"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'twant 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'tneedthat much! I—we—shesays 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!"
"Well, boss, they sutny done it to us again to-day. Look like it gittin' to be ahabiton 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 hundreddollars. "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 claimthreefouls! 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'tlookin'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 winallthe 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 thatwould 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," continuedJohnson, "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 wouldgive 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, buthe 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.
"Thankyou, suh!" chuckled Shanghai, trying hard to appear surprised. "Thank you! This sutny goin'combine 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.
Shanghai knew exactly where to go, and departed on his mission whistling jubilantly and chinking two silver dollars in his pocket.
At the end of three hours he returned, his hamlike hands thrust deep into empty pockets, and the look in his eye of one who has watched rosy dreams vanish.
"Where you been all this time?" snapped his employer wrathfully. "'As vinegar to the teeth, and as smoke to the eyes, so is a sluggard to them that send him.' I declare, Solomon must have had some black stable boys! What you been at, you triflin' hound?"
Shanghai smiled a sorrowful smile and shook his head.
"Well, you see, kunnel"—Shanghai always gave his employer a high military rank when in fear of rebuke—"you see, kunnel, it took 'em longer'n usual to break me this mawnin'. I start' off right good, but I sutny bowed a tendon an' pulled up lame. Once I toss six passes at them gamblehs——"
"Never mind that! What did you find out about Zanzibar?"
"Oh, him!" Shanghai blinked rapidly as if dispelling a vision. "Zanzibar? Why, kunnel, they aimin' to slip him oveh Satu'day."
"Ah, hah!" Old Man Curry tugged at his white beard. "Ah, hah. I thought so. Had him under cover, eh? Where have they been workin' him?"
"Out on the county road 'bout two miles f'um yere. You know that nice stretch with all them trees? Every mawnin', early, they takes him out——"
"Whotakes him out?"
"Li'l white boy they calls Dutchy."
"Nobody else goes with him?"
Shanghai shook his head.
"How old is this boy?" asked the canny horseman.
"How ole? Why, kunnel, I reckon he's risin' fifteen, mebbe."
"Smart boy?"
Shanghai cackled derisively.
"I loaned him a two-bit piece, kunnel, an' he tol' me all he knowed!"
Old Man Curry fell to combing his beard, and Shanghai retreated to the tackle-room where he found Little Mose.
"The boss, he pullin' his whiskehs an' cookin' up a job on somebody," remarked the hostler.
"Huh!" grunted Mose. "It's time he 'uz doin' somethin'! Betteh not leave itallto Sol'mun!"
The cooking process lasted until evening, by which time Old Man Curry had ceased to comb his beard and was rolling a straw reflectively from one corner of his mouth to the other.
"You, Shanghai!"
"Yes, suh! Comin' up!"
"Find that little rascal Mose and tell him I want to see him."
"Yes, suh."
"And, Shanghai?"
"Yes, suh."
"I believe I've found the way to rise up!"
"Good news!" ejaculated the startled negro, backing away. But to himself the hostler said: "Rise up?Sweet lan' o' libuhty! I wondeh whut bitin' the ole man now?"
It was a small and very sleepy exercise boy whom Smiley Johnson tossed into the saddle at four o'clock on Saturday morning: a boy whose teeth were chattering, for he was cold.
"Canter him the usual distance, Dutchy," said the owner. "Then set him down, but notfor more than half a mile. Understand?"
"Y-yes, sir," stammered the boy, rubbing his eyes with the back of one hand.
"Don't let him get hot, now!"
"No, sir; I won't."
"All right. Take him away!"
Johnson slapped Zanzibar on the shoulder, and the colt moved off in the gloom. His rider, whose other name was Herman Getz, huddled himself in the saddle and reflected on several things, including the hard life of an exercise boy, the perils of the dark, and the hot cup of coffee which he would get on his return.
Wrapped in these meditations, he had travelled some distance before he became aware of a dark shape in the road ahead. Coming closer, Herman saw that it was a horse and rider, evidently waiting for him.
"Howdy, Jockey Walsh!" called a voice.
The shortest cut to an exercise boy's heart is to address him as Jockey. Herman's heart warmed toward this stranger, and he drew alongside, trying to make out his features in the darkness.
"'Taint Walsh," said Herman, not without regret. "It's Getz."
"Jockey Getz? I don' seem to place you, jock. Where you been ridin'? East?"
"I ain't a jock. I'm only gallopin' 'em. Who are you?"
"Jockey Jones, whut rides faw Misteh Curry. If you ain't a jock, you sutny ought tobe. You don't set a hawss like no exercise boy. Thass why I mistook you faw Walsh."
"What horse is that?"
"This jus' one 'em Curry beetles. Whut you got, jock?"
"Zanzibar."
"Any good?"
"Well," was the cautious reply, "he ain't done anything yet."
The boys jogged on for some time in silence. "You sutny set him nice an' easy," commented Mose. "Le's breeze 'em a little an' see how you handle a hawss." Mose booted his mount in the ribs, chirruped twice, and the horse broke into a gallop. Herman immediately followed suit, and soon the riders were knee to knee, flying along the lonely road.
