horses faced the barrier in the Thornton Stakes. Secondmoney was not enough of a temptation to the owners, who could seenothing but the Australian mare, Auckland. The opening prices boreout this belief. Auckland was quoted at 1 to 5, a prohibitive figure;Baron Brant, the hope of the California contingent, at 4 to 1; TheMaori at 8 to 1; Ambrose Churchill at 12 to 1, and Pharaoh was heldat 15 and 20. The bookmakers had heard that the Curry horse had beentaken from the car at noon, and wondered at the obstinacy of hisowner in starting him, stiff and cramped from a long railroadjourney. 

"Must be figuring to give him a workout and a race all at once, " saidthe chalk merchants. 

All these things being known, a certain elderly gentleman did nothave to beg the bookmakers to take his money. He passed from block toblock in the big ring, stripping small bills from a fat roll, andreceiving pasteboards in exchange. Round and round the ring he went, with his monotonous request:

"Ten on Pharaoh to win, please. "

Every bookmaker was glad to oblige him; most of them thanked him forthe ten-dollar bills. There were thirty-two books in the circle, andOld Man Curry visited each one of them several times. He stoppedbetting only when he heard the saddling bell ringing in the paddock. After a few words with Little Mose, he returned to the betting ringand the distribution of his favours. 

When the five horses stood at the barrier in front of the grandstand, Pharaoh was conspicuous only for his size and the colour ofhis rider. The mare Auckland, beautifully proportioned, her smoothcoat glistening in the sun, was the ideal racing animal. 

The word was soon given, the barrier whizzed into the air, and thefive horses were on their long journey. The boy on Auckland sent herto the front at once, and the mare settled into her long, easystride, close to the rail, saving every possible inch. Pharaohimmediately dropped into last position, plodding through the dustkicked up by the field. The big hammer-head showed nothing in thefirst mile save dogged persistence. At the end of the second mileAuckland was twenty lengths in front of Pharaoh, and running withouteffort. The Maori and Ambrose Churchill were beginning to drop back, but Baron Brant still clung to second place, ten lengths behind thefavourite. 

It was in the third mile that Jockey Moseby Jones began to urge thebig horse. At first there seemed to be no result, but gradually, almost imperceptibly, the heavy plugging stride grew longer. Aucklandstill held her commanding lead, but Pharaoh marked his gain onAmbrose Churchill and The Maori, leaving them a bitter and hopelessbattle for fourth place. In the home stretch the pace began to tellon Baron Brant, and he faded. Pharaoh caught and passed him just atthe wire, with the Australian mare fifteen lengths in front andeating up the distance in smooth, easy strides. 

The stubborn persistence of the hammer-headed horse had not escapedthe crowd, and those who support the underdog in an uphill fight gavehim a tremendous cheer as he swung down to the turn. It was then thatLittle Mose leaned forward and began hand-riding, calling on Pharaohin language sacred and profane. 

"Hump yo'self, big hawss! Neveh let it be said that a mare kin makeyou eat dust! Lay down to it, Faro, lay down to it! Why, you ain'tbegun to run yit! You jus' been foolin'! You want to show me up befo'a big town crowd! Faro, I ast you from my _heart_, lay down to it!"

And Pharaoh lay down to it. The ugly big brute let himself out to thelast notch, hugging the rail with long, ungainly strides. The jockeyon Auckland had counted the race as won--in fact, he had beenspending the winner's fee from the end of the second mile--but on theupper turn the thud of hoofs came to his ears, and with them wildwhoops of encouragement. He looked back over his shoulder in surprisewhich soon turned to alarm; the big hammer-head was barely sixlengths away and drawing nearer with every awkward bound. JockeyMcFee sat down on his imported mount and began to ride for afive-thousand-dollar stake, a fat fee, his reputation, and severalother considerations, but always he heard the voice of the littlenegro, coming closer and closer:

"Corn crop 'bout ripe, Faro! Jus' waitin' to be picked! That mare, she come a long ways to git it, but she goin' git it good! Themribbons don't keep her f'um rockin'; she's all through! Go git her, big hawss! Go git her!"

Jockey McFee slashed desperately with his whip as Pharaoh thunderedalongside, and the game mare gave up her last ounce: gave it up in alosing fight. Once, twice, the ugly, heavy head and the head of theequine aristocrat rose and fell side by side; then Auckland droppedback beaten and broken-hearted while her conqueror pounded on to thewire, to win by five open lengths.... 

At least one dream came true. Moseby Jones was carried off the trackin a gorgeous floral horseshoe, his woolly head bobbing among theroses and his teeth putting the white carnations to shame. Shanghaidanced all the way from the judges' stand to the stables, not an easyfeat when one considers that he was leading the winner of theThornton Stakes, also garlanded and bedecked within an inch of hislife, but, in spite of all his floral decorations, extremelydignified. 

Old Man Curry fought his way through a mob of reporters andfair-weather acquaintances to find himself face to face with the onlyreal surprise of the day. A sharp-faced youth, immaculately dressed, leaped upon him, endeavouring to embrace him, shake his hand andcongratulate him, all in a breath. "Frank!" cried the old man. "Blessyour heart, boy, where did you come from?"

"From Butte, " answered the Bald-faced Kid. "Wanted to get some ideason the spring trade; saw you had a horse in the Thornton Stakes;thought I might find you; got here just as the race finished. Old-timer, how are you? You don't know how good it is to see youagain!"

"I know how good it is to see you, my son!" The old man laid his armacross the youth's shoulders. "How's the wife, Frank?"

"Just bully! She would have been here with me, but she couldn't leavethe kid: couldn't leave Curry----"

The patriarch of the Jungle Circuit reached hastily for his fine-cut. 

"It--it was a boy, then?" he asked. 

