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OLD MAN CURRY
Race Track Stories
by
CHARLES E. VAN LOAN
* * * * *
THE BOOKS OF
CHARLES E. VAN LOAN
_Memorial Edition_
OLD MAN CURRY
STORIES OF THE RACE TRACK
WITH INTRODUCTION BY
L. B. YATES
* * * * *
OLD MAN CURRY
Race Track Stories
by
CHARLES E. VAN LOAN
Introduction by L. B. Yates
New York
George H. Doran Company
MCMXIX
Copyright, 1917,
by George H. Doran Company
Copyright, 1915-6, by P. F. Collier & Son, Incorporated
Printed in the United States of America
My Dear "Purdue" McCormick:--
It is customary to dedicate a book, the author selecting a good
natured person to stand sponsor for his work. There are 100,000,000
people in this country, and I have selected you as Old Man Curry's
godfather. When you reflect upon this statistical statement, the size
of the compliment should impress you.
Then too, you love a good horse--I have often heard you say so. You
love a good horse in spite of the fact that you once harnessed
Colonel Jack Chinn's thoroughbred saddle animal to a trap, the
subsequent events producing a better story than any you will find in
these pages. Nevertheless, my dear sir, they are respectfully, even
firmly dedicated to you.
Yours very sincerely,
CHARLES E. VAN LOAN
To E. O. McCormick,
San Francisco, Cal.
INTRODUCTION
BY L. B. YATES
It is one of life's tragedies that as we go along we realize the
changes that come upon almost everything with which we used to be
associated. And this is noticeable not only in ordinary affairs,
whether it be in business or in the home, but it obtrudes itself upon
the sports or pastimes which we most affected in the days when some
of us had more time or a greater predilection to indulge in them.
We so often go back to an old stamping ground expecting to find old
friends or to meet the characters which to a great extent added to
the charm of local coloring, and nothing disappoints us more than to
find that they have all either gone the way of the earth or changed
their manner of living and habitat.
I think this is brought more forcibly to mind when we view the turf
activities of an earlier generation as compared with those more
modern, because nowadays the game is played differently all around
and doesn't look the same from the viewpoint of one who loved the
spectacular and quaint figures that so distinguished what we might
call the Victorian Era of American racing.
The sport of emperors has to a great extent become the pastime of
King Moneybags. And there is no place for ancient crusaders like Old
Man Curry, so he has taken the remnants of his stable and gone back
to the farm or merged into the humdrum and neutral tinted landscape
which always designates the conventional and ordinary.
He doesn't fit in any more. The cost of maintaining a racing stable
is almost ten times greater than it was in the days when he and his
kind went up and down the country making the great adventure. Racing
has been systematized and ticketed and labeled in such a way that it
is only very rich men who can afford to indulge in it. The tracks
west of Louisville are all closed. The skeleton hand of the gloom
distributor has put padlocks on the gates. Even if Old Man Curry was
with us to-day, his sphere of action would be limited, unless he
elected to play a game where the odds would be so immeasurably
against him that he would be beaten long before he started.
So it is that when Charlie Van Loan went away, he bequeathed to us
the records of a peculiar nomadic people which are now almost like
the argonauts and whose manner of living and happy-go-lucky ways are
but a memory. It is strange that although the turf has always formed
a prolific medium for writing people and has lent itself admirably to
fiction, very few authors seem to have taken advantage of the
opportunities offered.
As in other branches of sport, Van Loan was quick to see this and he
gave us story after story of the kind that men love to read and
chuckle over and retail to the first man they meet. And so when you
peruse the pages of Old Man Curry's book, you will find Charlie Van
Loan at his very best. When one says that it means you will follow a
trail blazed by one of the most masterly short story writers we ever
had. Better yet, he writes about real people and they do real
believable things. You are not asked to stretch your imagination or
endeavor to form an excuse for the happening as portrayed. You will
find it all logical and you will be able to follow the old man and
the biblically named horses from track to track and from adventure to
adventure, until you finally lay the book aside and tell yourself
what a bully time you had reading it and how humorous and human and
wholly entertaining every page of it was.
And to all this I might perhaps add something of my regard for the
Charlie Van Loan I knew and how we foregathered and enjoyed the old
days when we were brother carpenters on a western newspaper, and how
out of the close association of many years I formed an affectionate
regard for him and realized how thoughtful and kindly and big in
heart and brain he really was. But in life he was not the kind that
sought or cared for adulation or fulsome expression of regard either
spoken or written. So I had better hark back to the narratives of Old
Man Curry and his connections, bidding you enjoy them to the limit,
and assuring you that they need no eulogy from me or any one else.
They speak for themselves.
CONTENTS
PAGE
LEVELLING WITH ELISHA 13
PLAYING EVEN FOR OBADIAH 45
BY A HAIR 68
THE LAST CHANCE 99
SANGUINARY JEREMIAH 128
ELIPHAZ, LATE FAIRFAX 150
THE REDEMPTION HANDICAP 175
A MORNING WORKOUT 198
EGYPTIAN CORN 223
THE MODERN JUDGMENT OF SOLOMON 247
OLD MAN CURRY
LEVELLING WITH ELISHA
The Bald-faced Kid shivered as he roosted on the paddock fence, for
the dawn was raw and cold and his overcoat was hanging in the back
room of a pawnbroker's establishment some two hundred miles away.