"Shake him up, jock!" urged Little Mose. "That all you kin get out of him? Shake him up, if you knows how!"
Of course Herman could not allow any one to hint that he did not know how. He went out on Zanzibar's neck and shook him up vigorously, à la Tod Sloan in his palmy days. The colt began to draw ahead. From the rear came shrill encouragement.
"Thass whut I calls reg'luh race ridin', jock! Let him out if he got some lef'! Let him out!"
Carried away by these kind words, Herman forgot his instructions: forgot everything but the thrill of the race. He drove his heels into Zanzibar's sides and crouched low in the saddle.The cold dawn wind cut like a knife. After a time there came a wail from the rear.
"Nothin' to it, jock! You too good! Too good! Wait faw me."
Herman drew rein, and soon Mose was alongside again. "Canter 'em a while now," said he. "Say, who taught you to ride like that?"
"Nobody," answered Herman modestly. "I just picked it up."
"A natchel-bawn race rideh. Sometimes you finds 'em. I wish't I could set a hawss down like that. Show me again."
"It's easy," bragged Herman, and proceeded to demonstrate that statement. Again the compliments floated from the rear, coupled with requests for speed, and yet more speed. Mose was not an apt pupil, however, for he required a third lesson, and at the end of it Zanzibar was blowing heavily. Mose suggested that they turn and go back. "If I could git that much out of a hawss, I wouldn't take off my cap to no jock!" said he. "Whyn't you make Johnson give you a mount once in a while?"
"He says I ain't smart enough," was the sulky reply.
Little Mose laughed. "He jus' pig-headed, thass all ail him! You like to git a reg'luh job ridin' faw a good man?"
"WouldI!"
"Well, I knows a man whut wants a good boy. See that tree yondeh? That big one? Le's see who kin get there first!"
"It—it's pretty far, ain't it?"
"Shucks! Quahteh of a mile, mebbe. Come on!"
But it was nearer half a mile, and the three brisk sprints had told on the colt. Boot him never so hard, it was all Herman could do to keep Zanzibar on even terms with Mose's mount.
"You on'y foolin' 'ith me. He kin do betteh than that! We in the stretch now;shake him up!"
Zanzibar was shaken up for the fourth and last time—shaken up to the limit—and Mose was generous enough to say that the race was a dead heat.
As the boys brought the horses to a walk, another negro stepped out from behind a tree, a blanket on his arm. Mose slipped from the saddle and tossed the bridle to Shanghai.
"Ain't you goin' to ride back to the track?" demanded Herman.
"No. My boss, he always wants this skate blanketed an' led round a while.... Sufferin' mackerel, jock! What you goin' do 'ith that hawss? Shave him?"
Then for the first time Herman realised that Zanzibar was lathered with sweat; for the first time also he recalled his instructions.
"I can't take him back like that!" he cried. "Johnson'll kill me! He told me not to get this horse hot: and look at him!"
"He sutny somewarm," said Shanghai critically. "He steamin' like a kettle!"
"Whut if he is?" asked Mose. "We kin fix that all hunky-dory, an' Johnson, he won't neveh know."
"How can we fix it?"
"Got to let that sweat dry first," warned Shanghai.
"And then wipe it off," said Mose.
"It comes off easy when it's dry," supplemented Shanghai as he started down the road with the other horse.
"Let him stand a while," said Mose. "We'll tie him up to this tree. Pity you ain't ridin' some 'em races Johnson's jock tosses off. Once round that limb's enough. He'll stand."
And for rather more than half an hour the good colt Zanzibar shivered in a cold wind while Herman warmed himself in the genial glow of flattering speeches and honeyed compliments.
"He looks dry now," said Mose at length. "We'll rub him down with grass. See how easy it comes off an' don't leave no marks neither. Mebbe you betteh not say anythin' to yo' boss 'bout this."
"Say, you don't think I'm a fool, do you?"
"Sutny not! I see yo' a pretty wise kid, all right!"
"If I could only get that reg'lar job you was talkin' about!"
"It boun' to come, jock, boun' to come! You be steerin' 'em down 'at ol' stretch one of thesedays, sure! If we jus' had a li'l wateh, now, we could do a betteh job on 'is hawss."
"He's shakin' a lot, ain't he?" asked Herman.
"Nuhvous, thass all ail him. My side 'mos' clean a'ready; how you gettin' along?"
Smiley Johnson stood at the entrance to his paddock stall shaking hands with acquaintances, slapping his friends on the back, and passing out information. "I don't know a great deal about this horse," he would remark confidently. "He wasn't much account last season—too nervous and high-strung. I'm only sending him to-day to see what he'll do, but of course he never figured to beat horses like Blitzen. Not enough class."
Curly McManus forced his way into Zanzibar's stall and moved to the far corner where Johnson followed him.
"Curry is in the betting ring," McManus whispered.
"Well, what of that?"
"He's betting an awful chunk of dough on Elijah; they're giving him 4 and 5 to 1."
"The more he bets the more he'll lose."
"But it ain't like him to unbelt for a chunk unless heknowssomething."