The Bald-faced Kid grinned. 

"Better than that; it was a girl! We had the name picked out inadvance. The wife wouldn't have it any other way. "

Old Man Curry shook his head solemnly. "Frank, " said he, "you knowthat ain't treat-in' a little girl right! Curry! It sounds like thestuff you eat with rice! When she gits old enough to know she'll hateit, and me, too. "

"Any kid of mine is going to _love_ the name of Curry, and call yougrandpa! What do you think of that? You don't need to worry, and Iwon't even argue the point with you. My wife says----"

"Anything your wife says is right, " interrupted the old man, blowinghis nose lustily. "Why, it kind of seems as if I had some folks----"

"If you don't think you've got a ready-made family, " said the Kid, "come over to Butte any time and I'll win a bet from you. But I cantell you about that later. What I want to know is this: I met acouple of hustlers here to-day--boys I used to team with--and theytold me Pharaoh didn't have a chance because he went right from thebox car to the paddock. He gets off the train, where he's been forfive days and nights, and comes so close to the American record thatthere ain't any fun in it. Now, you know that can't be done. Old-timer, you pulled many a miracle on me before I quit the turf;give me an inside on this one!"

Old Man Curry smiled benignantly. 

"Well, son, mebbe I kind of took advantage of 'em there. "

"It wouldn't be the first time, dad. Let's have it. "

"All right. To start with, I bought this hoss for little or nothing. Mostly nothing. I knew he was a freak. He couldn't begin to untrackhimself till he had gone a mile, but after that it seemed like everymile he went he got better. I held a watch on him an' he ran fourmiles close enough to the record to show me that he had a chance inthe Thornton Stakes. Five weeks ago I shipped him out to Port Costaan' took him off the train there----"

"Holy Moses!" breathed the Kid. "I begin to get it, but go on!"

"I knew a man there an' he let me train Pharaoh at his place, LittleMose givin' him a gallop every day. That Benicia road is as good asany race track. Then I did some close figgerin' on freight schedules, an' telegraphed Shanghai when to leave with the rest of the stable. They got into Port Costa this mornin'. It wa'n't no trick at all toslip Pharaoh into that through car--not when you know the rightpeople--an' when we unloaded here this noon the word sort of gotscattered round that the Curry hosses had been five days on the road. Now, no man with the sense that God gives a goose could figger acritter to walk out of a box car, where he'd been bumped an' joltedan' shook up for five days, an' run four miles with any kind ofhosses. It just ain't in the book, son. 

"They got the notion I was crazy, an' I reckon they knew everythingabout us but the one thing that counted most, which was that Pharaohhadn't been in that car an hour all told. You know, when you go downinto Egypt after corn, you got to do as the Egyptians do: have an acein the hole all the time. Solomon says that a fool uttereth all hismind, but a wise man keepeth it till afterward. That's why I'mgassin' so much now, I reckon. "

"Old-timer, " chuckled the Kid, "you're a wonder, and I'm proud tohave a kid named for you! Just one question more, and I'm through. You won the stake, and that amounts to quite a mess of money, but didyou bet enough to pay the freight on the string?"

"Well, now, son, " said the old man; "I been so glad to see you that Ikind of forgot that part of it. " He fumbled in the tail pockets ofhis rusty black frock coat and brought forth great handfuls oftickets. "I didn't take less'n 15 to 1, " said he, "an' I bet 'em tillmy feet ached, just walkin' from one book to another. I haven't triedto figger it up, but I reckon I took more corn away from theseEgyptians than the law allows a single man to have. If it's all thesame to you, Frank, an' the baby ain't got no objections, I'd like touse some of this to start a savings account for my namesake. Curryain't no name for a baby girl, an' you ought to let me square it withher somehow. Mebbe when she gits of age, an' wants to marry someharum-scarum boy, she won't think so bad of her gran'daddy. "

THE MODERN JUDGMENT OF SOLOMON

It was an unpleasantly warm morning, and the thick, black shade of anumbrella tree made queer neighbours--as queer neighbours as theJungle Circuit could produce. Old Man Curry found the shade first andfelt that he was entitled to it by right of discovery, consequentlyhe did not move when Henry M. Pitkin signified an intention ofsharing the coolness with him. Old Man Curry had less than a bowingacquaintance with Pitkin, wished to know him no better, and haddisliked him from the moment he had first seen him. 

"Hot, ain't it?" asked the newcomer by way of making a little talk. "What you reading, Curry?"

Old Man Curry looked up from the thirteenth chapter of Proverbs, ceased chewing his straw, and regarded Pitkin with a grave andappraising interest which held something of disapproval, something ofinsult. Pitkin's eyes shifted. 

"It says here, " remarked the aged horseman, "'A righteous man hatethlying: but a wicked man is loathsome, and cometh to shame. '"

"Fair enough, " said Pitkin, "and serves him right. He ought to cometo shame. Pretty hot for this time of year. "

"It'll be hotter for some folks by and by. "

Pitkin laughed noisily. 

"Where do you get that stuff?" he demanded. 

"I hope I ain't agoin' to git it, " said Old Man Curry. "I aim to liveso's to miss it. " He lapsed into silence, and the straw began totwitch to the slow grinding motion of his lower jaw. A very stupidman might have seen at a glance that Curry did not wish to bedisturbed, but for some reason or other Pitkin felt the need ofconversation. 

"I've been thinking, " said he, "that my racing colours are tooplain--yellow jacket, white sleeves, white cap. There's so manyyellows and whites that people get 'em mixed up. How would it do if Iput a design on the back of the jacket--something that would tellpeople at a glance that the horse was from the Pitkin stable?"

Old Man Curry closed his book. 

"You want 'em to know which is your hosses?" he asked. "Is that theidee?"

