"Well," said the Kid, "I'd say it would be a right pious idea to get
this fiery steed saddled up, unless Calamity here is figuring on
riding 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. Never
look back and make every post a winning one. He can tow-rope this
field and drag 'em to death!"

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

While the horses were on their way to the post the Bald-faced Kid
escorted 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 to
go down in the ring if he does. It's a selling race and they might
try to run him up on you."

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

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

"At the post," said the Kid. "The starter won't fool away much time
with 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 gallop
for him. How much did you bet?"

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

"Where is he now?"

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

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

"Sure you did, and he ... oh, tough luck! Well, if that ain't a dirty
shame!"

"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 get
anything this time.... Too bad! Well, that's racing luck for you.
It's to be expected in this game. Sometimes you win and sometimes you
lose. 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. Last
of all a chestnut with four white stockings and a blaze galloped
heavily through the dust, snorting his indignation. Last Chance had
been hopelessly last all the way in spite of a rawhide tattoo on his
flanks.

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

"Pretty tough luck," said the Kid, "getting bumped in the stretch
when you had the race won." Little Calamity stared from under the
peak 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 him
about the race. It looked to me as if they bumped him."

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

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

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

Since it was his practice never to accept the obvious but to search
diligently for the hidden motive behind every deed, good or bad,
Little Calamity gave considerable thought to the matter and at last
believed that he had arrived at the only possible explanation of the
Kid's conduct. "Boss," said he that evening, "did you bet any money
to-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 the
situation somewhat as follows:

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

If he could have heard a conversation then going on in Old Man
Curry'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 got
designs on that fool's bank roll, have you?"

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

"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 one
that 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 sixteenth
pole. Somebody has got to watch the races and tell him how well his
horse is going or else he'll never know. Think what he'd miss! I'm
his form chart and his eyes, old-timer, and all I charge him is a
laugh now and then. Cheap enough, ain't it?"

Old Man Curry found his packet of fine-cut and thrust a large helping
into 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 Jungle
Circuit was preparing to receive the survivors. The owners were
plotting to secure that elusive commodity known as get-away money;
some of them would have been glad to mortgage their chances for a
receipted feed bill. Last Chance had started five times and each time
Hopwood had listened to a thrilling description of the race; the
chestnut's performances had been bad enough to strain the Kid's
powers of invention.

On the eve of the final struggle of the nonwinners, the Kid sat in
grave consultation with Hopwood and Little Calamity and the rain
drummed on the shingle roof of the tackle room. The fat man was
downcast; he had been hinting about selling Last Chance at auction
and returning to Butte.

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

"What's the use?" was the dreary reply. "Luck is against me, ain't
it?"

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

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

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

"You've said that every time."

"Yes, but you're overlooking the muddy track!" Hopwood blinked in
perplexity 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 in
it. His mother liked mud so well they had to mix it with her oats to
get her to eat regular. What difference will it make? Huh! Wait and
see!"

The owner rose, grunting heavily.

"I hope you're right this time," said he. "Lord knows I've had
disappointments enough. When I bought this horse they guaranteed him
to 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 thing
and I wouldn't be in this mess if I hadn't thought it was.... You
boys talk it over between you. I'm going to ask Mr. Curry if he wants
to buy a horse. He can have him for half what he cost me."

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

"Not in a thousand years!" was the confident reply. "The old man is a
sport in his way. It's a queer way, but he's all right at that. He
plays his own string and lets you play yours. Hopwood will find out
what Solomon says about buying strange horses, but the old man won't
tip your hand or mine. Queer genius, Curry is.... Well, your sucker
has 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 beagle
run 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 up
and up with the boss. Honest, I have. I could have tipped one of the
other 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 be
white too, see? I even told him not to bet on the horse until I gave
him the office, and so far we've been running for nothing but the
purse. 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 the
old crowbait will go better in the mud, and I'll ride him until his
eyes stick out a foot. We might accidentally get down there to the
judges' stand in front, and----"

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

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

"Last chance on Last Chance," mused the Kid, "and that's a hunch, but
I 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. If
he wants to bet, I'll see that he gets the top price."

"You _are_ a good guy!" said Little Calamity. "I think Last Chance
will 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 I
got to fooling with them speed powders I might give him too much and
have him climbing a tree on the way to the post.... Cheese it! Here
comes the boss!"

Hopwood entered, shaking the water from the brim of his hat, his
lower 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 out
of Proverbs. It was all about the difference between a wise man and a
fool. Confound it! He needn't have rubbed it in!"

It was the last race of the day and from their sheltered pagoda the
judges looked out upon the river of mud which had been the home
stretch. 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; Ivy
Leaf, 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 where
Hopwood got that horse? Remember him, two years ago at Butte? I
thought 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 horse
that can't untrack himself, a jockey that never rode a winner, and a
half-witted grocer! Why couldn't the chump stick to the little
villainies that he knows about--sanding the sugar and watering the
kerosene? I declare, sir, if I had half an excuse I'd refuse the
entry of that horse and warn Hopwood away from here! It would be an
act of Christian charity to do it."

The Bald-faced Kid, faithful to the bitter end, assisted in the
paddock as usual. Last Chance, his tail braided in a hard knot and
minus the ribbons in his mane, submitted to the saddling process with
unusual docility. His customary attitude of protest seemed to be
swallowed 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 now
that 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 horse
through the chute to the track. The rain beat hard upon his hunched
shoulders and his feet plowed heavily through the puddles. Repeated
failure had robbed him of the pride of ownership and all confidence
in horseflesh. He was, as the Bald-faced Kid said to himself, "a sad
looking mess." Hopwood spoke but once, wasting no words.

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

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

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

"Come along!" said he to the Kid. "I might as well be all the
different 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 him
this time and I will! Come along!"

From his perch on the inside rail the official starter eyed the
nonwinners with undisguised malevolence. Some of them were cantering
steadily toward the barrier, some were walking and one, a black
brute, seemed almost unmanageable, advancing in a series of wild
plunges and sudden sidesteps.

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

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

"_Come on! Come on!_"

The whole thing happened in the flicker of an eyelid. As Jake
released his hold, Alibi whirled at right angles and bolted for the
inner rail, carrying Grayling, Ivy Leaf, Satsuma, and Jolson with
him. They crashed into the fence, a squealing, kicking tangle, above
which rose the shrill, frightened yells of the jockeys. This left but
four horses in the race, and one of them, old Last Chance, passed
under the barrier with a wild bound which all but unseated his rider.
It was not his habit to display such unseemly haste in getting away
from the post and, to do him justice, Last Chance was no less
surprised--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 thing
carried a big bunch of 'em into the fence and they're out of it! Only
four 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? But
no, he was quiet enough on the way to the post."

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

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

Montezuma, Bluestone, and Stuffy Eaton were the other survivors--bad
horses all. Their riders, realizing that something had happened to
the real contenders, drove them hard and on the upper turn Jockey
Gillis, peering over his shoulder, saw that he was about to have
competition. He began to boot Last Chance in the ribs, but the aged
chestnut refused to respond to such ordinary treatment.

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

"There it goes again!" muttered the Kid, under his breath. "He's
pretty raw with it. Now if the judges notice the way that horse is
running they may frisk Calamity for an electric battery and if they
find 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 to
take my word for it!"

At the paddock gate Last Chance was rocking from side to side with
weariness and the pursuit was closing in on him. Jockey Gillis
measured the distance to the wire and waited until Montezuma and
Bluestone drew alongside. Twenty-five feet from home his fist thumped
Last Chance on the shoulder again. The big chestnut answered with a
frenzied bound and came floundering under the wire, a winner by a
neck.

"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 better
not 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." And
to himself: "The fool! He handed it to him again right under their
noses! Does he think the judges are cockeyed too?"

"Here's our chance to get rid of the grocer," said the presiding
judge 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 as
Jockey Gillis turned the horse he tossed a small, dark object over
the inside fence. It fell in a puddle of water and disappeared from
sight. When the winner staggered stiffly into the ring, Gillis
flicked the visor of his cap with his whip.

"Judges?" he piped.

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

"Bring that tack up here, boy!"

The investigation, while brief, was thorough. The judges examined the
saddle carefully for copper stitching, looked at the butt end of the
whip, ran their hands over Calamity's thin loins and last of all felt
in his bootlegs for wires connected with the spurs. All this time
Jockey Gillis might have been posing as a statue of outraged
innocence.

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

Jockey Gillis bowed and saluted.

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

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

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

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

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

"You're a sweet little boy, ain't you? A _nice_ little boy! Here I
stall for you for weeks and you didn't even tell me that the old
skate was going to have the Thomas A. Edison trimmings with him
to-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 chance
myself, that's all. I had to do it."

