"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 he _knows_ something."

Johnson chuckled.

"Most of his betting is done in books where I've got an interest.

D'you think they'd be laying top prices on Elijah if they didn't 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 McMa.n.u.s 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 McMa.n.u.s critically.

"Nonsense! He may be a bit nervous, but he ain't stiff."

"Well, I _hope_ he ain't. Curry's horse looks good."

Later they levelled their field gla.s.ses at the starting point.

Johnson could see nothing but his own colours: a blazing cherry jacket and cap; McMa.n.u.s spent his time watching Little Mose and Elijah.

"Smiley, that n.i.g.g.e.r 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 n.i.g.g.e.r 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 McMa.n.u.s who broke the stunned silence.

"In front in ten jumps, hey? He's _last_ in ten jumps, that's what he is: stiffer'n a board! And look where Curry's n.i.g.g.e.r is, will you?"

"To h.e.l.l with Curry's n.i.g.g.e.r!" 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 McMa.n.u.s. "Quite a 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! n.o.body goin' b.u.mp you to-day! n.o.body goin' slash you 'ith no whip! Go on, big red hawss! Show 'em how we risin' up!"

"The n.i.g.g.e.r'll win in a romp!" announced McMa.n.u.s disgustedly.

"Oh, dry up! I want to know what's happened to Zanzibar!"

"I can tell you what's _going_ to happen to him," remarked the unfeeling McMa.n.u.s. "He's going to finish last, and a d.a.m.n 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 win _all_ the 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.