"Sure, " answered Pitkin. "I was trying to think up a design of somekind. Lucky Baldwin, used to have a Maltese cross. How would it do ifI had a rooster or a rising sun or a crescent sewed on to the back ofthe jacket?"

Old Man Curry pretended to give serious thought to the problem. 

"Roosters an' risin' suns don't mean anything, " said he judicially. "An emblem ought to _mean_ something to the public--it ought to standfor something. "

"Yes, " said Pitkin, "but what can I get that will sort of identify meand my horses?"

"Well, " said the old man, "mebbe I can suggest a dee-sign that'llfill the bill. " He picked up a bit of shingle and drew a pencil fromhis pocket. "How would this do? Two straight marks this way, Pitkin, an' two straight marks _that_ way--and nobody'd ever mistake yourhosses--nobody that's been watchin' the way they run. "

Pitkin craned his neck and snorted with wrath. Old Man Curry haddrawn two crosses side by side, and the inference was plain. 

"That's your notion, is it?" said he, rising. "Well, one thing is amortal cinch, Curry; you'll never catch me psalm singing round a racetrack, and any time I want to preach, I'll hire a church! Put that inyour pipe and smoke it!"

"I ain't smokin', thankee, I'm chewin' mostly, " remarked the oldgentleman to Pitkin's vanishing coat tails. "Well, now, looks like Imade him sort of angry. What is it that Solomon wrote 'bout the angerof a fool?"

They used to say that the meanest man in the world was the Mean Manfrom Maine, but this is a slander on the good old Pine Tree State, for Henry M. Pitkin never was east of the Mississippi River in hislife. He claimed Iowa as his native soil, and all that Iowa could doabout it was to issue a warrant for his arrest on a charge connectedwith the misappropriation of funds. Young Mr. Pitkin escaped over theState line westward, beating the said warrant a nose in a whippingfinish, and after a devious career covering many years and manyStates he turned up on the Jungle Circuit, bringing with him a stringof horses, a gentle, soft-spoken old negro trainer, an Irish jockeynamed Mulligan, and two stable hands, each as black as the ace ofspades. 

The Jungle Circuit has always been peculiarly rich incatch-as-catch-can burglars and daylight highwaymen, but after theyhad studied Mr. Pitkin's system closely these gentlemen refused toenter into a protective alliance with him, for, as Grouchy O'Connorremarked, "the sucker hadn't never heard that there ought to behonour among thieves. " Pitkin would shear a black sheep as close tothe shivering hide as he would shear a white one, and the horses ofthe Pitkin stable performed according to price, according toinvestment, according to orders--according to everything in the worldbut agreement, racing form, and honest endeavour. In ways that aredark and tricks that are vain the heathen Chinee at the top of hisheathenish bent would have been no match for Mr. Henry M. Pitkin, who could have taken the shirt away from a Chinese river pirate. 

The double-cross would have been an excellent racing trade-mark forthe Pitkin stable, because Pitkin had double-crossed every one whoever trusted him, every one with whom he had come in contact. He hadeven double-crossed old Gabe Johnson, his negro trainer, and thehistory of that cross will furnish an accurate index on the smallnessof Pitkin's soul. 

How such a decent old darky as Uncle Gabe ever came to be associatedwith white trash of the Pitkin variety is another and longer story. It is enough to say that Pitkin hired the old man when he was hungryand thereafter frequently reminded him of that fact. They had beentogether for three years when they came to the Jungle Circuit--Pitkinrat-eyed, furtive, mysterious as a crow, and scheming always for hisown pocket; Uncle Gabe quiet, efficient, inclined to be religious, knowing his place and keeping it and attending strictly to business, namely, the conditioning of the Pitkin horses for the track. 

Uncle Gabe treated all white men with scrupulous respect, eventouching his hat brim every time Pitkin spoke to him. He was a realtrainer of a school fast passing away, and at rare intervals he spokeof the "quality folks down yondeh" for whom he had handledthoroughbreds, glimpses of his history which made his presentoccupation seem all the stranger by contrast. 

Some of the horsemen of the Jungle Circuit pretended to believe thatPitkin kept a negro trainer because he was too mean to get along witha white man, but this was only partly true. He kept Gabe because hehad a keen appreciation of the old man's knowledge of horseflesh, andin addition to this Gabe was cheap at the price--fifty dollars amonth and his board, and only part of that fifty paid, for it hurtPitkin to part with money under any circumstances. 

It was by skipping pay days that he came to owe Uncle Gabe the notunimportant sum of five hundred dollars, and it was by trying tocollect this amount that the aged trainer became also the owner of arace horse. 

Pitkin, in the course of business dealings with a small breedingfarm, had picked up two bay colts. They were as like as two peas withevery honest right to the resemblance, for they were half-brothers bythe same sire, and there was barely a week's difference in theirages. Uncle Gabe looked the baby racers over very carefully beforegiving it as his opinion that no twins were ever more alike inappearance. 

"They own mammies would have a li'l trouble tellin' them coltsapaht, " said the negro. 

"Can you tell them apart?" asked Pitkin. 

Gabe grinned. "Yes, suh, " he answered. "They _is_ a difference. "

Pitkin looked at Gabe sharply. He knew that the old negro felt onecolt to be better than the other. 

"All right then, " he said after a moment. "Tell you what I'll do. You've been deviling me for that five hundred dollars till I'm sickof listening to you. Take your pick of the two colts and call itsquare. How does that strike you?"

Uncle Gabe deliberated for some time. The five hundred dollars meanta great deal to him, but the cash value of a debt is regulatedsomewhat by the sort of man who owes it and Gabe realized that thispoint was worthy of consideration. On the other hand, should the coltturn out well, he would be worth several times five hundred dollars. 