Circumstances which he had unsuccessfully endeavoured to control made
it a question of the overcoat or the old-fashioned silver stop watch.
The choice was not a difficult one. "I can get along without the
benny," reflected the Kid, "because I'm naturally warm-blooded, but
take away my old white kettle and I'm a soldier gone to war without
his gun."
In the language of the tack rooms, the Bald-faced Kid was a
hustler--a free lance of the turf, playing a lone hand against owner
and bookmaker, matching his wits against secret combinations and
operating upon the wheedled capital of the credulous. He was
sometimes called a tout, but this he resented bitterly, explaining
the difference between a tout and a hustler. "A tout will have six
suckers betting on six different horses in the same race. Five of
'em have to lose. A tout is guessing all the time, but a hustler is
likely to know something. One horse a race is my motto--sometimes
only one horse a day, but I've got to know something before I lead
the sucker into the betting ring.... What is a sucker? Huh! He's a
foolish party who bets money for a wise boy because the wise boy
never has any money to bet for himself!"
Picking winners was the serious business of the Kid's life, hence the
early morning hours and the careful scrutiny of the daybreak
workouts.
Bitter experience had taught the Kid the error of trusting men, but
up to a certain point he trusted horses. He depended upon his silver
stop watch to divide the thoroughbreds into two classes--those which
were short of work and those which were ready. The former he
eliminated as unfit; the latter he ceased to trust, for the horse
which is ready becomes a betting tool, at the mercy of the bookmaker,
the owner, and the strong-armed little jockey.
"Which one are they going to bet on to-day?" was the Kid's eternal
question. "Which one is going to carry the checks?"
Across the track, dim in the gray light, a horse broke swiftly from a
canter into the full racing stride. Something clicked in the Kid's
palm.
"Got you!" he muttered.
His eye followed the horse up the back stretch into the gloom of the
upper turn where the flying figure was lost in the deep shade of the
trees. One shadow detached itself from the others and appeared at the
head of the straightaway. The muffled thud of hoofs became audible,
rising in swift crescendo as the shadow resolved itself into a gaunt
bay horse with a tiny negro boy crouched motionless in the saddle. A
rush, a flurry, a spatter of clods, a low-flying drift of yellow dust
and the vision passed, but the Bald-faced Kid had seen enough to
compensate him for the early hours and the lack of breakfast. He
glanced at his watch.
"Old Elisha, under wraps and fighting for his head," was his comment.
"The nigger didn't let him out any part of the way.... Oh, you
prophet of Israel!"
"What did that bird step the three-quarters in?" asked a voice, and
the Kid turned to confront Squeaking Henry, also a hustler, and at
times a competitor.
"Dunno; I didn't clock him," lied the Kid.
"That was Old Man Curry's nigger Mose," continued Squeaking Henry,
so-called because of his plaintive whine, "and I was wondering if the
horse wasn't Elijah. I didn't get a good look at him. Maybe it was
Obadiah or Nehemiah. Did you ever hear such a lot of names in your
life? They tell me Old Man Curry got 'em all out of the Bible." The
Kid nodded. "Bible horses are in fine company at this track,"
chuckled Squeaking Henry. "I been here a week now, and darned if I
can get onto the angles. I guess Old Man Curry is the only owner here
who ain't doin' business with some bookmaker or other. Look at that
King William bird yesterday! He was twenty pounds the best in the
race and he come fifth. The jock did everything to him but cut his
throat. What are you goin' to do when they run 'em in and out like
that?... Say, Kid, was that Elijah or was it another one of them
Bible beetles? I didn't get a good look at him."
The Bald-faced Kid stole a sidelong glance at Squeaking Henry.
"Neither did I," said he. "Why don't you ask Old Man Curry which
horse it was? He'd tell you. He's just foolish enough to do it."
Halfway up the back stretch a shabby, elderly man leaned against a
fence, thoughtfully chewing a straw as he watched the little negro
check the bay horse to a walk. He had the flowing beard of a
patriarch, the mild eye of a deacon, the calm, untroubled brow of a
philosopher, and his rusty black frock coat lent him a certain simple
dignity quite rare upon the race tracks of the Jungle Circuit. In the
tail pocket of the coat was something rarer still--a well-thumbed
Bible, for this was Old Man Curry, famous as the owner of Isaiah,
Elijah, Obadiah, Esther, Ezekiel, Jeremiah, Elisha, Nehemiah, and
Ruth. In his spare moments he read the Psalms of David for pleasure
in their rolling cadences and the Proverbs of Solomon for profit in
their wisdom, which habit alone was sufficient to earn for him a
reputation for eccentricity.
Old Man Curry clinched this general opinion by entering into no
entangling alliances with brother owners, and the bookmaker did not
live who could call him friend. He attended strictly to his own
business, which was training horses and racing them to win, and while
he did not swear, drink liquor, or smoke, he proved he was no Puritan
by chewing fine-cut tobacco and betting on his horses when he thought
they had a chance to win and the odds were to his liking. For the
latter he claimed Scriptural precedent.