Johnson chuckled.
"Most of his betting is done in books where I've got an interest. D'you think they'd be laying top prices on Elijah if they didn't know something too?"
"I guess that's right, Smiley. You didn't warm this one up to-day. Why?"
"It would make him too nervous: the crowd, and all."
"He's fit, is he?"
"Fitter than a snake! We're getting 8 and 10 to 1 in the pool rooms all over the Coast, and I wish we'd gone even stronger with him. Here comes Curry now. Listen to me kid him!"
The old man entered the paddock from the betting ring, bound for Elijah's stall. Johnson halted him with a shout. "Well, old Stick-in-the-mud! You trying to-day?"
"I'm always tryin'," answered Curry mildly. "My hosses are always tryin' too."
"Wish you a lot of luck!"
"Same to you, sir; same to you."
"But everybody can't win."
"True as gospel. I found that out right here at this track."
Old Man Curry continued on his way as calm and untroubled as if his pockets were not loaded down with pasteboards calling for a small fortune in the event of Elijah's winning the race. His instructions to Little Mose were brief:
"Get away in front and stay there."
A few moments later Johnson and McManus leaned over the top rail of the fence and watched the horses on their way to the post.
"That colt of yours looks a little stiff to me," said McManus critically.
"Nonsense! He may be a bit nervous, but he ain't stiff."
"Well, Ihopehe ain't. Curry's horse looks good."
Later they levelled their field glasses at the starting point. Johnson could see nothing but his own colours: a blazing cherry jacket and cap; McManus spent his time watching Little Mose and Elijah.
"Smiley, that nigger is playing for a running start."
"Let him have it. Zanzibar'll be in front in ten jumps. Hennessey knows just how to handle the colt, and he's chain lightning on the break."
"I suppose the boy on Blitzen'll take care of the nigger if he has to. Slats gave him orders.They're off!"
Johnson opened his mouth to say something, but the words died away into a choking gurgle. Instead of rushing to the front, the cherry jacket was rapidly dropping back. It was McManus who broke the stunned silence.
"In front in ten jumps, hey? He'slastin ten jumps, that's what he is: stiffer'n a board! And look where Curry's nigger is, will you?"
"To hell with Curry's nigger!" barked Johnson. "Look at the colt! He—he can't untrack himself: runs like he was all bound up somehow! Something has gone wrong, sure!"
"You bet it has!" snarled McManus. "Quitea pile of dough has gone wrong, and some of it was mine too!"
A comfortable ten lengths to the good at the upper turn, Little Mose addressed a few vigorous remarks to his mount.
"This a nice place faw us to stay, 'Lijah! Them Irish boys all behin' us! Nobody goin' bump you to-day! Nobody goin' slash you 'ith no whip! Go on, big red hawss! Show 'em how we risin' up!"
"The nigger'll win in a romp!" announced McManus disgustedly.
"Oh, dry up! I want to know what's happened to Zanzibar!"
"I can tell you what'sgoingto happen to him," remarked the unfeeling McManus. "He's going to finish last, and a damn bad last at that. Why, he can't get up a gallop! Didn't you know any more than to start a horse in that condition?"
"But how the devil did he get stiff all at once?" howled Johnson.
"That's what you'd better find out. How do we know you didn't cross us, Johnson? It would be just like you!"
Old Man Curry, watching at the paddock gate, thrust his hands under the tails of his rusty frock coat and smiled.
"'A just man falleth seven times and riseth up again!'" he quoted softly. "And the wicked: well, they'll have a mighty lame hoss on their hands, I reckon."
Mose began checking Elijah, several lengths in front of the wire.
"Don't go bustin' a lung, hawss," said he. "Might need it again. You winnin' by a mile. A-a-a mile. Sol'mun was right, but maybe he wouldn't have been if I hadn't done some risin' up myse'f this mawnin'! Whoa, hawss! This where they pay off! We th'oo faw the day!"
Old Man Curry was striding down the track from the judges' stand when he met a large man whose face was purple and his language purple also.
"Man, don't talk like that!" said Curry reprovingly. "And ca'm down or you'll bust an artery. You can't winallthe time: that's what you told me."
Johnson sputtered like a damp Roman candle, but a portion of his remarks were intelligible.
"Oh, Zanzibar?" said Old Man Curry. "He's a right nice colt. He ought to be. He pretty nigh run the legs off my 'Lisha this mornin'."
"Wha—what's that?"
"Yes," continued Old Man Curry, "they had it back an' forth up that road, hot an' heavy. I expect maybe Zanzibar got a chill from sweatin' so hard."
Out of the whirl of Mr. Johnson's remarks and statements of intention Curry selected one.
"No," said he, "I reckon you won't beat that German kid to death. He didn't know any better. You won't lay a finger on him,because why? He's on a railroad train by now, goin' home to Cincinnati. I reckoned his mother might like to see him. And you ain't goin' to make no trouble for me, Johnson. Not a mite. You might whip a little kid, you big, bulldozin' windbag, but I reckon you won't stand up to a man, no matter how old he is!"
"I—I'll have your entries refused!"