"Don't wait till you get 'em in training, " said Pitkin. "A blind mancould pick the best one then. Take the colt that looks good to you_now_ and let it go at that. "

That evening Uncle Gabe made his selection and immediately announcedthat he intended to name his colt General Duval. 

"Good enough, " said Pitkin, "and just to carry out the soldier idea, I'll call the other one Sergeant Smith. Put the General in that endstall, away from the others. "

The next morning Gabe sent one of the stable hands to get his colt, and when the animal appeared the old trainer's lower lip began todroop, but he said nothing until after he had made a thoroughexamination. "Boy, you done brought me the wrong colt, " said he. "This ain't Gen'al Duval. "

"I got him outen yo' stall, " said the stable hand. 

"Don't care where yo' got him, " persisted Gabe. "This ain't the coltI picked out. He ain't wide enough between the eyes. "

"What's the argument about?" asked Pitkin, coming from thetackle-room. 

"Gabe say thisyer ain't his colt, " answered the stable hand. 

"Where did you get him?" demanded Pitkin. 

"Outen that stall yondeh, " said the stable hand, pointing. 

"That was where you put your colt, wasn't it?" asked Pitkin, turningto Uncle Gabe. 

"Yes, suh, I put him there all right, but this ain't him. "

"Oh, come now, " laughed Pitkin, "you've been thinking it over andyou're afraid you've picked the wrong one. Be a sport, Gabe; stickwith your bargain. "

"Been some monkey business done round yere, " muttered the aged negro. "Been a li'l night walkin', mebbe. Boy, bring out that Sergeant Smithcolt an' lemme cas' my eye oveh him once!"

"See here, nigger!" said Pitkin, "I let you have first pick, didn'tI? Gave you all the best of it, and you picked this colt here. Ifyou've changed your mind overnight, I can't help that, can I?"

"My mind ain't changed none, " replied old Gabe, "but this colt, he'schanged, suh. "

"Who would change him on you, eh? Do you think _I'd_ do it? Is thatwhat you're getting at?"

"Why--why, no suh, no, but----"

"Then shut up! You're always beefing about something or other, alwayskicking! I don't want to hear any more out of you, understand? Shutup!"

"Yes, suh, " answered old Gabe, touching his hat, "all the same I gota right to my opinion, boss. "

Whatever his opinion, Gabe proceeded to train the two colts in theusual manner, and before long it was plain to everyone connected withthe Pitkin establishment that the striking likeness did not extend totrack promise and performance. Sergeant Smith developed into ahigh-class piece of racing property; General Duval was not worth hisoats. Sergeant Smith won some baby races in impressive fashion andwas immediately tabbed as a comer and a useful betting tool, butevery time General Duval carried the racing colours of GabrielJohnson--cherry jacket, green sleeves, red, white and blue cap--hebrought them home powdered with the dust of defeat. 

Old Gabe made several ineffectual attempts to persuade Pitkin to takethe colt back again on any terms, and was laughed at for his pains. 

"You had your choice, didn't you?" Pitkin would say. "Well, then, youcan't blame anybody but yourself. Whose fault is it that I got thegood colt and you got the crab? No, Gabe, a bargain's a bargain withme, always. The General's a rotten bad race horse, but he's yours andnot mine. It's what you get for being a poor picker. "

The bay colts were nearing the end of their three-year-old form whenthe Pitkin string arrived on the Jungle Circuit and took up quartersnext door to Old Man Curry and his "Bible horses. " Sergeant Smith wasthe star of the stable and the principal money winner, when it suitedPitkin to let him run for the money, while General Duval, as like hishalf brother as a reflection in a flawless mirror, had a string ofdefeats to his discredit and his feed bill was breaking old Gabe'sheart. The trainer often looked at General Duval and shook his head. 

"You an' that otheh colt could tell me somethin' if yo' could_talk_, " he frequently remarked. 

After his conversation with Old Man Curry, Pitkin returned to histackle-room in a savage state of mind, and, needing a target for hisabuse, selected Mulligan, the Irish jockey. 

Now, Mulligan was small, but he had the heart of a giant and thecourage of one conviction and two acquittals on charges of assaultand battery. In spite of his size--he could ride at ninety-eightpounds--Mulligan was a man in years, a man who felt that hisemployer had treated him like a child in money matters, and whenPitkin called him a bow-legged little thief and an Irish ape, he wasputting a match to a powder magazine. 

One retort led to another, and when Mulligan ran out of retorts heresponded with a piece of 2 by 4 scantling which he had been savingfor just such an emergency, and Pitkin lost interest in theconversation. 

Mulligan left him lying on the floor of the tackle-room, and thoughhe was in somewhat of a hurry to be gone he found time to say a fewwords to old Gabe, who was sunning himself at the end of the barn. 

"And I don't know what you can do about it, " concluded the jockey, "but anyway I've put you wise. If they ask you, just say that youdon't know which way I went. "

That night Old Man Curry had a visitor who entered his tackle-room, hat in hand and bowing low. 

"Set down, Gabe, " said the old horseman. "How's Pitkin by this time?"

"He got a headache, " answered Gabe soberly. 

"Humph!" snorted Curry. "Should think he would have. That boy fetchedhim a pretty solid lick. Glad he didn't hurt him any worse--for theboy's sake, I mean. "

"Yes, suh, " said Gabe. "Mist' Curry, you been mighty good to me, oneway'n anotheh, an' I'd like to ast yo' fo' some advice. "

"Well, " said the old man, "advice is like medicine, Gabe--easy togive but hard to take. What's troublin' you now?"

"Mist' Curry, yo' 'membeh me tellin' yo' 'bout that Gen'al Duval coltof mine--how he neveh did look the same to me since I got him?"