"And got caught with the battery on you, too. Didn't you know any
better'n to slip him the juice right in front of the wire? Think
those 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 every
time 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 around
after the race."

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

"They warned me away from the track. I should worry. There's other
tracks. Only thing is, they've got Hopwood in the stand now, and
he'll be fool enough to tell 'em this was the first time he bet on
the 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 on
the rail for support.

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm goin' to buy a diamond pin and a gold watch and a ring with a
red stone in it and a suit of clothes and an overcoat and a derby
hat and a pair of silk socks and a porterhouse steak four inches
thick 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 a
flourishing business. Over the cash register hangs a crayon portrait
of a large yellow horse with four white stockings and a blaze. The
original of the portrait hauls the Hopwood delivery wagon. Irritated
teamsters sometimes ask Mr. Hopwood's delivery man why he does not
drive where he is looking.

SANGUINARY JEREMIAH

It was not yet dawn, but Old Man Curry was abroad; more than that, he
was fully dressed. It was a tradition of the Jungle Circuit that he
had never been seen in any other condition. The owner of the "Bible
horses," in shirt sleeves and bareheaded, would have created a
sensation among his competing brethren, some of whom pretended to
believe that the patriarch slept in his clothes. Others, not so
positive on this point, averred that Old Man Curry slept with one eye
open and one ear cocked toward the O'Connor barn, where his enemies
met to plot against him.

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

The first faint golden glow appeared in the east; the adjoining
stables loomed dark in the half light; here and there lanterns moved,
and close at hand rose the wail of a sleepy exercise boy, roused from
slumber by a liberal application of rawhide. From the direction of
the track came the muffled beat of hoofs, swelling to a crescendo,
and diminishing to a thin tattoo as the thoroughbreds rounded the
upper 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 cast
away,'" he quoted. "Solomon was framin' up a system for hossmen, I
reckon. 'A time to get and a time to lose.' Only thing is, Solomon
himself 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 eyes
with one hand and tugging at his sweater with the other. Later in the
day he would be a butterfly of fashion and an offence to the eye in
loud checks and conflicting colours; now he was only a very sleepy
little 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 Curry
barn.

"Send him the full distance, Mose," said the aged owner, "and set him
down 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's
voice.

"You heard me," said Old Man Curry, already striding in the direction
of 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 Mose
rebelliously. "Huh!"

In the shadow of the paddock Old Man Curry came upon his friend, the
Bald-faced Kid, a youth of many failings, frankly confessed. The Kid
sat upon the fence, nursing an old-fashioned silver stop watch, for
he 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 before
to-morrow's race. Confound it! If I didn't know you pretty well, I'd
say you ought to have your head examined! I'd say they ought to crawl
your cupola for loose shingles!"

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

"Fair enough!" said the Bald-faced Kid. "Elisha's a good horse--a
cracking good horse--but to-morrow's the end of the meeting and
you've gone and saved him up to slip him into the toughest race on
the card--on a day when all the burglars at the track will be
levelling for the get-away money! You could have found a softer spot
for him to pick up a purse, and, take it from me, the winner's end is
about all you'll get around here. The bookmakers lost a lot of
confidence in human nature when you pulled that horsehair stunt on
'em, and they wouldn't give you a price now, not even if you started
a nice motherly old cow against stake horses. As for Elisha--the
bookies begin reaching for the erasers the minute they hear his
name! 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 under
cover. 'Lisha is goin' a mile this morning. Better catch him when he
breaks. He's off!"

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

"Take a look at that!" said he, thrusting the watch under Old Man
Curry'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 the
hide 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't
you?"

"Jeremiah!" The Bald-faced Kid spoke with scorn. "Why, he bleeds
every 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 volume
which was his constant companion, and began to thumb the leaves
rapidly. "You're always heaving your friend Solomon at me. I'll give
you a quotation I got out of the Fourth Reader at school--something
about judging the future by the past. Look here: '_Jeremiah bled and
was pulled up.' 'Jeremiah bled badly._' Why, everybody around here
knows that he's a bleeder!"

"There you go again," said Old Man Curry patiently. "You study them
dad-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 last
month--it's what he's goin' to do to-day that counts."

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

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

Exactly twenty-four hours later the Bald-faced Kid, peering across
the track to the back stretch, saw Old Man Curry lead a black horse
to 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, a
professional clocker employed by a bookmaker to time the various
workouts and make a report on them at noon.

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

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

Jeremiah went to the half pole like the wind, slacked somewhat on the
upper 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 the
railbirds saw that blood was streaming from both nostrils and
trickling from his mouth.

"Ain't that sickening? You wouldn't think that Old Man Curry would
abuse 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 had
that 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 that
condition."

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

On get-away day the speculative soul whose financial operations show
a loss makes a determined effort to plunge a red-ink balance into a
black one. On get-away day the honest owner has doubts and the
dishonest owner has fears. On get-away day the bookmaker wears deep
creases in his brow, for few horses are "laid up" with him, and he
wonders which dead one will come to life. On get-away day the tout
redoubles his activities, hoping to be far away before his victims
awake to a sense of injury. On get-away day the program boy bawls his
loudest and the hot-dog purveyor pushes his fragrant wares with the
utmost energy. On get-away day the judges are more than usually
alert, scenting outward indications of a "job." On get-away day the
betting ring boils and seethes and bubbles; the prices are short and
arguments are long; strange stories are current and disquieting
rumours 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 to
words.

In the midst of all this feverish excitement, Old Man Curry
maintained his customary calm. He had seen many get-away days on many
tracks. Elisha was entered in the fourth race, the feature event of
the 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 were
up and Elisha ruled the opening favourite at 7 to 5. Did Mr. Curry
think that Elisha could win? Wasn't the price a little short? In case
Mr. Curry had any doubts about Elisha, what other horse did he
favour? The old man answered all questions patiently, courteously,
and truthfully--and patience, courtesy, and truth seldom meet in the
paddock.

We-ell, about 'Lisha, now, he was an honest hoss and he would try as
hard to win at 7 to 5 as any other price. 'Lisha was trained not to
look in the bettin' ring on the way to the post. Ye-es, 'Lisha had a
chance; he always had a chance 'count of bein' honest and doin' the
best he knowed how. The other owners? Well, now, it was this way: he
couldn't really say what they was up to; he expected, though, they'd
all be tryin'. Himself person'ly, he only bothered about his own
hosses; they kept his hands full. Was Engle going to bet on
Cornflower? 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, they
were to do the best he could and come home in front if possible--Old
Man Curry turned Elisha over to Shanghai and went into the betting
ring. Elisha's price was still 7 to 5. The old man paused in front of
the first book, a thick wallet in his fingers. The bookmaker, a
red-eyed, dyspeptic-looking person, glanced down, recognised the
flowing white beard under the slouch hat, took note of the thick
wallet, 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 and
piggy eyes which narrowed to slits as they rested upon the corpulent
roll 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. Your
slate says 6 to 5, 'Lisha."

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

"That's a fine howdy-do!" snapped the exasperated old man. "I can't
bet on my own horse--at a short price, too!"

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

The third bookmaker forestalled all argument by wiping out the
prophet'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 the
next store."

Old Man Curry worked his way around the circle, Elisha's price
dropping before his advance. His very appearance in the ring had been
enough to encourage play on the horse, and the large roll of bills
which he carried so conspicuously added a powerful impetus to the
rush 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 and
even at 3 to 5 the crowd played him, and sheet and ticket writers
were kept busy recording bets on the Curry horse.

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

"See what your little nigger did, riding that horse out yesterday
morning? You might have got 2 or 3 to 1 on him if Mose hadn't tipped
him 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 the
Kid. "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' for
is the purse, Frank, like you said. I did my best to bet 'em until
the price got too plumb ridiculous, but the children of Israel
wouldn't take my money."

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

"Well, no wonder!" he snorted. "Don't you know that ain't any way to
do? 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 ask
is please don't have me yanked up before the Lunacy Board till after
the 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 dollars
to bet on Jeremiah!"

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

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

Now the gaunt bay head was at the mare's flank, now at the saddle
girth, 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 the
meeting.

"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 him
not to start that horse again. I'm told he bled at his workout this
morning. By the way, the old man acted sort of grouchy after the
Elisha race. Did you notice it?"