"Wasn't the children of Israel commanded to spile the Egyptians?"
said he. "Wasn't they? Well, then! the way I figger it times has
changed a lot since then, but the principle's the same. There's some
children of Israel making book 'round here that need to be spiled a
heap worse'n Pharaoh ever did." Then, after thought: "But you got to
go some to spile bad eggs." As the little negro drew near, the
blackness of his visage was illuminated by a sudden flash of ivory.
Elisha snorted and shook his head from side to side. Old Man Curry
stepped forward and laid his hand upon the bridle.
"Well, Mose?" said he. The small rider gurgled as he slipped from the
saddle:
"Nothin' to it, nothin' to it a-a-atall. 'Is 'Lisha bird, he's ready
to fly. Yes, suh, he's prepaihed to show all 'em otheh hawsses which
way 'is track runs!"
"Went good, did he, Mose?"
"Good! He like to pull my ahms off, 'at's how good he went! Yes, suh,
he was jus' buck-jumpin' all 'e way down 'at stretch. 'Ey kin all be
in front of him tuhnin' fo' to-morreh, an' he'll go by 'em so fas'
'ey won't know which way he went!"
Old Man Curry nodded. "Elisha ain't no front runner," said he. "He's
like his daddy--does all his running in the last quarter. He comes
from behind."
"Sure does!" chirped Mose. "All I got to do is fetch him into 'e
stretch, swing wide so he got plenty of room to ambulate hisse'f,
boot him once in 'e slats, an'--good night _an'_ good-by! Ol 'Lisha
jus' tip his to 'em otheh hawsses an' say: ''Scuse me, gen'elmen an'
ladies, but I got mos' uhgent business down yondeh 'bout quahteh of a
mile; 'em judges waitin' faw me.' 'At's what he say, boss. Nothin' to
it a-a-atall."
"Give him plenty of room, Mose."
"Sutny will. Won't git me nothin' stickin' on 'at rail. 'Em white
bu'glahs don't seem to crave me nohow, no time; 'ey jus' be tickled
to death to put me an' 'Lisha oveh 'e fence if we git clost 'nough to
it. Yes, indeed; I 'low to give 'is hawss all 'e room whut is on a
race track!"
Old Man Curry led Elisha toward his barn, the little negro trailing
behind, addressing the horse in terms of endearment. "You ol' wolf,
on'iest way to beat you to-morreh is to saw all yo' laigs off. You as
full of run as a hydrant, 'at's whut you are, ain't you, 'Lisha?"
Two horsemen were standing in the door of a feed room as the queer
procession passed. They interrupted a low-toned conversation to
exchange significant glances. "Speak of the devil," said one, "and
there he goes now. Been working that horse for the last race
to-morrow."
"It won't get him anything," said the other. "You can forget that
he's entered."
The first speaker was short and stout, with no personal beauty to be
marred by the knife scar which ran from the lobe of his left ear to
the point of his chin, a broad, red welt in the blackish stubble of
his beard. This was Martin O'Connor, owner of the Sunrise racing
stable, sometimes know as Grouchy O'Connor.
His companion was a smooth-faced, dapper, gold-toothed blond,
apparently not more than twenty-five years of age. Innocence circled
his sleek towhead like a halo; good cheer radiated from him in
ceaseless waves. His glance was direct and compelling and his smile
invited confidences; he seemed almost too young and entirely too
artless for his surroundings. The average observer would have pitied
him for a lamb among wolves, and the pity would have been misplaced,
for Al Engle was older than he looked by several sinful semesters
and infinitely wiser than he had any honest right to be. His frank,
boyish countenance was at once a cloak and an asset; it had beguiled
many a man to his financial hurt. He was shrewd, intelligent,
unscrupulous, and acquisitive; the dangerous head of a small clique
of horse owners which was doing its bad best to remove the element of
chance from the sport of kings. In his touting days he had been given
the name of the Sharpshooter and in his prosperity it clung to him.
"Forget that he's entered, eh?" repeated O'Connor. "Elisha--Elisha--I
don't seem to place that horse."
"His name used to be Silver Star," said the Sharpshooter.
"That dog?" said O'Connor, disgustedly. "Let's see; wasn't he at
Butte last season?"
"Yes. Cricket Caley owned him."
"The little old jock that died last spring?"
"Same one. This horse Silver Star was all he had and Cricket used to
ride him himself. Rank quitter. I've seen Caley boot and kick and
slash this bird until he wore himself out; he'd quit just the same.
Wouldn't run a lick after he got into the stretch.
"Then one day Cricket slipped him over at a long price. Don't know
how he did it. Hop, most likely. Got somebody to bet on Silver Star
at 25 to 1 and took quite a little chunk of money out of the ring.
That was Caley's last race; he'd been cheating the undertakers for
years. Before he died he gave the horse to Old Man Curry. They'd been
friends, but if a friend of mine gave me a horse like that and didn't
throw in a dog collar, he couldn't run fast enough to get away from
me. Curry put in an application to the Jockey Club and had the name
changed from Silver Star to Elisha. Won't have anything but Bible
names, the old nut!
"Curry hasn't won with him yet, and I'd hate to be hanging by the
neck until he does, because if ever there was a no-account hound
masquerading with a mane and tail, it's the one you just saw go by
here. He won't gather anything to-morrow. Forget him."