"Yes, " answered Curry, "an' I've a'ready told you that you can'tprove anything on Pitkin. You may suspect that somebody switched themcolts on you, but unless----"

"'Scuse me, suh, " interrupted Gabe, "but I got beyon' suspectin' itnow. I _knows_ it was done. "

"You don't say!"

"Yes, suh, I got the proof. Mulligan, he say to me jus' befo' helights out, 'Gabe, ' he say, 'that Smith colt, he belong to you byrights. Pitkin, he pulls a switch afteh yo' went to bed that firstnight. ' He say he seen him do it. "

"Mebbe the boy was just tryin' to stir up a little more trouble, "suggested Old Man Curry. 

"Ain't I tol' you he neveh did _look_ the same? Them colts so muchalike they had me guessin'. I done picked the one whut was widestbetween the eyes--an' that's the one whut been awinnin' all themraces. That ain't Sergeant Smith at all--that's my Gen'al Duval. Pitkin, he gives me my pick an' then he switches on me. Question is, how kin I git him back?"

Old Man Curry combed his whiskers for some time in silence. 

"Solomon had a job like this once, " said he, "but it was a questionof babies. I reckon his decision wouldn't work out with hosses. Gabe, you're gittin' to be quite an old man, ain't you?"

"Tollable ole, " replied the negro; "yes, suh. "

"An' if you got this hoss away from Pitkin, what would you do withhim?"

"Sell him, " was the prompt reply. 

"Oho! Then it ain't the hoss you want so much as the money, eh?"

"Mist' Curry, that colt'd fetch enough to sen' me home _right_. I gottwo sons in Baltimo', an' they been wantin' me to quit the racin'business, but I couldn't quit it broke. No, suh, I couldn't, so Ijus' been hangin' on tooth an' toenail like the sayin' is, hopin' I'dgit a stake somehow. "

"And you don't much care _how_ you quit, so long's you quit; is thatit?"

"Well, suh, I don't want no trouble if I kin he'p it, but if I has tofight my way loose from Pitkin I'll do it. "

There was another long silence while Gabe waited. 

"I reckon Solomon would have his hands full straightenin' out thistangle, " said Old Man Curry at last. "You can't break into the stallan' take that hoss away from Pitkin, because he'd have you arrested. And then, of course, he's got him registered in his name an' runnin'in his colours--that's another thing we've got to take intoconsideration. I reckon we better set quiet a few days an' study. You'll know whenever this Sergeant hoss is entered in a race, won'tyou?"

"Yes, suh; I'm boun' to know ahead o' time, suh. "

"All right. Go on back to work an' don't quarrel with Pitkin. Don'tlet him know that you've found out anything, an' keep me posted onSergeant Smith. Might be a good thing if we knew when Pitkin is goin'to bet on him. He's been cheatin' with that hoss lately. "

"He's always cheatin', suh. Yo'--yo' think they's a way to--to----"

"There's always a way, Gabe, " answered Old Man Curry. "The main thingis to find it. "

"That's my hoss by right, " said the negro, with a trace ofstubbornness in his tone. 

"An' the world is your oyster, " responded Curry, "but you can't gobustin' into it with dynamite. You got to open an oyster, careful. Now go on back to your barn and do as I tell you. Understand?"

"Yes, suh, an' thank yo' kin'ly, suh. "

Pitkin's bandaged head brought him little sympathy--in fact, thegeneral opinion seemed to be that Mulligan had not hit him quite hardenough to do the community any good. Certainly the scantling did notimprove his temper, and Pitkin made life a burden to old Gabe and thetwo black stable hands. Gabe swallowed the abuse with a patientsmile, but the two roustabouts muttered to themselves and eyed theiremployer with malevolence. They had also been missing pay days. 

One evening Pitkin stuck his head out of the door of the tackle-roomand called for his trainer. 

"Gabe! Oh, Gabe! Now where is that good-for-nothing old nigger?"

"Comin', suh, comin', " answered Gabe, shuffling along the line ofstalls. "Yo' want to see me, boss?"

"Shut the door behind you, " growled Pitkin. "I was thinking it wasabout time we cut this Sergeant Smith colt loose. "

"Yes, suh, " answered Gabe. "He's ready to go, boss. "

"How good is he?" demanded Pitkin. 

"Well, suh, " replied Gabe, "he's a heap better'n whut he's beenshowin' lately, that's a fact. "

"Can he beat horses like Calloway and Hartshorn?"

"He kin if he gits a chance. "

"How do you mean, a chance?"

"Well, suh, if he gits a good, hones' ride, fo' one thing. He beenmessed all oveh the race track las' few times out. "

"But with a good ride you think he can win?"

"Humph!" sniffed Gabe. "He leave 'em like they standin' still!"

"I want to slip him into the fourth race next Saturday, " said Pitkin, "and he'll have Calloway and Hartshorn to beat. There ought to be anice price on him--4 or 5 to 1, anyway, on account of what he's beenshowing lately. "

"Yo' goin' bet on him, suh?"

"Straight and place, " said Pitkin, "but I won't bet a nickel here atthe track. They'll be asking you about the colt and trying to get aline on him. You tell 'em that I'm starting him a little bit out ofhis class just to see if he's game--any lie will do. And if they askyou about the stable money, we're not playing him this time. "

"Yes, suh. "

"You're absolutely sure he's ready?"

"Ready? Why, boss, ain't yo' been watchin' the way that colt isworkin'? Yo' kin bet 'em till they quits takin' it an' not bescared. "

"That's all I want to know, Gabe, and mind what I told you aboutkeeping that big mouth of yours shut. If I hear of any talk----"

"I ain't neveh talked yit, has I?"