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

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

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

"Listen, Mac!" wheezed Marx. "I want you to tail Old Man Curry from
now until the barrier goes up, understand? Yes, yes, you _told_ me
the horse bled this morning, but that old fox has got the miracle
habit; 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 this
here Jeremiah, I'll hold him out and not take a cent on him. Stick
around close and shoot me back word by Abie. The rest of these
fellows have got 20 to 1 on him; he's 15 to 1 in this book until I
hear from you. Hurry, now!"

There were ten horses entered in the final race of the meeting, and
nine of them were strongly touted as "good things." The tenth was
Jeremiah and the most reckless hustler at the track refused to
consider the black horse as a contender for anything but sanguinary
honours.

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

Of course there were those who did not believe this, so they asked
Jeremiah's owner and Old Man Curry stamped up and down the paddock
stall and complained querulously. They asked him if Jeremiah had a
chance and he replied that Elisha was a good hoss, a crackin' good
hoss, but they wouldn't let him bet his money. They asked him if
Jeremiah was likely to bleed and he told them that a bookmaker who
wouldn't take a bet when it was shoved under his nose ought to be run
off the track. They asked him what the other owners were doing and
were informed that he had a tarnation good mind to make a holler to
the 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 a
bet down on Elisha. Says if he wasn't allowed to bet on the best
horse 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 a
bugle. The last field of the season was being called to the track and
instead of the usual staccato summons the bugler blew "Taps."

"There she goes, boys!" bellowed the bookmakers. "That's good-by for
a 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 solemnly
promised themselves not to make another bet caught the fever and
hurled themselves into the jam, bent on exchanging coin of the realm
for pasteboard tickets and hope of sudden prosperity. It was the last
race of the season, wasn't it, and good-bye to the bangtails for
another year!

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

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

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

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

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

"Ah, hah!" said he, wagging his head. "I thought as much. Jeremiah
may have bled this morning, but he ain't bleeding _now_ and that
little nigger is almost breaking his jaw to keep him from running
over the two in front!... Old Man Curry again! Oh, but he's a cute
rascal!"

"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 do
you suppose he's done to that horse since this morning?"

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

It really was not much of a contest. Sky Pilot, on the rail, swung
wide turning into the stretch and carried Resolution with him. Like a
flash Little Mose shot the black horse through the opening and
straightened away for the wire, an open length away for the wire, an
open 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 the
home stretch alone, fighting for his head and hoping for some real
competition which never quite arrived. The black horse won by three
open lengths, won with wraps still on his jockey's wrists, and, as
the form chart stated, "did not bleed and was never fully extended."

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Bald-faced Kid might see miracles with his eyes, but there was
that about him which demanded explanation. Chastened in spirit,
utterly humble and cast down, he called upon Old Man Curry. He found
him seated in his tackle-room, reading the Old Testament by the light
of 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 me
what 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 over
the place?"

"You saw some blood, yes ... Frank, I wish't you wouldn't interrupt
me when I'm talkin'.... Well, about three weeks ago I met up with a
man that claimed he had a remedy to cure bleeders. I let him try his
hand on Jeremiah and he done a good job. Since then we've been
workin' the black rascal at two in the mornin' when all you wise
folks was in bed.... Of course, I didn't want anybody to know it was
Jeremiah I was figurin' on, so I gave 'em something else to think
about. I started 'Lisha the same day and I tried to get as many folks
interested in him as I could. I had the little nigger send him a mile
so fast that a wayfarin' man and a fool couldn't help but see he was
ready. And then I kind of distracted 'em some more by goin' into the
bettin' ring with a big mess of one dollar bills with a fifty on the
outside. I held the money up where everybody could see it and I
carried on scandalous when the bookmakers wouldn't take it, I'd have
carried on a lot worse if one of them children of Israel had called
my 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 heard
that Jeremiah wasn't played. He was played all over the ring, two
dollars at a time and it was my money that played him. But of course
those bookmakers knew I was sulkin' out in the paddock and took the
sucker money.... Anything else you want to know?"

"Yes!" The Bald-faced Kid had reached the bursting point. "Was
Jeremiah 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," said
he. "It took me some time to study that out. Last week Mose came
around here, squawkin' on one of them little toy balloons. I took it
away from him for fear it would make the hosses nervous--and then I
got to studying how it was made. Last night I done some shopping. I
bought a nice, fat hen and a glass pumping arrangement from a drug
store.... The hen, she passed away this mornin' about daybreak. She
bled quite a lot, but I got most of it in that rubber bag, and when
Jeremiah 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 could
have cleaned up!"

"I started in to tell you, son, and you said I ought to have my head
examined. And then, I kind of like to surprise folks, Frank. I knew
you wouldn't have the nerve to bet on a bleeder like Jeremiah, so I
had some bettin' done for you." Old Man Curry fumbled in his pocket
and 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 the
Jungle Circuit the Bald-faced Kid met the horse car in the railroad
yards and watched the thoroughbreds come down the chute into the
corral. One by one he checked them off: Elisha, the pride of the
stable; Elijah, Isaiah, Ezekiel, Esther, Nehemiah, Ruth, and
Jeremiah. The aged owner, straw in mouth and hands clasped behind
him, watched the unloading process narrowly giving an order now and
then and sparing no more than a nod for his young friend. This sort
of welcome did not discourage the Kid. He was accustomed to the old
man's spells of silence, as well as his garrulous interludes.

"They look all right, old-timer," said the Kid, making conversation
for 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 a
track 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, the
hostler, 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 that
fellow?... One white forefoot. H-m-m!... Say, you don't mean to tell
me this is Fairfax?"

Old Man Curry nodded.

"Fairfax!" ejaculated the Bald-faced Kid disgustedly. "Well, how in
the name of all that is good, great, and wise did you get that
crowbait wished on you?"

Old Man Curry threw away his straw and reached for his packet of fine
cut, a sure sign that he was about to unburden himself.

"He wa'n't wished on me, Frank. Jimmy Miles was stuck with a feed
bill, and at the last minute, just as I was loadin' my hosses,
he----"

"He stuck you with _that_," finished the Kid, pointing at the black
horse.

"Well, I dunno's I'd say _stuck_," remarked Old Man Curry, looking
critically 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 near
nothing that a lot of folks can't tell the difference. If you said to
me: 'This is a black horse named Fairfax and that over there is
nothing,' 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 in
the extreme. "Mebbe I am. You ought to know 'bout hosses, Frank. You
most gener'ly do."

"Cut out the sarcasm, because here's one I _do_ know.... You made a
sucker of me on Jeremiah, but don't rub it in. This Fairfax looks
like a stake horse and on his breeding he ought to run like one, but
he simply can't untrack himself in any kind of going. If hay was two
bits 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, but
there 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 go
ahead and see what you can do with him."

"Well, ain't that queer?" ejaculated the old man. "Ain't it? Great
minds run in the same channels, for a fact. You know, that's exackly
what I was figgerin' to do! I ain't had time to look this black hoss
over yet--I bought him just before we pulled out of the railroad
yards--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 looks
as if he could run, but ain't doin' it--the next thing I want to find
out is _why_. If I thought there was a cold strain in Fairfax, I
wouldn't waste a minute on him, but I know he's bred right. His daddy
was sure a go-getter from 'way up the creek and his mother was a
nice, honest little mare and game as a badger.... And, speakin' about
breeding, Frank, I don't know's you ever thought of it, but when it
comes to ancestors, a real thoroughbred hoss has got something on a
human being. Even Fairfax over there had his ancestors picked out for
him by folks who knew their business and was after results--go back
with him as far as you like and that'll be true. A hoss or a mare
without class can't ring in on a family tree, whereas humans ain't
noways near that partickler. Son, good looks has made grandfathers
out of lots of men that by rights should have been locked up instead
of 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 excuse
yourself for shipping that black hay burner around the country. You'd
save breath by admitting that Miles slipped one over on you."

"Mebbe he did and mebbe he didn't. Jimmy Miles don't know all there
is to be knowed about hosses--coming right down to it, I'd say he's
pretty near ignorant. Like as not he's overlooked something about
this 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 as
life."

"And aspreading himself like a green bay tree, I reckon," said the
old man. "I've lopped a few branches off that rascal in my time, and
if I have any luck I'll lop off a few more at this meeting.... Ole
Maje 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 the
old 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 jacket
dusted 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 the
free gate. He's a crook--no getting away from it--but he's got
high-up friends."

"Let him have 'em!" snapped Old Man Curry. "You know what Solomon
says? '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 ole
Maje Pettigrew. When he starts dealin' out justice, the cards come
off the top of the deck and they lay as they fall. The major will get
him, I tell you!"

