“That little guy is all right,” said Jaundice. “Did you hear what he
said about Lord James havin’ a chanst on that track he was talking
about? Say, Lord James has about as much chanst as I have.”
“Everyone has a chance,” I said feebly.
“Me?” he asked in surprise.
“Sure; the Book says everyone has who repents.”
“I ain’t got nothin’ to repent of exceptin’ pullin’ three or four of
them bum chasers. The stewards couldn’t get nothin’ on me at that.”
“The Judges up there know it all.”
“Know everything? Then, say, what chanst has a guy got?”
As a religious prospect the case was too hard, so I telephoned the
little rector and gave it over to him. He called upon Jaundice several
times, and the following week I went to the hospital again. Jaundice
was weak but smiling.
“Say,” he whispered hoarsely, “I got a chanst. That little man says
that them Judges up there knows I was carryin’ too much weight to run
true and that you can’t blame anyone for losin’ when he is handicapped
out of it. I told him about pulling them chasers and lyin’ and
stealin’, and he said that didn’t make no difference, that the Judges
don’t set a guy down forever if he is sorry he done wrong.” He remained
thinking for a time.
“He didn’t have to tell me to be sorry,” he whispered. “Honest, I
always was sorry when I pulled one of them bum chasers when he was
trying. It wasn’t square to the horse. This is the softest bet I ever
had,” he whispered. “I’m going to play it. Them’s good odds--a chanst
to win all them things he told me about and only be sorry. It’s like
writing your own ticket.”
I found the little rector very thoughtful and amazed at this new manner
of man he had discovered, and when he buried Jaundice the next week he
got right down among us and talked about handicaps and weights, and
keeping on trying all the time. He talked just as if he had been in the
paddock half his life, and the last thing he said was: “If I were a
bookie, I’d lay odds that Jaundice cashes that last bet.”