"Well, don't pick this time to start; that's all. "

That night the lights burned late in two tackle-rooms. In one of themOld Man Curry was bringing the judgment of Solomon down to date andfitting it to turf conditions; in the other Henry M. Pitkin waspreparing code telegrams to certain business associates in Seattle, Portland, Butte, and San Francisco, for this was in the unregeneratedays when pool rooms operated more or less openly in the West. Mr. Pitkin was getting ready for the annual clean-up. 

The next morning he was on hand early enough to see General Duvalreturn from an exercise gallop, and there was a small black boy onthe colt's back. 

"Come here, Gabe, " said Pitkin. "Ain't that Curry's nigger jockey?"

"Yes, suh; that's Jockey Moseby Jones, suh. "

"What's he doing around this stable?"

"He kind o' gittin' acquainted with the Gen'al, suh. "

"Acquainted? What for?"

"Well, suh, they's a maiden race nex' Satu'day, an' I was thinkin'mebbe the Gen'al could win it if he gits a good ride. Jockey Jonesdidn't have no otheh engagement, suh, so I done hired him fo' the'casion. "

"Oh, you did, did you? Now listen to me, Gabe: I don't want anybodyfrom the Curry stable hanging around this place. Chances are thislittle nigger will be trying to pick up an earful to carry back tohis boss, the psalm-singing old hypocrite! If Curry should find outwe're leveling with Sergeant Smith next Saturday, he might go intothe ring and hurt the price. I can't stop you putting the littlenigger on your own horse, but if he tries to make my barn a hangout, I'll warm his jacket for him, understand? You can tell him so. "

"Yes, suh, " answered Gabe meekly. "Mist' Curry an' yo' bad friends, boss?"

"We ain't any kind of friends, " snapped Pitkin, "and that goes forevery blackbird that eats out of his hand!"

"I thought he was a kin' o' pious ole gentleman, " said Gabe. 

"He's got a lot of people fooled, Curry has, " replied Pitkin withunnecessary profanity, "but I've had his number right along. He's acrook, but he gets away with it on account of that long-tailedcoat--the sanctimonious old scoundrel! Don't you have anything to dowith him, Gabe. "

"_Me?_" said Gabe professing mild astonishment. "Humph! I reckon_not_!"

"Always stick with your friends, " said Pitkin, "and remember whichside your bread is buttered on. "

"That's whut I'm aimin' to do, suh. Yo' know, boss, I sort o' figgehthe Gen'al's got a mighty good chance nex' Satu'day in that secon'race. A mighty good chance. "

Pitkin sneered. "Going to bet on him, are you?"

"No, suh; not 'less some people pay me whut they owes me. "

"You'd only blow it in if you had it, " replied Pitkin. "The General'sa darn bad race horse--always was and always will be. "

"They ain't nothin' in that race fo' him to beat, " responded Gabe. 

"He's never had anything to beat yet, " said Pitkin, "and he's still amaiden, ain't he? Better let him run for the purse, Gabe. Playing ahorse like that is just throwing good money after bad. "

"Mebbe yo' right, boss, " answered the old negro. "Mebbe yo' right, but I still thinks he's got a chance. "

Now, in a maiden race every horse is supposed to have a chance, not aparticularly robust one, of course, but still a chance. The maidensare the horses which have never won a race, and every jungle circuitis well supplied with these equine misfits. They graduate, one at atime, from their lowly state, and the owner is indeed fortunate whowins enough to cover the cost of probation. The betting on a maidenrace is seldom heavy, but always sporadic enough to prove the truthof the old saw about the hope which springs eternal. 

Saturday's maiden race was no exception. There was a sizzling paddocktip on The Cricket, a nervous brown mare which had twice finishedsecond at the meeting, the last time missing her graduation by anose; others had heard that Athelstan was "trying"; there was arumour that Laredo was about to annex his first brackets; suspicionpointed to Miller Boy as likely to "do something, " but nobody hadheard any good news of General Duval. Those who looked him up in theform charts found his previous races sufficiently disgraceful. 

The Cricket opened favourite at 8 to 5, and when her owner heard thishe grunted deep and soulfully and swore by all his gods that theprice was too short and the mare a false favourite. He had hoped fornot less than 4 to 1, in which case he would have sent the mare outto win, carrying a few hundred dollars of ill-gotten gains as wagers, but at 8 to 5 tickets on The Cricket had no value save as souvenirsof a sad occasion. 

Nobody bothered about General Duval; nobody questioned old Gabe as heled a blanketed horse round and round the paddock stalls. Old ManCurry sat on the fence, thoughtfully chewing fine-cut tobacco andseemingly taking no interest in his surroundings, but he saw Pitkinas soon as that fox-faced gentleman entered the paddock, andthereafter he watched the disciple of the double-cross closely. Itwas plain that Pitkin's visit had no business significance; he wasnot the sort of man to play a maiden race, and after a few banteringremarks addressed to old Gabe he drifted back into the betting ring, where he made a casual note of the fact that on most of the slatesGeneral Duval was quoted at 40 to 1. 

"Anybody betting on the nigger's skate?" asked Pitkin of a black manwhom he knew. 

"Not a soul, " was the reply. "What does the old fool start him for?"

"Because that's what he is--an old fool, " answered Pitkin briefly ashe moved away. 

When the first bookmaker chalked up 50 to 1 on the General, a bulky, flat-footed negro, dressed in a screaming plaid suit with an ancientstraw hat tilted sportively over one eye, fished a wrinkledtwo-dollar bill out of his vest pocket, and bet it on GabrielJohnson's horse. "You like that one, do you?" grinned the bookmaker. 

"No, suh, not 'specially, " chuckled the negro, "but I sutny likesthat long price!"