"I won't go into deep mourning if he does," said the Kid. "Al Engle
is no friend of mine, old-timer. If he was overboard in fifty feet of
water and couldn't swim a lick, I'd toss him a bar of lead--that's
how much I think of him. He did me a mean trick once and I haven't
got 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 top
rail of the fence. Take a look, will you?"

Sure enough, Fairfax was gnawing at the pine board; the grating rasp
of his teeth became audible in the silence. After a time the horse
dropped 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's
next remark was not a direct reply to his question. After a careful
survey 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 under
the name of Eliphaz, won a cheap selling race from very bad
horses--won it in a canter after leading all the way. The Bald-faced
Kid, a student to whom past performance was a sacred thing, was
shocked at this amazing reversal of form and sought Old Man
Curry--and information.

"I don't know how you do it!" said the youth. "All I can say is that
you'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 set
of legs, or lungs, or something? Well, Eliphaz, then--do you know how
fast 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!" The
Bald-faced Kid was beginning to show signs of exasperation. "You're
the fellow that invented secrets, ain't you, old-timer? You're by a
clam out of an oyster, you are! Never mind! Don't say it! I can tell
by the look in your eye that Solomon thought the clam was the king of
beasts. What I want to know is this: how did that black brute come to
change his heart at the same time with his name?"

"I dunno's there was ever anything wrong with his _heart_," said Old
Man Curry. "Lots of folks make that mistake and think a man's heart
is bad when it's only his habits that need reformin'. Now Eliphaz, on
his breeding, he ought to----"

"Yes, yes! I know all about his breeding--by Stormcloud out of
Frippery--but he never ran to his breeding before. The way he ran for
Jimmy Miles you'd have thought he was by a steam roller out of a
wheelbarrow. What in Sam Hill have you been doing to him--sprinkling
powders on his tongue?"

The old man's eyes flashed wrathfully.

"You know better'n that, Frank. All the help the black hoss had was
what little bit Mose give him after the barrier went up. Ketch me
handing the drug habit to a dumb critter! I guess _not_!"

"Keep your shirt on," was the soothing reply. "I'm only telling you
what they say. They think Jimmy Miles didn't know the right
prescription."

"A lot of things he don't know besides p'scriptions!" retorted Old
Man Curry, still nettled. "Hosses, for one!"

"But you're getting away from the subject, old-timer. Ain't you going
to tell me what you've done to this horse to make him win?"

"Some day, Frank--some day." The aged horseman combed his white beard
with his fingers and regarded his impatient young friend with benign
tolerance. "You--got many clients, so far?" Thus tactfully did Old
Man Curry recognise the fact that the Bald-faced Kid was what another
man 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 next
time out."

"If it's a dog race, there won't be any price on him," was the sulky
response.

"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 entry
slip and there found something which caused him to emit a long, low
whistle.

"Well, the poor old nut!" murmured the Kid. "Just because he thinks
well of the black horse, he's got no license to slip him in against
the real ones.... Too much class here for Eliphaz. He may be able to
beat dogs and nonwinners, but Topaz and Miss Louise will run the
eyeballs out of him. Let's see--Topaz won his last start----" and the
Bald-faced Kid fell to thumbing his form charts.

Topaz and Miss Louise did not run the eyeballs out of Eliphaz; the
supposed contenders never got near enough to the black horse to give
him a race. Eliphaz burst out in front when the barrier rose and
stayed there, triumphantly kicking clods in the faces of his
pursuers. 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, for
that youth had persuaded a most promising client to bet his last
dollar on Topaz. Topaz was second, which was some consolation, but
the horse without any license to start in such company passed under
the wire with three lengths to spare, his mouth wide open because of
a strong pull. That night Old Man Curry poured vinegar into the
wound.

"Well, son," said he, "I hope and trust you remembered what I said
and cashed in on the black hoss to-day. They was offerin' 10 to 1 on
him in the openin' betting. He's an improved hoss, ain't he?"

"He's _another_ horse!" grunted the Kid. "Mose had to choke him all
the 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 word
spoken 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. "On
his past performance he ain't even in the same class with horses like
he beat to-day!"

Old Man Curry smiled and returned to Solomon.

"'A scorner seeketh wisdom and findeth it not, but knowledge is easy
unto him that understandeth.'"

"Yes--'unto him that understandeth!' That's the point; I don't
understand. Nobody understands. Here's a dead horse come to life and
he's got everybody guessing. Miracles are all right, but I'm never
going to bet on one until I know how it's done. Say, old-timer, ain't
you going to tell me what's happened to Eliphaz?"

"No, but I'll tell you what Solomon says 'bout a loose tongue, my
son." Old Man Curry paused, for he was addressing the vanishing coat
tails of a much-disgusted young man. The Bald-faced Kid took himself
off in a highly inflamed state of mind, and the patriarch, looking
after him, shook his head sorrowfully.

"'How much better is it to get wisdom than gold,'" he quoted, "but
Frank, 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, a
brilliant victory over the best horses at the track. Among the
seekers after knowledge, were Al Engle and Martin O'Connor, horsemen
and turf pirates with whom Old Man Curry had been at war for some
time. Engle, sometimes called The Sharpshooter, was the chief
conspirator; O'Connor was his lieutenant. Engle, who was responsible
for the skirmishes with Curry, had begun operations with the theory
that Old Man Curry was a harmless, brainless individual, "shot full
of luck," he expressed it. Circumstances had caused him to alter his
opinion somewhat; he no longer pitied the owner of Eliphaz and
Elisha; he suspected him. O'Connor went even farther. He respected
and feared everything bearing the Curry tag, the latter feeling
amounting almost to superstition.

These two unworthies discussed the resurrection of Fairfax, the place
of the confab being O'Connor's tackle-room and the time being the
night following the fourth straight victory of the Curry colours as
borne by Eliphaz.

"If it ain't hop he's using on that horse," said O'Connor, "I wish
you'd tell me what it is. A month ago Fairfax was a bum; now he's
pretty 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 he
goes to the post the next time? Then we could send word to the judge
that Curry was stimulating the horse and----"

"And create a lovely precedent," sneered Engle. "Use your head a
little more; that's what it's for. A man that hops his horses as
often as you do can't afford to start any investigations along that
line. If you must throw something at Curry, throw a brick, not a
boomerang.... And somehow I don't believe it's hop. Fairfax was
probably 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 butting
contest, let alone a thoroughbred for a race! Curry is a wise
horseman--I'll give the old scoundrel that much--and he's got this
bird 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 arrogant
assumption of mental superiority, and was thankful for a chance to
remind The Sharpshooter of one skirmish in which all the honours had
gone to Old Man Curry.

"G'wan, run him up like you did Elisha," said O'Connor. "Grab him out
of a selling race. My memory ain't what it used to be, Al, but seems
to me you took one of Curry's horses away from him and framed him up
for a killing. Did I dream it, or did the skate run last? Go on and
grab 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 if
you'll take a tip from me--which you won't because you think you're
smarter than I am--you'll let Old Man Curry's horses alone. It ain't
in the cards that you or me can monkey with those Bible horses
without getting hurt. Grab this Fairfax, or whatever they call him
now, 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. I
saw Jimmy Miles this afternoon, and he was crying about what a
wonderful horse he'd sold for nothing. I wonder where I could get
hold of Jimmy?"

The following evening the Bald-faced Kid called upon his aged friend
and interrupted a heart-to-heart session in Old Man Curry's
tackle-room.

"Hello, old-timer! Hello, Jimmy! Am I butting in here?"

Jimmy Miles, a thin, sandy-haired man with pale-blue eyes and a
retreating chin, answered for both.

"No, nothing private. I've been tryin' to tell Curry here that he
kind 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 because
you was crazy to sell."

"I'd been drinkin' or I wouldn't have been such a fool," whined
Miles. "Booze in--brains out: the old story. If I hadn't been right
up against it, I wouldn't have sold the horse at all--attached to him
the way I was. I'd worked with him a long time, gettin' him ready to
win, 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 had
thrown on the floor, and in that instant the Bald-faced Kid caught
Old 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 a
wordless 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's
won 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 want
to 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 his
remaining 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 restaurant
under the grand stand after the last race to-day and the waiter hung
around and got an earful. O'Connor was against the deal from the
jump. He says nobody can win any money on a Bible horse without
queering his luck. Engle knows you wouldn't sell to him so he sent
Miles after you and told him what to say. He'd like to run that horse
in 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 have
him pulled, or something?"