O'Connor hesitated a moment; he was a cautious soul. "Might tell
Grogan and Merritt to look after him," he suggested.
"No need to. And that bullet-headed little nigger wouldn't like
anything better than a chance to holler to the judges. The horse
ain't got a chance, I tell you. Wouldn't have with the best rider in
the world. Forget him."
"Well--just as you say, Al. Broadsword's good enough to beat him, I
reckon."
"Of course he is! Forget this Elisha. Go on and figure just the same
as if he wasn't in the race."
The Sharpshooter and his friends, through their betting
commissioners, backed Broadsword from 4 to 1 to even money. The horse
was owned by O'Connor and ridden by Jockey Grogan. Bald Eagle,
Amphion, and Remorseful were supposed to be the contenders, but their
riders jogged blithely to the post with Broadsword tickets in their
bootlegs and riding orders of a sort to make those pasteboards
valuable.
Jockey Moseby Jones, on Elisha, was overlooked when these favours
were surreptitiously distributed, but his bootleg was not empty.
There was a ticket in it which called for twenty-two dollars in case
Elisha won--a two-dollar bet at 10 to 1. It was put there by Old Man
Curry just before the bugle blew.
"Bring him home in front, Mose," said the old man.
"Sutny will!" grinned the negro. "You betting much on him, boss?"
"I visited a while with the children of Israel," said Curry gravely.
"Remember now--lots of room when you turn for home."
"Yes, suh. I won't git clost 'nough to 'em scound'els faw 'em do
nothin' but say 'Heah he comes' an' 'Yondeh he goes.' Won't slam me
into no fence; I'm comin' back by ovehland route!"
Later O'Connor, who had been bidden to forget Elisha, remembered him.
Broadsword led into the stretch by four open lengths, hugging the
rail. Mose trailed the bunch around the upper turn, brought Elisha
smartly to the outside, kicked the bay horse in the ribs with his
spurs and said:
"Whut yo' doin' heah? Go 'long about yo' business!"
Jockey Grogan, already spending his fifty-dollar ticket, heard
warning yells from the rear and sat down to ride, but it was too
late. Elisha, coming with a tremendous rush, was already on even
terms with Broadsword. Three strides and daylight showed between
them. It was all over but the shouting, and there was very little of
that, for Elisha had few friends in the crowd.
"Hah!" ejaculated the presiding judge, tugging at his stubby grey
moustache. "Old Man Curry put one over on the boys, or I miss my
guess. Yes, sir, he beat the good thing and spilled the beans.
Elisha, first; Broadsword, second; that thing of Engle's, third.
Serves 'em right! Hah!"
Martin O'Connor standing on the outskirts of the betting ring,
searching a limited vocabulary for language with which to garnish his
emotions, felt a nudge at his elbow. It was the Sharpshooter.
"Go away from me! Don't talk to me!" sputtered O'Connor. "You make me
sick! I thought you said that dog couldn't run! You're a swell
prophet, you are, you--you----"
Al Engle smiled as he slipped his binoculars into the case. "I may
not be a prophet," said he, "but I'll have one in my barn to-night."
"Huh?"
"Oh, nothing, only that's too good a horse for Curry to own. I'm
going to take Elisha away from him."
"Going to run him up?"
"As far as the old man will go."
"Well, look out you don't start a selling-race war."
The Sharpshooter sneered. "Curry hasn't got nerve enough to fight
us," said he.
Now the "selling race" is an institution devised and created for the
protection of owners against owners, the theory being to prevent the
running of horses out of their proper class.
An owner, entering a selling race, must set a price upon his
horse--let us say five hundred dollars. Should the horse win, it must
be offered for sale at that figure, the owner being given the right
to protect his property in a bidding contest.
In case the animal changes hands, the original owner receives five
hundred dollars, and no more. If the horse has been bid up to one
thousand dollars, the racing association shares the run-up with the
owner of the horse which finished second. It will readily be seen
that this system discourages the practice of entering a
two-thousand-dollar horse in a five-hundred-dollar selling race, but
it also permits a disgruntled owner to revenge himself upon a rival.
Some of the bitterest feuds in turf history have grown out of
"selling-race wars."
Little Mose brought Elisha back into the ring, saluted the judges,
and, dismounting, began to unsaddle. Old Man Curry came wandering
down the track from the paddock gate where he had watched the race.
He was chewing a straw reflectively, and the tails of his rusty black
frock coat flapped in the breeze like the garment of a scarecrow.
Mose, with the saddle, bridle, blanket, and weight pad in his arms,
disappeared under the judges' stand where the clerk of the scales
weighed him together with his tackle.
The associate judge came out on the steps of the pagoda with a
programme in his hand. Mose bounced into view, handed his tackle to
Shanghai, Curry's hostler, and started for the jockeys' room, singing
to himself out of sheer lightness of heart. He knew what he would do
with that twenty-two-dollar ticket. There was a crap game every night
at the O'Connor stable.
"All right, judge!" called the clerk of the scales. "Shoot!"
The associate judge cleared his throat, nodded to Old Man Curry,
fingered his programme, and began to speak in a dull, slurring
monotone, droning out the formula as prescribed for such occasions:
"Elisha--winner'v this race--entered to be sold--four hundred
dollars---- Any bids?"
"Five hundred!"