"Don't go to no such trouble as that," was the soothing reply. "There won't be no more Curry entries at this track. A just man might fall down seven times again in such a nest of thieves an' robbers! Tell that to your judges, an' be damned!"
And, head erect, shoulders squared, and eyes flashing, Old Man Curry started for the betting ring to collect his due.
"Well, you great big hammer-headed lobster, what have you got to say for yourself, eh?Don'tstand there and look wise when I'm talking to you! Ain't there a race in this country long enough for you to win? A mile and a half ought to give you a chance to open up and step, but what do you do? You come last, just beginning to warm up and go some! Sometimes I think I ought to sell you to a soap factory, you clumsy false alarm, you ugly old fraud, you cross between a mud turtle and a carpenter's bench, you——"
At this point Slim Kern became extremely personal, speaking his mind concerning the horse Pharaoh, his morals, his habits, and his ancestors. Some of his statements would have raised blisters on a salamander, but Pharaoh listened calmly and with grave dignity.
Pharaoh was not handsome. He was, as Slim had said, a hammer-headed brute of imposing proportions. But for his eyes no turfman would have looked at him twice. They werelarge, clear, and unusually intelligent; they redeemed his homely face. Without them he would have been called a stupid horse.
An elderly gentleman sat on a bale of hay and listened to Slim's peroration. As it grew in power and potency the listener ceased to chew his straw and began to shake his head. When Slim paused for breath, searching his mind for searing adjectives, a mild voice took advantage of the silence.
"There now, Slim, ain't you said enough to him? Seems like, if it was me, I wouldn't cuss a hoss so strong—notthishoss anyway. He ain't no fool. Chances are he knows more'n you give him credit for. Some hosses don't care what you say to 'em—goes in one ear and out the other—but Pharaoh, he's wise. He knows that ain't love talk. He's chewin' it over in his mind right now. By the look in his eye, he's askin' himself will he bite your ear off or only kick you into the middle of next week. Cussin' a hoss like that won't make him win races where he never had a chance nohow."
"I know it," said Slim. "I know it, Curry, but think what a wonderful relief it is to me! Take a slant at him, standing there all dignified up like a United States senator! Don't he look like he ought to know something? Wouldn't you think he'd know where they pay off? He makes me sore, and I've just got to talk to him. I've owned him a whole year, and what has he done? Won once at a mile and a quarter,and he'd have been last that time if the leaders hadn't got in a jam on the turn and fell down. He was so far behind 'em when they piled up that all he had to do was pull wide and come on home! He had sense enough for that. I've started him in all the distance races on this circuit; he always runs three feet to their one at the finish, but he's never close enough up to make it count. He must have some notion that they pay off the second time around, and it's all my boy can do to stop him after he goes under the wire. Why won't he uncork some of that stuff where it will get us something? Why won't he? I don't know, and that's what gets me."
Old Man Curry rose, threw away his straw, and circled the horse three times, muttering to himself. This was purely an exhibition of strategy, for Curry knew all about Pharaoh: had known all about him for months.
"What'll you take for him?" The question came so suddenly that it caught Slim off his balance.
"Take for him!" he ejaculated. "Who wants an old hammer-head like that?"
"I was thinkin' I might buy him," was the quiet reply, "if the price is right. I dunno's a hoss named Pharaoh would fit in with a stable of Hebrew prophets, 'count of the way Pharaoh used Moses and the Isrulites, but I might take a chance on him—if the price is right."
Now, Slim would have traded Pharaoh for anose bag or a sack of shorts and reckoned the intake pure gain, but he was a horseman, and it naturally follows that he was a trader.
"Well, now," said he, "I hadn't thought of selling him, Curry, and that's a fact."
"Did anybody but me ever think of buyin' him?" asked the old man innocently.
"He's got a wonderful breeding," said Slim, ignoring the question. "Yes, sir; he's out of the purple, sure enough, and as for age he's just in hisprime. There's a lot of racing in him yet. Make me an offer."
"You don't want me to talk first, do you? I don't reckon I could make a real offer on a hoss that never wins 'less all the others fall down. Pharaoh ain't what you might call a first-class buy. From his looks it costs a lot to keep him."
"Not near as much as you'd think," was the quick rejoinder. "Pharaoh's a dainty feeder."
"Ah, hah," said Old Man Curry, stroking his beard. "About as dainty as one of them perpetual hay presses! That nigh foreleg of his has been stove up pretty bad too. How he runs on it at all beats me."
"He's sound as a nut!" declared Slim vehemently. "There ain't a thing in the world the matter with him. Ask any vet to look him over!"
"Well, Slim, I dunno's he's worth the expense. Come on, now; tell me what's the least you'll take for him?"
"Five hundred dollars."
"Give you a hundred and fifty cash."
"Say, do you want me to make you a present of him?" demanded Slim, indignantly sarcastic. "Maybe you think I'd ought to throw in a halter so's you can lead him away!"
"No," said Old Man Curry. "I won't insist on a halter. I got plenty of my own. You said yourself he wa'n't no good and I thought you meant it. I was just askin' if you'd sell him; that was all. Keep him till Judgment Day, if you want him. No harm done." Old Man Curry began to walk away.