"Not at this track, old-timer. You see, Engle is just the least
little bit leery of Pettigrew. They talked it all over and decided
that it wouldn't be healthy for him to buy a four-time winner and
make a bad showing with him the first time out. He wants the horse
for a gambling tool, all right enough, but he won't be foolish enough
to do any cheating with Eliphaz at this track. Engle says himself
that he don't dare take a chance--not with old Pettigrew laying for
him--on general principles. Engle thinks that if he buys the black
horse and wins a good race with him first time out it may pull the
wool over Pettigrew's eyes. He says Eliphaz is a cinch in the
Handicap 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 was
arepresentin' 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 his
mouth shut tight enough, can pass for a wise man.... Frank, I wish
you'd go out and find Jimmy Miles. Sort of hint to him that if he
comes 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, but
on Friday evening at dusk Old Man Curry went into the stall and said
good-bye to his four-time winner.

"Don't be so skittish!" said the old gentleman. "I ain't come to put
the strap on ye.... Habit is a great thing, black hoss, a great
thing. In this case I'm kind of dependin' on it. You know what the
dog 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, but
Peter, he got the notion from Solomon and didn't give him credit
either.... Good-bye, black hoss, and whatever happens, good luck!"

This was at dusk, but it was close to eleven o'clock when the
transaction was completed by transfer of a fat roll of bills, which
Old Man Curry counted very carefully.

"Four hundred--five hundred--Jimmy, this hoss has got a engagement
for the Handicap to-morrow--seven hundred--seven-fifty--Was you
thinkin' 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 any
info'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. I
wasn't even goin' to warm him up before takin' him to the paddock.
Some hosses run better hot; some run better cold.... Fourteen
hundred--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 barely
into his trousers when a bell boy tapped at his door. The major was
small and plump, with a face like a harvest moon, if you can imagine
a harvest moon wearing a bristling moustache and goatee. Horsemen
knew to their sorrow that the major owned a long memory, a short
temper, and strong prejudices. Consistent racing was his cry and woe
to the in-and-outer.

"Somebody to see me, eh?" sputtered the major. "Blankety blank it to
blank! Man can't even get his breakfast in peace! Oh, Mr. Curry. Show
the gentleman up, boy."

"Judge," said Old Man Curry, after shaking hands, "there's something
you ought to know. I bought that Eliphaz hoss from Jimmy
Miles--bought him cheap."

"And a good bargain, suh," remarked Major Pettigrew.

"Mebbe. Well, Miles has been pesterin' me for a week wantin' to buy
the hoss back. Said he never would have sold him if he hadn't been in
licker. He kind of thought I took advantage of him, he said, but it
wa'n't true, judge, not a word of it. So last night I let him buy the
hoss back--for cash. This mornin' the hoss is in Al Engle's barn."

"Ah!" Major Pettigrew twisted his goatee until it stuck out straight
from 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 how
Engle got hold of the hoss--through another party."

"Yes, suh," said Major Pettigrew. "I understand yo' position
perfectly, suh. Suppose, now, you had not sold the animal. Would you
say he had a chance to win the Handicap?"

"Judge," said Old Man Curry earnestly, "I would have bet on him from
hell 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, will
yo' 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 ought
to 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 stall
eyeing Eliphaz and listening to the whispered instructions of the new
owner.

"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 to
5. I don't fancy the odds, but you ride him just the same as if the
last check was down--mind that. On his workout yesterday morning he's
ready for a better race than any he's shown so far, so bring him home
in front."

The bugle blared, the jockeys were flung into the saddles and the
parade began. The race was at seven-eighths, and as the horses passed
the grand stand on the way to the post Jockey Merritt heard his name
called. Major Pettigrew was standing on the platform in front of the
pagoda, bawling through a megaphone.

"Boy, bring that black hoss over here!"

Merritt reined Eliphaz across the track, touched the visor of his cap
with his whip, and looked up inquiringly.

"Son," said Major Pettigrew, "you're on the favourite, so don't make
any mistakes with him. I want to see you ride from start to
finish--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. "Proceed
with him, son."

The Handicap was a great race, but we are concerned with but one
horse--Eliphaz, late Fairfax. When the barrier rose Jockey Merritt
booted 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 in
last place; the other horses went on and left the favourite snorting
in the dust. Jockey Merritt raked the black sides with his spurs and
slashed cruelly with his whip--the favourite would not, could not get
out of a slow, awkward gallop.

"Blankety blank it!" exclaimed Major Pettigrew to the associate
judge. "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 at
him, will you? Ain't that pitiful?"

"He runs like a cow," said the major's assistant. "Merritt is
certainly riding him, though. He's whipping at every jump."

It was a long way around the track, and probably only one man was
really sorry for Eliphaz. Old Man Curry, at the paddock gate, shook
his head as the black horse floundered down the stretch, last by
fifty yards, the blunt spurs tearing at his sides and the rawhide
raising welts on his shoulders.

The winning numbers had dropped into position before Eliphaz came
under the wire. Major Pettigrew took one look at the horse and called
to 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 was
the Bald-faced Kid, at the door of Old Man Curry's tackle-room. "This
time you've put one over for fair! Major Pettigrew has just passed
out 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 have
ordered Engle boiled in oil or hung by the neck or something like
that, but the major let him down light. All he did was to rule him
off the turf for life!"

"Gracious Peter! You don't tell me!"

"Yes, and his horses too. The whole bunch! Engle is almost crazy. He
swears on his mother's grave that he's in-no-cent and he's going to
appeal to the Jockey Club and have Eliphaz examined by a 'vet' and
the Lord knows what all. Oh, he's wild! It seems that Pettigrew
wanted him to prove that he'd backed the horse and he couldn't
produce 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 just
readin' something here. 'He that seeketh mischief, it shall come unto
him.' Engle has been seekin' mischief a long time now and look what
he's got."

"Too true, old-timer," said the Bald-faced Kid, "but who was it
ordered 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. "Now
then, come clean."

"Frank," said the old man, "do you remember when we was unloadin' the
hosses and ketched Eliphaz bitin' at the fence?... You do? Then you
ought to be ashamed to ask any questions, because if you know hosses
like you should know 'em--in your business--you wouldn't need to ask
questions.

"Eliphaz is a cribber, and a cribber is a hoss that sucks itself full
of wind like a balloon. I knew the minute I see him drop his head and
swallow that way that cribbin' was what ailed him. That explained his
bein' such a bad race hoss. Jimmy Miles probably never done a thing
to 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 in
the daytime, because no hoss will crib unless he can get his head
down. Then at night I put on a cribbin' strap and buckled it tight
around his neck. He could get his head down all right, but he
couldn't suck any air. With that habit corrected, Eliphaz was a great
hoss.

"When I found out that Engle wanted to buy him, I let Eliphaz crib
all day Friday, after he'd been worked, and when I sold him I didn't
sell the strap. That's all, Frank. When he went to the post he was so
full of air that if Merritt hadn't been settin' on him he'd have gone
up like a balloon. That's why I warned you not to let anybody bet on
him.... 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 that
name--Eliphaz?"

"That was a sort of a joke," confessed the old man. "Once there was a
party named Job, and he had all sorts of hard luck. Some of that hard
luck was in not bein' able to lose his friends. They used to come and
see him and hold a lodge of sorrow and set on the ground and talk and
talk--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 the
Bald-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 'em
to-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 an
unwilling ear to these queries. He was a firm believer in the truth,
but more firmly he believed in the fitness of time and place. The
whole truth, spoken incautiously in the paddock, has been known to
affect closing odds, and it was the old man's habit to wager at post
time, if at all. Those who pestered the owner of the "Bible stable"
with questions about the fitness of Jeremiah and his chances to be
first past the post went back to the betting ring with their
enthusiasm for the black horse slightly abated. Old Man Curry
admitted, under persistent prodding, that if Jeremiah got off well,
and nothing happened to him, and it was one of his good days, and he
didn't get bumped on the turn, and the boy rode him just right, and
he could stay in front of the favourite, he might win. Pressed
further, a note of pessimism developed in the patriarch's
conversation; he became the bearded embodiment of reasonable doubt.
Curry's remarks, rapidly circulating in the betting ring, may have
made it possible for Curry's betting commissioner, also rapidly
circulating at the last minute, to unload a considerable bundle of
Curry's money on Jeremiah at odds of 5 and 6 to 1.

One paddock habitué, usually a keen seeker after information, might
have received a hint worth money had he come after it. Old Man Curry
noted the absence of the Bald-faced Kid, and when the bugle sounded
the call to the track he turned the bridle over to Shanghai, the
negro hostler, and ambled into the betting ring in search of his
young friend. The betting ring was the Kid's place of business--if
touting is classed as an occupation and not a misdemeanour--but Old
Man Curry did not find him in the crowd. It was not until the
horseman stepped out on the lawn that he spied the Kid, his elbows on
the top rail of the fence, his chin in his hands, and his back
squarely turned to the betting ring. He did not even look around when
the 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 one
who sees nothing in particular; he grunted slightly, but did not
speak.