Old Man Curry, leaning against the top rail of the fence, started
slightly and turned his eyes in the direction of the sound. The
Sharpshooter flashed his gold teeth at him in a cheerful smile. Old
Man Curry shrugged his shoulders and rolled the straw from one corner
of his mouth to the other. The associate judge looked at him, asking
a question with his eyebrows. There was a stir in the crowd about the
stand. A bidding contest is always an added attraction.
"Friend, you don't want this hoss," expostulated Old Man Curry,
addressing Engle. "He ain't a race hoss; he's a _trick_ hoss. You
don't want him."
"What about you, Curry?" asked the associate judge.
"Oh, well," said the old man, slowly. "_And_ five."
"Six hundred!"
Old Man Curry seemed annoyed. He combed his beard with his fingers.
"_And_ five," said he.
"Seven hundred!"
Old Man Curry took time for reflection. Then he sighed deeply.
"Maybe you want him worse'n I do, friend," said he. "_And_ five."
"Eight hundred!"
Old Man Curry smothered an impatient ejaculation, threw away his
straw and ransacked his pockets for his packet of fine-cut.
"Might as well make it a good one while we're at it," said he. "_And_
five."
"One thousand!" said the Sharpshooter, his smile broadening. "Pretty
fair price for a trick horse, eh, Curry?"
The old man paused with a generous helping of tobacco halfway to its
destination. He regarded Engle with unblinking gravity.
"'The words of his mouth were smoother than butter,' he quoted, 'but
war was in his heart.' That's from Psalms, young man.... Now, it's
this way with a trick hoss: a lot depends on whether you know the
trick or not.... One thousand!... Shucks! Now I _know_ you want him
worse'n I do!" Old Man Curry hoisted the tails of his coat, thrust
his hands into the hip pockets of his trousers, hunched his shoulders
level with his ears and turned away.
"You ain't quitting, are you?" demanded the Sharpshooter.
"Friend," said Old Man Curry, "I ain't even started yet. It appears
upon the face of the returns that you have bought one big, red
hoss.... A trick hoss. To show you how I feel about it, I'm going to
throw in a bridle with him.... Good-by, Elisha. The Philistines have
got ye ... for a thousand dollars."
It was dusk and Old Man Curry paced up and down under his stable
awning, his hands clasped behind his back and his head bowed at a
meditative angle. The Bald-faced Kid recalled him to earth by his
breezy greeting, and what it lacked in reverence it made up in good
will. Old Man Curry and the hustler were friends, each possessing
trait which the other respected.
"Well, old-timer, you put airing your lace curtains a little?"
"Eh? What? Oh, good evening, Frank, good evening! I been walking up
and down some. You know what it says in Ecclesiastes: 'In the day of
prosperity be joyful, but in the day of adversity consider.' I been
considering."
"Uh, huh," said the Bald-faced Kid, falling into step, "and you sure
reached out and grabbed some adversity in that third race to-day,
what? I had a finnif bet on friend Isaiah--my own money, too; that's
how good I thought he was. They pretty near bumped the shoes off him
in the back stretch and they had him in a pocket all the way to the
paddock gate, and even so, he was only beat about the length of your
nose. Adversity is right!" Old Man Curry nodded. "Say," said the Kid,
lowering his voice, "I just wanted to tell you that next Tuesday the
Engle bunch will be levelling with Elisha."
Curry paused in his stride and eyed the youth intently.
"Who told you?" said he.
"Never you mind," said the Kid, airily. "I'm a kind of a private
information bureau and detective agency 'round this track, and my
hours are from twelve to twelve, twice a day. I shake hands with the
night watchman when he comes on duty and I'm here to give the
milkman the high sign in the morning. They tell me things they've
seen and heard. I've got a drag with the bartenders and the waiters
in the track cafe and the telegraph operator is my pal.
"Now Engle has had Elisha for two weeks. He's started him three times
and Elisha hasn't been in the money once. People are saying that when
Engle bought the horse he didn't buy the prescription that goes with
him.... Don't interrupt me; everybody knows you never had a hop horse
in your barn.... It's my notion that Elisha can win any time they get
ready to cut him loose for the kopecs. Engle has been cheating with
him to get a price and using the change of owners for an alibi.
They'll get their price the next time out and clean up a barrel of
money. You can gamble on this tip. It's straight as gospel."
"That's pretty straight, son." Old Man Curry squared his shoulders
and looked over the Kid's head toward the track, where the empty
grand stand loomed dark against the evening sky. "Next Tuesday!" said
he. "Just about what I thought ... but tell me, son, why did you
bring this to me?"
The Bald-faced Kid laughed harshly.
"Well, maybe it's because you're the only man 'round here that calls
me Frank--it's my name and I like to hear it once in a while. Maybe
it's because you staked me once when I was broke and didn't take my
right eye for security. Maybe it's because I figure we can both get
something out of it for ourselves. If Engle is going to cut a melon,
we might as well have a knife in it too."
"Ah!" said Old Man Curry, and he paced the entire length of the barn
before he spoke again.
"Well, you see, son, it's this way about cutting a melon. You want to
be sure it ain't green ... or rotten."
"Huh?"
Old Man Curry placed his hand on the Kid's shoulder.