"Hold on a minute!" said Slim, trying hard to keep the anxious note out of his voice. "Be reasonable, old-timer. Make me an offer for the horse: one that a sensible man can accept."
Old Man Curry paused and glanced over his shoulder.
"Why," said he, faintly surprised, "I kind of thought I'd done that a'ready!"
"Lookat him!" urged Slim. "Did you ever see a more powerful horse in your life? And smart too. A hundred and fifty dollars! One side of him is worth more than that!"
"Likely it is," agreed the old man solemnly. "Seems to me I saw a piece in the paper 'bout a cannery where they was goin' to put up hoss-flesh!"
"I admit he's had a lot of bad luck," persisted Slim, "but get Pharaoh warmed up onceand he'll surprise you. Didn't you see how fast he was coming to-day?"
"The numbers was up before he got in," was the dry response. "What's the good of a hoss that won't begin to run until the race is over? You said yourself he only won for you when all the others fell down. It's kind of difficult to frame up races that way. Jockeys hate to take the chances. Will two hundred buy him? Two hundred, right in your hand?"
"Oh, come over here and set down!" said Slim. "You ain't in any hurry, are you? Nothing you've said yet interests me. On the level, you ain't got a suspicion of what a good horse this is!"
"No, but I kind of suspicion what a bad hoss he is." Old Man Curry resumed his seat on the bale of hay and produced his packet of fine-cut tobacco. "You tell me how good he is," said he, "and I'll listen, but before you open up here's what Solomon says: 'The simple believeth every word, but the prudent man looketh well to his going.' Hoss tradin' is no job for a simple man, but I made a livin' at it before you was born. Now fire away, and don't tell me this Pharaoh is a gift. 'Whoso boasteth himself of a false gift is like clouds and wind without rain.' I reckon Solomon meant mostly wind. Now you can cut loose an' tell me how much hoss this is."
Two hours later Old Man Curry arrived at his barn leading Pharaoh. He had acquired thehammer-head for the sum of $265 and Slim had thrown in the halter. Shanghai, Curry's hostler and handy man, stared at the new member of the racing string with open-mouthed and pop-eyed amazement.
"Lawd's sake! Whatisthat, a cam-u-el?"
"No, I don't reckon he's a camel, exactly," replied the old man. "I don't know just what he is, Shanghai, but I'm aimin' to find out soon. The man I got him from allowed as he was a race hoss."
"Huh-uh, kunnel! He sutny don' ree'semble no runnin' hawss tome. I neveh yet see a head shape' like that on anything whut could run." Shanghai came closer and examined the equine stranger carefully. "Yo' an ugly brute, big hawss: ugly no name faw it. Oh-oh, kunnel; he got a knowin' eye, ain't he? If this hawss is wise as he look, he ought to be a judge in the Soopreme Cote! Yes, suh; somepin' besides bone in that ole hammeh-head!"
"I bought him for his eyes," said Old Man Curry. "His eyes and his name. This is Pharaoh, Shanghai."
"Faro, eh?" The negro chuckled. "Thass a game where yo' gits action two ways: bet it is or it ain't. Now, mebbe this yere Faro is a race hawss, an' mebbe he ain't, but if yo' eveh puts him in with early speed an' a short distance to go, betteh play him with a copper, kunnel. He got same chance as a eagle flyin' a mile 'gainst pigeons."
"The thing to do," said Old Man Curry with his kindly smile, "is to find out the eagle's distance."
Little Mose was dreaming that he had piloted the winner of the Burns Handicap and was being carried to the jockey's room in a floral horseshoe which rocked in a very violent manner. The motion became so pronounced that Mose opened his eyes, and found Old Man Curry shaking him.
"Get up, you lazy little rascal! Got a job for you this mornin'. Turn out!"
The jockey sat up, yawning and knuckling his eyes.
"Solomon must have had at least one little black boy," said the old man. "'Love not sleep lest thou come to poverty.' Hurry up, Mose!"
"Yes, suh," mumbled the drowsy youngster. "Reckon Sol'mun neveh had to gallop a string an' ride 'em too. I sutny earns whut I gits when I git it."
Dawn was breaking when Jockey Moseby Jones emerged from the tack room to find Old Man Curry and Pharaoh waiting for him. As they were walking to the track the owner gave his orders.
"One trouble with this hoss," said he, "is that the boy who has been ridin' him wasn't strong enough in the arms to keep his head up."
"That ol' hawss has got a head whut weighsa thousan' pounds!" murmured Mose sulkily. "'Spect he'll 'bout yank both arms outen me!"
"You're pretty stout for a boy your size," said the old man, "an' you may be able to hold this big, hard-stridin' hoss together an' shake something out of him. Send him two miles, Mose, keep his head up if you can, an' ride him every jump of the way."
"But, boss, they ain't no two-mile races in thisyer part o' the country!"