"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 man
read his thought.

"You've got a couple of minutes yet," said he. "Mebbe more; there's
some 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 a
cinch of my own--but it's a cinch to lose."

He returned to his survey of the open field, but Old Man Curry
lingered. He stroked his beard meditatively.

"Son," said he at length, "Solomon says that a brother is born for
adversity. I don't know what a father is born for, but I reckon it's
to give advice. Where you been the last week or ten days? It's
mighty 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 your
system. You know the number, Frank."

"You mean well, old-timer," said the Kid; "and your heart's in the
right 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 the
Old 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, but
after a bit the conversation flagged. The Kid rolled many cigarettes
which he tossed away unfinished, and the old man waited in silence
for that which he knew could not long be delayed. It came at last in
the form of a startling question. "Old-timer," said the Kid
abruptly, "you--you never got married, did you?"

Old Man Curry blinked a few times, passed his fingers through his
beard, and stared at his questioner. "Why, no, son." The old man
spoke slowly, and it was plain that he was puzzled. "Why, no; I never
did."

"Did you ever think of it--seriously, I mean?"

Old Man Curry met this added impertinence without resentment, for the
light was beginning to dawn on him. He drew out his packet of fine
cut 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 it
ever since. She was the right one for me, but she got the notion I
wasn't the right one for her. Sometimes it happens that way. She
found the man she thought she wanted, and I took to runnin' round the
country with race horses. After that she was sure I was a lost soul
and hell-bent for certain. This was a long time ago--before you was
born, I reckon."

After a silence, the Kid asked another question:

"Well, at that, the race-track game is no game for a married man, is
it?"

"M-m-well," answered the patriarch thoughtfully, "that's as how a
man's wife looks at it. Some of 'em think it ain't no harm to gamble
s'long's you can win, but the average woman, Frank, she don't want
the hosses runnin' for her bread and butter. You can't blame her for
that, because a woman is dependent by nature. If the Lord had figured
her to git out an' hustle with the men, He'd have built her
different, but He made her to be p'tected and shelteredlike. A single
man can hustle and bat round an' go hungry if he wants to, but he
ain't got no right to ask a woman to gamble her vittles on any
proposition whatever."

"Ain't it the truth!" ejaculated the Bald-faced Kid, with a depth of
feeling quite foreign to his nature. "You surely spoke a mouthful
then!" Old Man Curry raised one eyebrow slightly and continued his
discourse.

"For a man even to figger on gettin' married, he ought to have
something comin' in steady--something that bad hosses an' worse men
can't take away from him. He oughtn't to bet at all, but if he does
it ought to be on a mortal cinch. There ain't many real cinches on a
race track, Frank; not the kind that a married man'd be justified in
bettin' 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," supplemented
the Kid, his eyes fixed on the cigarette which he was rolling. "But
that ain't all I wanted to ask you about, old-timer. Suppose, now, a
fellow had a girl that was too good for him--a girl that wouldn't
wipe her feet on a gambler if she knew it, and was brought up to
think that betting was wrong. And suppose now that this fellow wasn't
even a gambler. Suppose he was a hustler--a tout--but he'd asked the
girl to marry him without telling her what he was, and she'd said she
would. What ought that fellow to do?"

Old Man Curry took his time about answering; took also a large
portion of fine cut and stowed it away in his cheek.

"Well, son," said he gently, "it would depend a lot on which the
fellow cared the most for--the race track or the girl."

The Kid flung the cigarette from him and looked up, meeting the old
man's eyes for the first time. "I beat you to it, old-timer! Win or
lose, I'm through at the end of this meeting. There's a fellow over
in 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 is
growing all the time. He's been after me to come in with him on a
percentage of the profits, and last night I wrote him to look for me
when they get done running here. That part of it is settled. No more
race track in mine. But that ain't what I was getting at. Have I got
to 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 the
girl."

"But what if she throws me down?"

"That's the chance you'll have to take. You've been taking 'em all
your 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'll
forgive."

"Did Solomon say that?" demanded the Kid suspiciously.

"No, _I_ said it. You see, Frank, it was this way with Solomon: he
had a thousand wives, more or less, and I reckon he never had time to
strike 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 good
to live and the ones that wasn't worth killin'. It would have been
more helpful to common folks if he'd said something 'bout the general
run of women. You'd better tell her, Frank."

The Bald-faced Kid sighed.

"I'd rather take a licking. You're sure about that forgiving
business, 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 read
aloud:

"'There be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four
which I know not: The way of an eagle in the air; the way of a
serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea, and
the 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 the
right 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 a
corner and, programme in hand, was pointing the way to prosperity.

"Now, listen," he was saying; "you ain't taking a chance when you bet
on this bird to-day. Didn't I tell you that the boy that rides him is
my cousin? And ain't the owner my pal? What better do you want than
that? This tip comes straight from the barn, and you can get 20 to 1
for all your money!"

The victim squirmed and wriggled and twisted and would have broken
away but for the Kid's compelling eye. At last he thought of
something to say:

"If this here Bismallah is such a hell-clinkin' good race horse, how
come they ain't _all_ bettin' on him?"

"Why ain't they?" the Kid fairly squealed. "Because we've been lucky
enough to keep him under cover from everybody! That's why! Nobody
knows what he can do; the stable money won't even be bet here for
fear of tipping him off; it'll be bet in the pool rooms all over the
Coast. He'll walk in, I tell you--just _walk_ in! Why, say! You
don't think I'd tell you this if I didn't know it was _so_? Here
comes the owner. I'll go talk with him. You wait right here!"

It was really the owner of Bismallah, who, speaking out of the corner
of his mouth, told the Bald-faced Kid to go to a warmer clime. The
hustler returned to his victim instead.

"He says it's all fixed up; everything framed; play him across the
board. Come on!"

The victim allowed himself to be dragged in the direction of the
betting ring, and Old Man Curry watched the proceedings with a
whimsical light in his eye. Later he found a chance to discuss the
matter with the Kid. The last race was over, and Frank was through
for the day.

"You're persuadin' 'em pretty _strong_, ain't you, son?" asked the
old man. "You used to give advice; now you're makin' 'em _take_ it
whether they want to or not."

"Where do you get that stuff?" demanded the Kid, bristling
immediately.

"Why, I saw you working on that big fellow in the grey suit. I was
afraid you'd have to hit him on the head and go into his pocket after
it. Looked to me like he wasn't exackly crazy to gamble."

"Oh, him!" The tout spat contemptuously. "Do you know what that piker
wanted to bet? Six dollars, across the board! I made him loosen up
for fifteen, and he howled like a wolf."

"The hoss--lost?" By the delicate inflection and the pause before the
final word, Old Man Curry might have been inquiring about the last
moments of a departed friend. The Kid was looking at the ground, so
he 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 lapsed
into silence.

"Aw, spit it out!" said the Kid after a time. "I'd rather hear you
say it than feel you thinking it!"

Old Man Curry smiled one of his rare smiles, and his big, wrinkled
hand fell lightly on the boy's shoulder.

"What I was thinking wasn't much, son," said he. "It was this: if you
can make total strangers open up and spend their substance for
something they only think is there, you ought to get rid of an awful
lot 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. I
used to like to see 'em run. Now I don't give a damn, so long as I
can get some coin together quick. And the more you need it the harder
it is to get! To-day I had four suckers down on different horses in
the same race, and a sleeper woke up on me. Four bets down and not a
bean!"

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 a
five-dollar gold piece and a small collection of silver coins which
he spread upon his palm.

"There's the bank roll," said he, "and don't tell me that Solomon
pulled that line about a fool and his money!"

The old man calmly appraised the exhibit of precious metals before he
spoke.

"How come you to be down so low, son?"

"I was trying to win myself out a little stake," was the sulky
answer; "but they cleaned me. That's why I'm hustling so hard. It's a
rotten game, but it owes me something, and I want to collect it
before 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 she
wouldn't want you to make a fresh start on money that you got this
way? Mebbe she wouldn't want to start with you."

"Dough is dough." The Bald-faced Kid stated this point in the manner
of one forestalling all argument. "At one time and another I've
handled quite a lot of it that I got different ways, but I never yet
had any trouble passing it off on folks, and they didn't hold their
noses 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 have
the same sort of a feelin' that I've got--that some kinds of money
never 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 the
sleepers before you quit. Seems to me I'd want to start _clean_."