"My boy," said he, kindly, "you make a living by--by sort of advising
folks what to bet on, don't you? If they're kind of halting between
two opinions, as the Book says, you sort of--help 'em out, eh!"
The Bald-faced Kid grinned broadly.
"I guess that's about the size of it," said he.
"Well, if you've got any reg'lar customers, don't invite 'em to have
a slice of Engle's melon next Tuesday. It might disagree with 'em."
"But I don't see how you're going to get away from Elisha! He's fit
and ready and right on edge. You can throw out his last three races.
He's good enough to win without any framing."
"I know he is, son. Didn't I train him? Now you've told me something
that I've been trying to find out, and I've told you something you
never could find out. Don't ask me any more.... No use talking,
Frank, Solomon was a great man. Some time I hope to have a race hoss
fit to be named after him. I've never seen one yet."
"Where does Solomon get in on this proposition?" demanded the youth.
Old Man Curry chuckled.
"You don't read him," he said. "Solomon wrote a lot of advice that
hossmen can use. For instance: 'A prudent man foreseeth the evil and
hideth himself, but the simple pass on and are punished.' I've told
you this Engle melon ain't as ripe as they think it is. You be
prudent and don't ask me how I know."
"If the frame-up goes wrong, what'll win?" asked the Kid.
"Well," said the old man, "my hoss Elijah's in that same race, but
it's a little far for him. I ain't going to bet anything. Sometimes
it comes handy to know these things."
"You spoke an armful then!" said the Kid. "Well, I've got to be
going. I'll keep this under my hat."
"So do, son," said Old Man Curry. "So do. Good night."
The Bald-faced Kid reflected aloud as he departed.
"And some people think that old fellow don't know the right way of
the track!" he murmured. "Gee! I'd give something to be in with what
he's got up his sleeve!"
Old Man Curry was still tramping up and down when little Mose
returned from his nightly foray upon the crap games of the
neighbourhood. The boy approached silently and with lagging gait,
sure signs that fortune had not been kind to him. When the dice
behaved well it was his habit to return with songs and improvised
dance steps.
"Talk 'bout luck!" said he, morosely. "You know 'at flat-foot Swede
whut swipes faw Mist' O'Conneh? Hungry Hanson, 'ey calls him. Well,
he goes crazy 'ith 'e heat an' flang 'em bones jus' like he's got 'em
ejicated. Done tossed out nine straight licks, boss. Seems to me
'at's mo' luck 'an a Swede ought to have!"
"Mose," said Old Man Curry suddenly, "Job was no hossman."
"I neveh 'cused him of it," replied Mose sulkily.
"A hossman wouldn't have wanted his adversary to write a book. If
he'd said _make_ a book, now ... but the best way to get square with
an adversary is to have him start a hoss in the same race with you,
Mose."
"I'll take yo' word faw it, boss," said Mose. "When you go talkin'
'bout Job an' Sol'mun an' 'em Bible folks, you got me ridin' on a
track I don't know nothin' 'bout. Nothin' a-a-atall."
It was Tuesday afternoon and little Mose was struggling into his
riding boots. The other jockeys dressed in the jockeys' room at the
paddock inclosure, but Mose found it pleasanter to don the silks in
the tack room of Old Man Curry's barn, which also served him as a
sleeping apartment. The old man sat on the edge of Mose's cot,
speaking earnestly and slapping the palm of his left hand with the
fingers of his right, as if to lend emphasis to his words.
"The big thing is to get him away from the post. I want Elijah out
there in front when you turn for home. With his early speed, he ought
to be leading into the stretch. Elisha will come from behind; Engle
is smart enough for that. He'll have to pass you somewhere, because
Elijah will begin to peter out after he's gone half a mile. Pull in
as close to Elisha as you can, but not so close that Merritt can
claim a foul, and--you know the rest."
Mose nodded soberly. "Sutny do, boss. But I neveh knowed 'at ol'
'Lisha----"
"That'll do," said Old Man Curry sternly. "There's lots of things you
don't know, Mose."
"Yes, suh," said the little negro, subsiding. "Quite a many."
Later the Bald-faced Kid came to Old Man Curry in the paddock.
"Elisha looks awful good," said he, "and they're commencing to set in
the checks. He opened at 4 to 1, went up to 6, and they've hammered
him down to 2 to 1 now. I hear they're playing the bulk of their
money in the pool rooms all over the coast.... Elisha looks as if he
could win, eh?"
Old Man Curry combed his beard.
"You can't always tell by the looks of a melon what's inside it, my
son."
"Engle is telling everybody that the horse ain't quite ready,"
persisted the hustler. "Of course they don't want everybody betting
on him and spoiling the price."
"He's doing 'em a kindly act without knowing it," said Old Man Curry.
"That's 'bout the only way he'll ever do one, Frank, unbeknownst
like."
"You're not betting on this one?" asked the Kid.
"Not a thin dime's worth. It's too far for him."
"I give it up." The Kid shook his head, hopelessly. "You're too many
for me."
The presiding judge came out on the platform in front of the stand
and watched the horses dance along the rail on their way to the post,
coats glistening, eyes flashing, nostrils flaring--one of the
prettiest sights the turf offers to its patrons. "Merritt on Elisha
again," said the judge. "Merritt. Hm-m-m. That young man is entirely
too strong in the arms to suit me. It struck me the last three times
he rode this horse. But somebody is betting on Elisha to-day. That
may make a difference, and if it does, we may have to ask Mr.