"Keep on, an' you'll talk yourself into a raw-hidin' yet, little black boy. I ain't askin' you to tell me 'bout the races on the jungle tracks. All you got to think about is can you handle as much hoss as this over a distance of ground. If you can, an' he's got the stayin' qualities I think he has, you an' me an' Pharaoh may go on a long journey—down into Egypt after corn. Git up on him, Mose, an' let's see what you both can do."
The hammer-head loafed away at a comfortable stride and his first mile showed nothing, but his second circuit of the track was a revelation which caused Old Man Curry to address remarks to his stop watch. It took every ounce of Mose's strength to fight Pharaoh to a standstill: the big brute was just beginning to enjoy the exercise and wanted to keep on going.
"Well, think you can handle him?"
"Boss," panted little Mose, "I kin do—everything to thisyer hoss—but stop him. He sutny—do love to run—once he git goin'. Allthe way—down the stretch—he was asayin' to me: 'Come on, jock! Lemme go round again!' Yes, suh, he was beggin' me faw 'notheh mile!"
"Ah-hah," said Old Man Curry. "That's the way it looked to me. Well, to-morrow we'll let him do that extra mile, but we'll get up earlier. By an' by when he's ready, we'll let him run four miles an' see how he finishes an' what the watch says."
Little Mose rolled his eyes thoughtfully.
"Seem like I ain't heard tell of butonefo'mile race," he hinted. "'Tain't run in Egypt neitheh. They runs it down round 'Frisco. The Thawntum Stakes is whut they calls it. Boss, you reckon Pharaoh kin pick up any corn in California?"
Old Man Curry's eyes twinkled, but his voice was stern.
"If I was a little black boy," said he, "an' I was wantin' my boss to take me on a trip down into Egypt, I wouldn't call it California. If I knew anything 'bout a four-mile stake race, I'd try to mislay the name of it. If I had been ridin' a big, hammer-headed hoss, I don't think I'd mention him except in my prayers. If I was goin' after corn, I don't believe I'd say so."
Mose listened, nodding from time to time.
"Boss," said he earnestly, "I sutny always did want to see whut thisyer Egypt looks like. Outside of that, I neveh heard nothin', I don't know nothin', an' I can't tell nothin'. Beginnin'now, a clam has got me beat in a talkin' match!"
Old Man Curry smiled and combed his long, white beard.
"That is the very best way," said he, "to earn a trip down into Egypt. 'A talebearer revealeth secrets, but he that is of a faithful spirit concealeth the matter.'"
"Thass me all oveh!" chuckled Mose. "I bet I got the faithfulest an' the concealin'est spirit whut is!"
Port Costa is a small town on the Carquinez Straits, that narrow ribbon of wind-swept water between San Pablo and Suisun Bays. The early empire builders, striving to reach the Pacific by rail, found it necessary to cross the Carquinez Straits, and to that end built a huge ferryboat capable of swallowing up long overland trains. It was then that Port Costa came into being: a huddle of hastily constructed frame saloons along the water front and very little else. All day and all night the big ferryboat plied between Benicia and Port Costa, transferring rolling stock. While the trains were being made up on the Port Costa side passengers in need of liquid sustenance paid visits to the saloons. They got exactly what the transient may expect in any country.
Henry Ashbaugh sat at a table in Martin Dugan's place and eyed the bartender truculently. He had purchased nothing, for themost excellent of reasons, but he had patronised the free lunch extensively.
"You don't need to look at me like that," said Henry when the silence became unbearable. "I'm waiting for a friend and when he comes he'll buy."
At this critical juncture the swinging doors opened to admit the friend, a tall, elderly man with a patriarchal white beard, clad in a battered black slouch hat and a venerable frock coat. Ashbaugh jumped up with a yell.
"Well, you old son of a gun! It's good for sore eyes to see you! How long has it been, eh?"
"Quite some years," answered Old Man Curry, allowing himself to be guided to the bar. "And how's the world been usin' you, Henry?"
"It's been using me rough, awful rough," replied Ashbaugh. "I ain't even got the price of a drink."
Curry laid a silver coin upon the bar.
"Have one with me," said he.
"Don't mind if I do," said Ashbaugh, and poured out a stiff libation of water-front whisky. Old Man Curry took water, and the wise bartender, after one look at the stranger, drew it from a faucet.
"How!" said Henry, tilting the poison into his system.
"My regards!" said Old Man Curry, sipping his water slowly.
"Same old bird!" ejaculated Ashbaugh, clapping Curry on the back. "Solomon on the brain! Speaking of birds, though, did you ever see one that could fly with only one wing?"
"I never did," was the grave response. "Have another?"
"If you force me," said Ashbaugh, pouring out a second heavy dose. Old Man Curry took more water. Ashbaugh gulped once and passed the back of his hand over his lips.
"We have talked of birds," said he, wheedlingly. "Leave us now talk of centipedes."
"No," said Curry quietly. "No, I reckon not, Henry. There's something else to talk about. You got my telegram?"
"This afternoon," said Ashbaugh with a lingering glance at the bottle. "That's why I'm here."
"You've still got your place out on the Martinez road?" asked Old Man Curry.
"I can't get rid of it," was the answer.