Soon there was more 50 to 1 in sight, and the flat-footed negro beganto shuffle about the betting-ring, bringing to light other wrinkledtwo-dollar bills. The bookmakers were glad to take in a few dollarson General Duval, if for no other reason than to round out theirsheets. The flat-footed negro continued to bet until he arrived atthe bottom of his vest pocket, and then he began to draw upon a fundconcealed in the fob pocket of his trousers. When the first buglecall sounded he was betting from the right hip--and never more thantwo dollars at a time. 

Jockey Moseby Jones, gorgeous as a tropical butterfly in the cherryjacket with green sleeves and the red, white and blue cap, prancedinto General Duval's paddock stall and listened intently as old Gabebent over him. 

"Yo' ain't fo'got whut we tole yo' last night, son?" asked Gabe inanxious tones. 

"Ain't fo'got nuthin', " was the sober answer. 

"'Cause eve'ything 'pend on how it _look_. "

"Uh huh, " replied little Mose. "I make it _look_ all right. "

"This hoss, he might take a notion to run off an' leave 'em soon asthe barrier go up, " cautioned Gabe. "Keep him folded up in yo' lap tothe las' minute. "

"An' then set him down, " supplemented Mose. "Yo' jus' be watchin' me, thass all!"

"Lot of folks'll be watchin' yo', " warned Gabe. "Them judges, theygoin' be watchin' yo'. Remembeh, it got to look _right_!"

As Jockey Jones passed out of the paddock he clucked to his mount andglanced over toward the fence where Old Man Curry was still sitting. 

"Hawss, " whispered little Mose, "did yo' see that? The ole man winkedat us!"

There must have been some truth in the rumour concerning Laredo, forhe rushed to the front when the barrier rose, with Miller Boy andAthelstan in hot pursuit. As for The Cricket, she was all but left atthe post, and her owner remarked to himself that he'd teach 'em whento make _his_ mare a false favourite. 

The three people most interested in the cherry jacket with the greensleeves watched it go bobbing along the rail several lengths behindthe leaders, and were relieved to find it there instead of out infront. Had the judges been watching the bay colt they could not havehelped noticing that his mouth was wide open, due to a powerful pullon the reins, and they might have drawn certain conclusions fromthis, but they were watching The Cricket instead and mentally puttinga rod in pickle for the owner of the favourite. 

Laredo led around the turn and into the stretch with Miller Boy andAthelstan crowding him hard, but the pace was beginning to tell onthe front runners, and the rear guard was closing in on them, headedby the cherry jacket. 

"It's anybody's race, " remarked the presiding judge as he squinted upthe stretch. "Lord, what a lot of beetles!"

"Yes, they're rotten, " said the associate judge. "Laredo's quittingalready. Now, then, you hounds, come on! Whose turn is it to-day?"

The maidens came floundering down to the wire spread out like acavalry charge and covering half the track. At the sixteenth pole abold man would have hesitated to pick the winner; indeed, it lookedto be anybody's race, with the sole exception of The Cricket, sulkingfar in the rear. It was Gabe Johnson who saw that the wraps werestill about Mose's wrists, but it was Old Man Curry who chuckled tohimself as the horses passed the paddock gate, and it was Shanghai, Curry's negro hostler, who began to count tickets on General Duval. 

"The old nigger's horse is going to be there or thereabouts to-day, "commented the presiding judge. "Just--about--there--or--thereabouts. Keep your eye on him, Ed--there he is on the inside. Darn thesespread-eagle finishes! They always look bad from angle!"

Thirty yards away from home a single length separated the first fivehorses, and the fifth horse carried the racing colours of GabrielJohnson. It was cutting it fine, very fine, but little Mose had anexcellent eye for distance; he felt the strength of the mount underhim and timed his closing rush to the fraction of a second. Those whowere yelling wildly for Athelstan, Miller Boy, and the others saw aflash of cherry jacket on the rail, caught a glimpse of abullet-headed little negro hurling himself forward in thestirrups--and the race was over. Jockey Moseby Jones had brought adespised outsider home a winner by half a length. There was a stunnedsilence as the numbers dropped into place, broken only by oneterrific whoop from Shanghai, betting commissioner. 

"Well, " said the associate judge, looking at his chief, "what do youmake of that? The winner had a lot left, didn't he? Think the oldnigger has been cheating with him?"

The presiding judge rubbed his chin. 

"No-o, Ed, I reckon not, " said he. "It was a poor race, run in slowtime. And we've got to figure that the change of jockeys would make adifference; this Jones is a better boy than Duval is used to. Ireckon it's all right--and I'm glad the old nigger finally won arace. "

"The Cricket would have walked home if she'd got away good, " said theassociate judge. 

"Have to look into that business, " said the other. "Well, I'm gladthe old darky finally put one over!"

Many people seemed glad of it, even Mr. Pitkin, who slapped Gabe onthe back as he led the winner from the ring. 

"Didn't see the race--I was down getting another drink--but they tellme the General just lucked in on the last jump. Everything dead infront of him, eh?"

"Yes, suh, " answered Gabe, passing the halter to one of the blackstable hands. "It did look like he win lucky, that's a fac'!"

"Well, don't go to celebrating and overlook that fourth race!"ordered Pitkin. "No gin now! You bring Sergeant Smith over to thepaddock yourself. "

"Yes, suh, boss. "

"And if anybody asks you about him, he's only in there for a tryout. "

"Jus' fo' a tryout, yes, suh. "

To such as were simple enough to expect a crooked man to returnstraight answers to foolish questions, Pitkin stated (1) that he wasnot betting a plugged nickel on his colt, (2) that he hardly figuredto have a chance with such horses as Calloway and Hartshorn, (3) thathe might possibly be third if he got the best of the breaks, and (4)that he had lost his regular jockey and was forced to give the mountto a bad little boy about whom he knew nothing. 

The real truth he uncovered to Jockey Shea, a freckled young savagewho had taken up the burden where Mulligan laid it down. 