Sharpshooter Engle a few questions."
"Leave it to him to answer 'em," said the associate judge. "It's the
best thing he does. That fellow is like a hickory nut--smooth on the
outside, but hard, awfully hard, to get anything out of.... Old Man
Curry is in this race with Elijah. Little far for him, isn't it?"
In the very top row of the grand stand Grouchy Martin O'Connor waited
for Al Engle. Just as the horses reached the post, the Sharpshooter
slipped in, breathless and fumbling at the catch of his binocular
case. "He was 6 to 5 when I came through the betting ring," said
Engle. "Well, any old price is a good price. He'll roll home."
"He better. He owes me something," growled O'Connor.
"This is where he pays you."
"I hope so."
"I saw Old Man Curry out in the paddock," and Engle smiled at the
recollection. "What do you think the old coot said to me?"
"What do I care what an old nut says?"
"Nobody cares, of course, but this was kind of funny. After the
horses started for the post he came up to me, solemn as a judge, and
says he: 'Remember, I told you this was a trick horse.' Just like
that. They ought to have a look at his head. He's got an attic for
rent, sure."
"Must have. But what does he mean by that trick-horse stuff? He
pulled it on you a couple of times when you ran Elisha up on him."
"Darned if I know. I guess that's just his way of kidding.... Hello!
They're off!"
"Yes, and that thing of Curry's got away flying."
"He'll quit about the time he hits the head of the stretch," said
Engle. "He gets his mail there.... Merritt has got Elisha in on the
rail, taking it easy, as I told him to. Believe me, that baby is some
stretch runner!"
"It cost me enough to find it out!" said O'Connor shortly.
Engle peered through his binoculars.
"Unless he breaks a leg, or something"--here O'Connor hastily knocked
wood--"we'll clean up," said Engle, critically. "Elisha is fighting
for his head--wants to run. I don't care where he is, turning for
home. He'll run over that bunch in the last quarter."
"Yes, but look at that Elijah go!" muttered O'Connor.
"Let him go!" said Engle, with a trace of irritation. "He'll come
back; he always does. Bet you fifty he's last!"
"Got you!" snapped O'Connor. "You may not know any more about this
one than you did about Elisha last month!"
The dots of colour skimmed around the upper turn, one of them so far
ahead that it seemed lonely. This was Elijah, burning his early
speed, jack-rabbiting ten lengths in front of his field, but
beginning to notice his exertions and feel the swift pace.
"'Lijah," remarked little Mose, looking back over his shoulder, "if
eveh you finds a race track whut's got a short home stretch in it,
you'll be 'notheh Roseben. Sutny will. On'iest trouble 'ith you,
'Lijah, 'em stretches built too _long_ faw you. Put 'e judges' stand
up heah whah we is now, an' yo' neveh lose a race!... Uh, huh! Heah
come 'Lisha now; 'em otheh jocks lettin' him th'ough on 'e rail....
Come on, honey blossom! We's waitin' faw you. Come on!"
Said the presiding judge: "That thing in front is quitting to nothing
... and here comes Elisha through on the rail.... Yes, he's a real
race horse to-day. Better see Engle about this. Have to teach him
that he can't run his horses in and out at this track!"
Said Al Engle: "What did I tell you? Running over horses, ain't he?
He'll have that Elijah grabbed in a few more jumps.... Take it easy,
Merritt! Don't win too far with him!"
Martin O'Connor heaved a great sigh of relief. Like all cautious
souls, he never ceased to worry until the last doubt was dispelled.
The weary, staggering Elijah was the only barrier between Elisha and
the goal. O'Connor's practiced eye saw no menace in that floundering
front runner; no danger in a shaft already spent. "He wins! He wins
easy!" breathed Martin.
"Just rolls home, I tell you!" said the Sharpshooter, putting away
his binoculars. "I knew he would."
By leaps and bounds the stretch-running Elisha overhauled his former
stable companion. Poor, tired Elijah was rocking in his gait, losing
ground almost as fast as Elisha was gaining it; his race was behind
him; he could do no more.
Mose, keeping watch out of the tail of his eye, saw the bay head
bobbing close behind. Now it was at Elijah's heels; the next stride
would bring it level with the saddle.... The next stride.
All that anyone ever saw was that Jockey Moseby Jones leaned slightly
toward the flying Elisha as Merritt drew alongside, and very few
spectators saw this much. Who cares to watch a loser when the winner
is in sight? Old Man Curry, waiting at the paddock gate, saw the
movement and immediately began to search his pockets for tobacco.
Jockey Merritt, strong of arm but weak of principle, was first to
realize that something had happened. Elisha's speed checked with such
suddenness that the rider narrowly escaped pitching out of the
saddle.... Had the horse stumbled ... or been frightened?... What in
the world was it?... Merritt recovered his balance and quite
instinctively drove the spurs home; the only response was a grunt
from Elisha. The long racing stride shortened to a choppy one. The
horse was not tired, nor was he quitting in the general acceptance of
the term; he was merely stopping to a walk with all possible speed.