"I'd like to take a hoss down there and put him up for a few weeks, Henry."
"The place is all yours!" said Ashbaugh with wide gestures. "All yours! A friend of mine can have anything I've got, and no questions asked. Where is this here horse?"
"They'll be takin' him out of a freight car about now," said Curry. "Could I git him down to your place to-night?"
"You can if you walk it."
"Is the road as good as it used to be?"
"Same road. Just like it was when you used to train horses on it."
"Mebbe we ought to be going," suggested Old Man Curry.
"Then you won't talk about centipedes?"
"Oh, well," smiled the old man, "I might discuss a three-legged critter with you—once."
"Put that bottle back on the bar!" said Ashbaugh.
The overnight entry slips, given out on the day before the running of the Thornton Stakes, bore the name of the horse Pharaoh, together with that of his owner, C. T. Curry, whereat the wise men of the West chuckled. A few of them had heard of Old Man Curry, a queer, harmless individual who owned bad horses and raced them on worse tracks. A hasty survey of turf guides brought the horse Pharaoh to unfavourable light as a nonwinner in cheap company, and in no sense to be considered as a competitor in the second greatest of Western turf classics. In addition to this, those who made it their business to know the business of horsemen were able to state positively that no such horse as Pharaoh had arrived at the Emeryville track outside of Oakland. Consequently, when the figuring was done (and a great deal of figuring is always done on the eve of an important stake race), the Curry entry was regarded as among the scratches.
On paper, the rich purse was a gift to theimported mare Auckland. Australian horses, bred to go a distance, had often won this longest of American stakes, and Auckland was known to be one of the very best animals ever brought across the Pacific. It was only a question of how far she would win, and the others were considered as competing for second and third money. On the night before the race all the talk was of Auckland; all the speculation had to do with her price, and how many dollars a man might have to bet to win one. At noon on the day of the race a horse car was shunted in on one of the spur tracks at Emeryville, and a group of idlers gathered to watch the unloading process. No little amusement was afforded them by the appearance and costume of the owner, but Old Man Curry paid not the slightest attention to the half-audible comment, and soon the "Bible horses" found their feet on the ground once more.
Among the loafers were some "outside men" employed by the bookmakers, and these endeavoured to acquire information from Old Man Curry, without success. The negro Shanghai proved more loquacious. He trudged at the end of the line leading a big hammer-headed brute which he often addressed as "Faro."
"Who owns these hawsses?" repeated Shanghai. "Mist' Curry—thass him in front—he owns 'em. We got here jus' in time, I reckon. Thisyer hawss whut I'm leadin', he goes in that Thawntum Stakes to-day."
"Nix!" said the outside man. "Just off the cars, and he's going to start? It can't be done!"
"I ain't heard the boss say he'd scratch him," said Shanghai.
"But how long have you been on the way?"
"Oh, I reckon 'bout five days. Yes, suh; we been exackly five daysan'nights gettin' here."
"Then you're kidding about that horse going to start in the Thornton Stakes."
"No, suh; I ain't kiddin' nobody. Thass whut we brought him oveh faw: to staht him in them Thawntum Stakes. I reckon he'll have to do the bes' he know how."
"Are you going to bet on him?"
"Sayswhich?" Shanghai showed a double row of glistening ivories. "No, indeedy! Hawss got to show me befo' I leggo my small change! This Faro, he can't seem to win no mile races, so the boss he thinks he might do betteh in a long one. But me, I ain't bettin' on him, no suh!"
Only five horses faced the barrier in the Thornton Stakes. Second money was not enough of a temptation to the owners, who could see nothing but the Australian mare, Auckland. The opening prices bore out this belief. Auckland was quoted at 1 to 5, a prohibitive figure; Baron Brant, the hope of the California contingent, at 4 to 1; The Maori at 8 to 1; Ambrose Churchill at 12 to 1, and Pharaoh was held at 15 and 20. The bookmakers had heardthat the Curry horse had been taken from the car at noon, and wondered at the obstinacy of his owner in starting him, stiff and cramped from a long railroad journey.
"Must be figuring to give him a workout and a race all at once," said the chalk merchants.
All these things being known, a certain elderly gentleman did not have to beg the bookmakers to take his money. He passed from block to block in the big ring, stripping small bills from a fat roll, and receiving pasteboards in exchange. Round and round the ring he went, with his monotonous request:
"Ten on Pharaoh to win, please."
Every bookmaker was glad to oblige him; most of them thanked him for the ten-dollar bills. There were thirty-two books in the circle, and Old Man Curry visited each one of them several times. He stopped betting only when he heard the saddling bell ringing in the paddock. After a few words with Little Mose, he returned to the betting ring and the distribution of his favours.
When the five horses stood at the barrier in front of the grand stand, Pharaoh was conspicuous only for his size and the colour of his rider. The mare Auckland, beautifully proportioned, her smooth coat glistening in the sun, was the ideal racing animal.