"Listen, kid, and don't make any mistakes with this colt. I'm down onhim hook, line, and sinker to win and place, so give him a nice rideand I'll declare you in with a piece of the dough. Eh? Never youmind; it'll be _enough_. Now, then, this is a mile race, and Callowaywill go out in front--he always does. Lay in behind him and staythere till you get to the head of the stretch, then shake up the coltand come on with him. He can stand a long, hard drive under whip andspur, so give it to him good and plenty from the quarter pole home. Don't try to draw a close finish--win just as far as you can withhim, because Hartshorn will be coming from behind. "

This was the race as programmed; this was the Pitkin annual clean-upas planned. Imagine, then, Pitkin's sheer, dumb amazement at thespectacle of Shea, going to the bat at the rise of the barrier inorder to keep his mount within striking distance of the tail end ofthe procession! Imagine his wrath as the colt continued to lag inlast place, losing ground in spite of the savage punishmentadministered by Shea. Imagine his sensations when he thought of thePitkin bank roll, scattered in all the pool rooms between Seattle andSan Francisco, tossed to the winds, burned up, gone forever, bet on acolt that would not or could not make a respectable fight for it!

Let us drop the curtain over the rest of the race--Hartshorn won itin a neck-and-neck drive with Calloway just as Shea was flogging thebay colt past the sixteenth pole--and we will lift the curtain againat the point where the judges summoned Pitkin into the stand to askhim for an explanation of Sergeant Smith's pitiful showing. 

"Now, sir, " said the presiding judge; "we've been pretty lenient withyou, Mr. Pitkin. We've overlooked a lot of things that we didn'tlike--a lot of things. I figured this colt to have a fair chance towin to-day, or be in the money at least. He ran like a cow. How doyou account for that?"

"Why, judges, " stammered Pitkin, "I--I don't account for it. I_can't_ account for it. The colt's been working good, and--and----"

"And you thought he had a chance, did you?"

"Why sure, judges, and I----"

"Well, then, why did you tell your friends that the colt was only infor a tryout? How about that?"

"I--I didn't want 'em spoiling the price, I mean, judges; I didn'tthink it was anybody's business. "

"Oh, so you bet on him, did you? Let's see the tickets. "

And of course Mr. Pitkin had no tickets to show. He offered toproduce copies of telegrams, but the judges had him exactly wherethey had been wanting to get him and they gave him a very unhappy tenminutes. At the end of this period the presiding judge cleared histhroat and pronounced sentence. "Your entries are refused from nowon, and you are warned off this track. Take your horses somewhereelse, sir, and don't ever bring 'em back here. That's all. "

To Pitkin it seemed enough. 

He walked down the steps in a daze and wandered away in the generaldirection of his stable. He was still in a daze when he reached hisdestination, and the first thing he saw was old Gabe, his coat on anda satchel in his hand. 

"Oh, you've heard about it already, have you?" asked Pitkin dully. 

"Heard whut?" And Gabe did not touch the brim of his hat. 

"We've got the gate--been warned off: entries refused. "

"Glory!" ejaculated the aged trainer. "Time they was gittin' ontoyou!"

"What's that?" shouted Pitkin. "Why, you black hound, I'll----"

"Yo' won't do nuthin'!" said Gabe stoutly. "Pitkin, yo' an' me is_through_; yo' an' me is _done_! Yo' made me all the trouble yo' evehgoin' make. Nex' time they ketches yo' cheatin' on a race track Ihopes they shoot yo' head off!"

Old Gabe walked away toward the Curry barn, and all Pitkin could dowas stare after him. Then he sat down on a bale of hay and took stockof his misfortunes. 

"I reckon everything's all right, Gabe, " said Old Man Curry, who wascounting money in his tackle-room. "It was sort o' risky. When a mancan't tell his own hoss when he sees him, anything is liable tohappen to him on a bush track. I've just cut this bank roll in two, Gabe, and here's your bit. Shanghai's a good bettin' commissioner, eh?"

Old Gabe's eyes bulged as he contemplated the size of his fortune. 

"All this, suh--mine?"

"All yours--an' you better not miss that six o'clock train. Never cantell what'll happen, you know, Gabe. Pitkin will keep General Duval, I reckon?"

Gabe grinned from ear to ear. 

"I fo'got to tell him so, " he chuckled, "but he got both them hossesnow. Mist' Curry, whut yo' reckon Sol'mun would say 'bout us?"

"'The Lord will not suffer the soul of the righteous to famish, '"quoted the horseman, "'but he casteth away the substance of thewicked. '"

"A-a-men!" said old Gabe. "An' a fine job o' castin' away been donethis evenin'! Mist' Curry, I'm quit hoss racin' now, but yo' thewhites' man I met in all my time. "

"Go 'way with you!" laughed Curry. 

It was one of the black stable hands who recalled Pitkin to a senseof his responsibilities. The roustabout approached, leading a baycolt. 

"Boss, is Gabe done quit us?"

"Huh?" grunted Pitkin, emerging from a deep-brown study. "Yes, he'sgone, confound him!"

"Well, he lef thisyer Gen'al Duval hoss behin' him. The Gen'al'scooled out now; whut you want me to do with him?"

"Put him in his stall, " mumbled Pitkin. "To-morrow I'll see if I canget rid of him. "

It is a very stupid race horse which does not know its own stall. Thestable hand released his hold on the halter and slapped the colt'sflank. 

"G'long with yo'!" said he. 

Then, and not until then, did Henry M. Pitkin begin to estimate hismisfortune correctly, for the bay colt which had won the maiden racein the name of General Duval and carried the racing colours ofGabriel Johnson to their first and only victory marched straight intoSergeant Smith's stall and thrust his muzzle into Sergeant Smith'sfeed box!