"Dough is dough, I tell you!" repeated the Kid stubbornly. He turned
and shook his fist at the distant betting ring where the cashiers
were 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 the
meeting it's packing-house rules, and everything goes!"

"'A wise son heareth his father's instruction,'" quoted Old Man
Curry.

"I hear you, old-timer," said the Kid, "but I don't get you. Next
thing I suppose you'll pull Solomon on me and tell me what he says
about tainted money!"

"I can do that too. Let's see, how does it go? Oh, yes. 'There is
that maketh himself rich, _yet hath nothing_; there is that maketh
himself poor, yet hath great riches.' That's Solomon on the money
question, 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 good
horse Elisha. Another owner, on the day of an important race, might
have been nervous or worried; the patriarch maintained his customary
calm; his head was bent at a reflective angle, and he nibbled at a
straw. Certain gentlemen, speculatively inclined, would have given
much more than a penny for the old man's thoughts; having bought them
at any price, they would have felt themselves defrauded.

Elisha, the star performer of the Curry stable, had been combed and
groomed and polished within an inch of his life, and there were blue
ribbons in his mane, a sure sign of the confidence of Shanghai, the
hostler. He was also putting this confidence into words and telling
the horse what was expected of him.

"See all them folks, 'Lisha? They come out yere to see you win
anotheh stake an' trim that white hoss from Seattle. Grey Ghost,
thass whut they calls him. When you hooks up with him down in front
of that gran' stan', he'll think he's a ghost whut's mislaid his
graveyard, yes, indeedy! They tells me he got lots of that ol' early
speed; 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 same
like you allus do, an' eat 'em up in the stretch, 'Lisha! Grey
Ghost--pooh! I neveh seen _his_ name on no lamp-post! I bet befo' you
git th'ough with him he'll wish he'd saved some that ol' early speed
to finish on. You ask me, 'Lisha, I'd say we's spendin' this yere
first money right _now_!"

It was the closing day of the meeting, always in itself an excuse for
a crowd, but the management had generously provided an added
attraction in the shape of a stake event. Now a Jungle Circuit stake
race does not mean great wealth as a general thing, but this was one
of the few rich plums provided for the horsemen. First money would
mean not less than $2,000, which accounted for the presence of the
Grey Ghost. The horse had been shipped from Seattle, where he had
been running with and winning from a higher grade of thoroughbreds
than the Jungle Circuit boasted, and there were many who professed to
believe that the Ghost's victory would be a hollow one. There were
others who pinned their faith on the slow-beginning Elisha, for he
was, as his owner often remarked, "an honest hoss that always did his
level best." Eight other horses were entered, but the general opinion
seemed to be that there were only two contenders. The others, they
said, would run for Sweeney--and third money.

Old Man Curry elbowed his way through the paddock crowd, calmly
nibbling at his straw. He was besieged by men anxious for his opinion
as to the outcome of the race; they plucked at the skirts of his
rusty 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 7
to 5. The Jungle speculators went to the Curry horse with a rush that
almost swept the block men off their stands, and inside of three
minutes Elisha was at even money with every prospect of going to
odds-on, and the grey visitor was ascending in price. The sturdy big
stretch-runner from the Curry barn had not been defeated at the
meeting; he was the known quantity and could be depended upon to run
his usual honest race.

The Ghost's owner also attracted considerable attention in the
paddock. He was a large man, rather pompous in appearance, hairless
save for a fringe above this ears, and answered to the name of "Con"
Parker, the Con standing for concrete. He had been in the cement
business before taking to the turf, and there were those who hinted
that he still carried a massive sample of the old line above his
shoulders. When cross-examined about the grey horse, he blunted every
sharp inquiry with polite evasions, but he looked wiser than any
human could possibly be, and the impression prevailed that he knew
more 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, waiting
quietly in the far corner of Elisha's stall, saw the Bald-faced Kid
wriggling his way through the crowd. He came straight to the old man.

"Elisha's 4 to 5 now," he announced breathlessly, "and they're still
playing him hard. The other one is 5 to 2. Looks like a false price
on the Ghost, and I know that Parker is going to set in a chunk on
him 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 at
his 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 the
Ghost to-day?"

"I ain't bettin' a cent on him," said the old man. "Not a cent." And
the 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 his
stall.

"Play that one, son," he whispered.

After the Kid had gone rocketing back to the betting ring, Curry
turned to Jockey Moseby Jones.

"Mose," said he, "don't lay too far out of it to-day. This grey hoss
lasts pretty well, so begin workin' on 'Lisha sooner than usual. He's
ready 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 went
skimming 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 liked
to run in front of the pack.

As he piloted the big bay horse around the first turn into the back
stretch, Jockey Mose estimated the distance between his mount and the
flying Ghost, taking no note of the other entries. Then he began to
urge 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 they
knew his running habits were surprised to see him steadily moving up
on the back stretch. It was customary for Elisha to begin to run at
the half-mile pole--usually from a tail-end position--but to-day he
was mowing down the outsiders even before he reached that point, and
on the upper turn he went thundering into second place--with the
Ghost only five lengths away. The imported jockey on Parker's horse
cast one glance behind him, and at the head of the stretch he sat
down 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 had
something left for the final quarter, though his rider had not
expected to draw upon that reserve so soon. The Ghost spurted, for a
time maintaining his advantage. Then, annihilating incredible
distances with his long, awkward strides and gathering increased
momentum with every one, Elisha drew alongside. Again the Ghost was
called on and responded, but the best he had left and all he had
left, was barely sufficient to enable him to hold his own. Opposite
the paddock inclosure, with the grand stand looming ahead, the horses
were running nose and nose; ten yards more and the imported jockey
drew 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 horse
leaped out and away in a whirlwind finish that left the staggering
Ghost five lengths behind and incidentally lowered the track record
for 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 were
some 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 pleasing
appearance who drew several pasteboards from his pocket and scowled
at them for a moment before he ripped them to bits and hurled the
fragments into the air.

"Cleaned out! Busted!" ejaculated the Bald-faced Kid bitterly. "The
old scoundrel double-crossed me!"

The last race of the meeting was over when Old Man Curry emerged from
the track office of the Rating Association. The grand stand was
empty, and the exits were jammed with a hurrying crowd. The betting
ring still held its quota, and the cashiers were paying off the lines
with all possible speed. As they slapped the winning tickets upon the
spindles, 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 line
of ticket holders, then he walked out on the lawn. The Bald-faced Kid
was sitting on the steps of the grand stand smoking a cigarette.
Curry went over to him. "Well, Frank," said he cheerfully, "how did
you 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 grey
horse--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'd
double-crossed me. I've cooled out since then; now I'm only sorry
that you didn't know more about what your own horse could do. That
tip made a tramp out of me, old-timer."

"Exackly what I hoped it would do, son," and Old Man Curry fairly
beamed.

"_What's that?_" The cigarette fell from the Kid's fingers, and his
lower jaw sagged. "You thought Elisha could _win_--and you went and
touted me on to the other one?"

Old Man Curry nodded, smiling.

As the boy watched him, his expression changed to one of deep
disgust. He dipped into his vest pocket and produced his silver stop
watch. "Here's something you overlooked," he sneered. "Take it, and
I'll be cleaned right!"

Old Man Curry sat down beside him, but the Kid edged away. "I
wouldn't have thought it of you, old-timer," said he.

"Frank," said the old man gently, "you don't understand. You don't
know what I was figgerin' on."

"I know this," retorted the Kid: "if it hadn't been for you, I
wouldn'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 to
get married, but now----"

"Well, I don't see no reason for callin' it off." Old Man Curry's
cheerfulness had returned, and as he spoke he drew out his
old-fashioned leather wallet. "You know what I told you 'bout bad
money, son--tainted money? You wouldn't take my word for it that
gamblers' money brings bad luck; I just nachelly had to fix up some
scheme on you so that you wouldn't have no bad money to start out
with." He opened the wallet and extracted a check upon which the ink
was scarcely dry--the check of the Racing Association for the
winner's portion of the stake just decided. "I wouldn't want you to
have bad luck, son," the old man continued. "I wanted you to have
good luck--and a clean start. Here's some money that it wouldn't hurt
anybody to handle--an honest hoss went out and run for it and earned
it, 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 his
credit 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 said
this game owed you a stake, and maybe it does, but the only money you
can afford to start out with is clean money, and the only clean money
on a race track is the money that an honest hoss can go out and run
for--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 and
something! I don't _need_ that much! I--we--_she_ says three hundred
would be plenty! I----"

"That's all right," interrupted Old Man Curry. "Money--clean
money--never comes amiss. You can call the three hundred the stake
that was owin' to you; the rest, well, I reckon that's just my
weddin' present. Good-bye, son, and good luck!"