The word was soon given, the barrier whizzed into the air, and the five horses were on their long journey. The boy on Auckland sent her tothe front at once, and the mare settled into her long, easy stride, close to the rail, saving every possible inch. Pharaoh immediately dropped into last position, plodding through the dust kicked up by the field. The big hammer-head showed nothing in the first mile save dogged persistence. At the end of the second mile Auckland was twenty lengths in front of Pharaoh, and running without effort. The Maori and Ambrose Churchill were beginning to drop back, but Baron Brant still clung to second place, ten lengths behind the favourite.
It was in the third mile that Jockey Moseby Jones began to urge the big horse. At first there seemed to be no result, but gradually, almost imperceptibly, the heavy plugging stride grew longer. Auckland still held her commanding lead, but Pharaoh marked his gain on Ambrose Churchill and The Maori, leaving them a bitter and hopeless battle for fourth place. In the home stretch the pace began to tell on Baron Brant, and he faded. Pharaoh caught and passed him just at the wire, with the Australian mare fifteen lengths in front and eating up the distance in smooth, easy strides.
The stubborn persistence of the hammer-headed horse had not escaped the crowd, and those who support the underdog in an uphill fight gave him a tremendous cheer as he swung down to the turn. It was then that Little Mose leaned forward and began hand-riding, calling on Pharaoh in language sacred and profane.
"Hump yo'self, big hawss! Neveh let it be said that a mare kin make you eat dust! Lay down to it, Faro, lay down to it! Why, you ain't begun to run yit! You jus' been foolin'! You want to show me up befo' a big town crowd! Faro, I ast you from myheart, lay down to it!"
And Pharaoh lay down to it. The ugly big brute let himself out to the last notch, hugging the rail with long, ungainly strides. The jockey on Auckland had counted the race as won—in fact, he had been spending the winner's fee from the end of the second mile—but on the upper turn the thud of hoofs came to his ears, and with them wild whoops of encouragement. He looked back over his shoulder in surprise which soon turned to alarm; the big hammer-head was barely six lengths away and drawing nearer with every awkward bound. Jockey McFee sat down on his imported mount and began to ride for a five-thousand-dollar stake, a fat fee, his reputation, and several other considerations, but always he heard the voice of the little negro, coming closer and closer:
"Corn crop 'bout ripe, Faro! Jus' waitin' to be picked! That mare, she come a long ways to git it, but she goin' git it good! Them ribbons don't keep her f'um rockin'; she's all through! Go git her, big hawss! Go git her!"
Jockey McFee slashed desperately with his whip as Pharaoh thundered alongside, and the game mare gave up her last ounce: gave it upin a losing fight. Once, twice, the ugly, heavy head and the head of the equine aristocrat rose and fell side by side; then Auckland dropped back beaten and broken-hearted while her conqueror pounded on to the wire, to win by five open lengths....
At least one dream came true. Moseby Jones was carried off the track in a gorgeous floral horseshoe, his woolly head bobbing among the roses and his teeth putting the white carnations to shame. Shanghai danced all the way from the judges' stand to the stables, not an easy feat when one considers that he was leading the winner of the Thornton Stakes, also garlanded and bedecked within an inch of his life, but, in spite of all his floral decorations, extremely dignified.
Old Man Curry fought his way through a mob of reporters and fair-weather acquaintances to find himself face to face with the only real surprise of the day. A sharp-faced youth, immaculately dressed, leaped upon him, endeavouring to embrace him, shake his hand and congratulate him, all in a breath. "Frank!" cried the old man. "Bless your heart, boy, where did you come from?"
"From Butte," answered the Bald-faced Kid. "Wanted to get some ideas on the spring trade; saw you had a horse in the Thornton Stakes; thought I might find you; got here just as the race finished. Old-timer, how are you? You don't know how good it is to see you again!"
"I know how good it is to see you, my son!" The old man laid his arm across the youth's shoulders. "How's the wife, Frank?"
"Just bully! She would have been here with me, but she couldn't leave the kid: couldn't leave Curry——"
The patriarch of the Jungle Circuit reached hastily for his fine-cut.
"It—it was a boy, then?" he asked.
The Bald-faced Kid grinned.
"Better than that; it was a girl! We had the name picked out in advance. The wife wouldn't have it any other way."
Old Man Curry shook his head solemnly. "Frank," said he, "you know that ain't treat-in' a little girl right! Curry! It sounds like the stuff you eat with rice! When she gits old enough to know she'll hate it, and me, too."
"Any kid of mine is going tolovethe name of Curry, and call you grandpa! What do you think of that? You don't need to worry, and I won't even argue the point with you. My wife says——"
"Anything your wife says is right," interrupted the old man, blowing his nose lustily. "Why, it kind of seems as if I had some folks——"
"If you don't think you've got a ready-made family," said the Kid, "come over to Butte any time and I'll win a bet from you. But I can tell you about that later. What I want to know is this: I met a couple of hustlers hereto-day—boys I used to team with—and they told me Pharaoh didn't have a chance because he went right from the box car to the paddock. He gets off the train, where he's been for five days and nights, and comes so close to the American record that there ain't any fun in it. Now, you know that can't be done. Old-timer, you pulled many a miracle on me before I quit the turf; give me an inside on this one!"