A MORNING WORKOUT

"Well, boss, they sutny done it to us again to-day. Look like it
gittin' to be a _habit_ on thisyere track!"

Thus, querulously, Jockey Moseby Jones, otherwise Little Mose, as he
trudged dejectedly across the infield beside his employer, Old Man
Curry, owner of Elisha, Elijah, Ezekiel, Isaiah, and other horses
bearing the names of major and minor prophets. Mose was still in his
silks--there were reasons, principally Irish, why the little negro
found it more comfortable to dress in the Curry tack room--and the
patriarch of the Jungle Circuit wore the inevitable rusty frock coat
and battered slouch hat. Side by side they made a queer picture: the
small, bullet-headed negro in gay stable colours, and the tall,
bearded scarecrow, the frayed skirts of his coat flapping at his
knees as he walked. Ahead of them was Shanghai, the hostler, leading
a steaming thoroughbred which had managed to finish outside the money
in a race that his owner had expected him to win: expected it to the
extent of several hundred dollars. "Yes, suh, it gittin' to be a
habit!" complained Little Mose. "Been so long since I rode into 'at
ring 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. What
happened!"

"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. I
taken him back some an' talk to him, an' jus' when I'm sendin' him
again--_pow_! Jock Merritt busts ol' 'Lijah 'cross 'e nose 'ith his
whip. In 'e stretch I tries to come th'oo on inside, an' two of 'em
Irish 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 neveh
git him th'oo!' They was right, boss! 'Lijah, he come fourth, sewed
up like a eagle in a cage!"

"H'm-m. And the judges didn't pay any attention when you claimed a
foul?"

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 us
git bumped; didn't see Jock Merritt hit 'Lijah; didn't see us
pocketed. '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 reward
to 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!" Old
Man 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 due
to rise up and smite these Philistines."

"Huh! Why not smite some 'em Irish boys first? You reckon 'em crooked
judges 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, mebbe
so, but thisyere Sol'mun's been dead a lo-o-ng time now. He neveh got
up agin a syndicate bettin' ring an' crooked judgin'. He neveh rode
no close finish 'ith Irish jocks an' had his shin barked on 'e
fence. 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' try
to stay so far in front that no Irish boy kin reach him 'ith a
lariat!"

A big, jovial-looking man, striding rapidly toward the stables,
overtook them from the rear and announced his presence by slapping
Old Man Curry resoundingly on the back. "Tough luck!" said he with a
grin. "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 a
hog would want to win _all_ the time. And I wish you wouldn't wallop
me 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 of
emphasis placed where it would do the most good. "A visitor don't
seem 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 says
the other jockeys fight him all the way round the track."

"Well," said Johnson, "you know why that is, don't you? The boys
ain'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 first
rate."

"You're the doctor," grinned Johnson. "Do as you think best, of
course. I'm only telling you how it is."

"Thankee. I reckon I'll play the string out the way I started. Luck
might change."

"Yes, it'll run bad for a while and then turn right round and get
worse. So long!" Johnson hurried on toward the stables, laughing
loudly at his ancient jest, and Old Man Curry looked after him with a
meditative squint in his eyes.

"'As the crackling of thorns under a pot,'" he quoted soberly. "A man
that laughs all the time ain't likely to mean it, Mose, but I don't
know's I would say that Johnson is exackly a fool. No, he's a pretty
wise 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, and
the judges are with him. I reckon from what he said 'bout Walsh that
he's in with the jockey syndicate. No wonder he wins races! Sure, he
could get Walsh for me, or any other crook-legged little burglar
that would send word to Johnson what I was doing! Mose, yonder goes
the 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 the
old man, "'but the wicked shall fall into mischief.' That's the rest
of the verse, Mose."

"Boss," said the little negro earnestly, "I don' wish nobody no hard
luck, but if somebody got to fall, I hope one of them Irish jocks
will fall in front an' git jumped on by ten hawsses!"

"Don't make any mistake about it, Curry is wise. He may look like a
Methodist preacher gone to seed, but the old scoundrel knows what's
going on. He ain't a fool, take it from me!"

The speaker was Smiley Johnson, who was addressing a small but
extremely select gathering of turf highwaymen who had met in his
tackle-room to discuss matters of importance. They were all men who
would willingly accept two tens for a five or betray a friend for
gain: Smiley Johnson, Billy Porter, Curly McManus, and Slats Wilson.
All owned horses and ran them in and out of the money, as they
pleased, and not one of them would have trusted the others as far as
a bull may be thrown by the tail.

"We can trim the old reprobate," continued Johnson, "but we can't
keep him from finding out that the clippers are on him."

"And who cares if he does know?" demanded Slats Wilson. "I'm in
favour of making it so raw that he'll take his horses and go
somewhere else. Look at what he did last season. Got Al Engle and a
lot of other people ruled off, didn't he? Raised particular hell all
over the circuit, the psalm-singing old hypocrite!"

"He's got a fine, fat chance to get anybody ruled off around this
track," 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 hangs
on the more chance there is to get into a jam of some kind. He's a
natural-born trouble maker. If he loses many more races the way he
lost that one to-day, I wouldn't put it past him to go to the
newspapers with a holler. That would hurt. I'm in favour of giving
him 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't
prove 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 many
friends higher up, and if we should try it and fall down it would
give the track a black eye. The sucker horsemen would be leery of
us."

"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 till
they were black in the face, and what did it get 'em? Not a nickel's
worth! 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 his
horses, and our boys will take care of the little nigger."

"That Elisha is quite a horse," commented Johnson. "If they take care
of him, they'll go some."

"What's the use of worrying about Elisha?" asked McManus. "Curry
hasn't started him yet at the meeting. He's trying to pick up some
dough with Elijah and Isaiah and the others. They ain't so very
much."

"Well, Elijah would have been right up there to-day if it hadn't been
for a little timely interference now and then." Johnson grinned
broadly as he spoke.

"A little timely interference!" ejaculated Wilson. "The boys did
everything 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 know
is this, Johnson: when are you going to cut loose with Zanzibar? You
said we'd all be in with that; there'll be a sweet price on him, and
we ought to clean up."

"Zanzibar is about ready," answered Johnson. "You'll know in plenty
of 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 nervous
colt, and if I worked him on the track with the other horses he'd go
all to pieces. That's why I have Dutchy take him out on a country
road 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 against
the best, though. Zanzibar didn't do anything last season, and he's
bound 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 before
sunrise, 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 the
track the better. We'll unload in the pool rooms on the Coast, same
as we did before. Wilson here can enter Blitzen in the same race, and
they can't get away from making Blitzen the favourite: on form they'd
have to pick him to win easy. I'll let it leak out that I'm only
sending Zanzibar for a workout and to see whether he's improved any
over 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. Outside
of Elisha there's no class to his string of beetles, and Elisha is a
distance 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 the
utmost confidence in Solomon's statement concerning the righteous
man and the seven falls, but this did not keep him from taking the
ordinary precautions when preparing for the eighth start and the
promised rising up. He knew that the big rawboned bay horse Elijah
was a vastly improved animal, but he also desired to know the
company in which Elijah would find himself the next time out. His
investigations, while inconspicuous were thorough, and soon brought
him in contact with the name of an equine stranger.

"Zanzibar, eh?" thought the old man as he left the office of the
racing secretary. "Zanzibar? And Johnson owns him. H'm-m. I'll have
to 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 Curry
secret-service department had consisted of Shanghai and Mose, and
there were times when the shambling hostler could be much wiser than
he looked. It was Shanghai who drew the assignment.

"Boy," said Old Man Curry, "Johnson has got a colt named Zanzibar
that starts next Saturday. I thought I knew all the hosses in
train-in' round here, but I've overlooked this one. Find out all you
can '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 whut
might know somethin'--crap-shootin' fools, both of 'em--an' whiles
I'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 in
the game they jus' nachelly don' know you 'mong them present. If you
got couple nice, big, moon-face' dollahs to inves', they can't he'p
but notice you. They got to do it!"

Old Man Curry smiled and dipped two fingers and a thumb into his vest
pocket.

"_Thank_ you, suh!" chuckled Shanghai, trying hard to appear
surprised. "Thank you! This sutny goin' _com_bine business with
pleasuah!"

"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 barn
where hostlers, exercise boys, and apprentice jockeys congregate.
Tongues are loosened at such a gathering, and the carefully guarded
secrets of trainers and owners are in danger, for the one absorbing
topic of conversation is horse, and then more horse.