Merritt was seized with panic. He drew his whip and began slashing
savagely. Elisha answered this by waving his tail high in the air, a
protest and a flag of truce--but run he would not. His pace grew
slower and slower and at the paddock gate he was on even terms with
the drooping Elijah. "What ails that horse?" demanded the presiding
judge. "He won't run a lick! Acts as if he's taken a sulky streak all
at once!"
"Yes," said the associate. "The Bible horses are having a contest to
see which one of 'em can quit the fastest.... Queer-looking race,
judge. And they bet on Elisha this time, too."
"I'm glad of it!" exploding the other. "It serves 'em right. I like
to see a frame-up go wrong once in a while!"
Side by side Elijah and Elisha fell back toward the field, little
Mose grinning from ear to ear, but industriously hand riding his
mount; Jockey Merritt cursing wildly and plying rawhide and steel
with all his strength. The other horses, coming on with a closing
rush, enveloped the pair, passing them and continued on toward the
wire.
Only one remark of Martin O'Connor's is fit for quotation. It came
when his vocabulary was bare of vituperation, abusive epithet, and
profanity.
"You can slip me fifty, Engle. That darned trick horse of yours was
last!"
An inquisitive soul is an itching thing and the gathering of
information was the Bald-faced Kid's ruling passion. He called at Old
Man Curry's stable that evening with a bit of news which he hoped to
use as the key to a secret.
"Greetings!" said he at the tack-room door. "Thought you'd like to
know that Engle has sold Elisha. Pete Lawrence bought him for three
hundred dollars. Engle says that's two-ninety-five more than he'd
bring at a soap works."
Old Man Curry had been reading by the light of the tack-room lantern;
he pushed his glasses back on his forehead and smiled at his
informant.
"Oh, Elisha!" said he. "Yes, if you look in the second stall to the
right, you'll find him. He's been straying among the publicans and
sinners, but he's home again now where he belongs. I asked Pete to go
over and buy him for me."
"Good work!" said the Kid, seating himself. "There's quite a mass
meeting over at Engle's barn."
"So?" said Old Man Curry.
"Yes indeed! They've got Jock Merritt up on the carpet and they
haven't decided yet whether to hang him to a rafter or boil him in
oil. Some of 'em think he pulled Elisha to-day. Merritt is giving 'em
a powerful argument. Says he never rode a harder finish in his life,
but that the horse took a sudden notion to quit and did it. Didn't
seem to be tired or anything, but just stopped running. O'Connor gets
the floor once in a while and rips and raves about that 'trick-horse
thing.' He thinks you know something. Engle says you don't and never
did, but that Elisha is a dog, same as he said at first. Wouldn't
surprise me none if they got into a free-for-all fight over there
because they're all losers and all sore. Jock Merritt is sorer'n
anybody; he bet some of his own money and he thinks they ought to
give it back to him.... Now, just between friends, what happened to
that horse to-day? You told me he wouldn't win, but at the head of
the stretch he looked like a 1 to 10 chance. I thought he'd walk in.
Then all at once he quit running. He wasn't pulled, but something
stopped him and stopped him quick. What was it?"
Old Man Curry stroked his beard and regarded the Bald-faced Kid with
a tolerant expression.
"Well, now," said he at length, "seeing as how you know so much, I'm
going to tell you something more 'bout that 'Lisha hoss. He used to
have another name once."
"Silver Star," nodded the Kid. "I looked him up in the form charts."
Old Man Curry nodded.
"Eddie Caley--him they called the Cricket--owned the hoss in the
first place. Raised him from a yearling. Now understand, I ain't
excusing the Cricket for what he done, and I ain't blaming him
neither. He was sick most of the time, and a sick man gets his
notions sort of twisted like. Maybe he figured the race track owed
him something for taking away his health. I don't know. He wasn't no
hand to talk.
"Anyhow, he had this one hoss and always the one idea in his head--to
slip him over at such a long price that he could clean up enough to
quit on. Caley was doing his own training and riding. I kept an eye
on the hoss, and it seemed to me Silver Star worked good enough to
win, but every time he got in a race he'd quit at the head of the
stretch. That struck me as sort of queer because he come from
stretch-running stock. His daddy was a great one to win from behind.
Well, six or seven times Silver Star quit that way, and from the head
of the stretch home the Cricket would lay into him, whip and spur
both. Wouldn't make the slightest difference to the hoss, but
everybody could see that Caley was doing his best to make him run.
Folks got kind of sorry for him, sick that way, only one hoss and him
such a dog.
"Then one day Caley came to me and wanted the loan of some money. He
said the price had got long enough to suit him, but that he didn't
have anything to bet. Happened I had the bank roll handy and I let
him have two hundred. I can see the little feller now, with the red
patches on his cheeks and his eyes kind of shining with fever.
"'This is the biggest cinch that ever came off on a race track!' he
says to me, coughing every few words. 'Don't let the price scare you.
Don't let anything scare you. He'll be a good hoss to-day. Win
something for yourself.'
"It's this way 'bout me: I've heard that kind of talk before. When I
bet, it's got to be on my own hoss. I thought two hundred was plenty
to lose. Silver Star was 25 and 30 to 1 all over the ring and a
friend of Caley's unloaded the two hundred in little driblets so's
nobody would get suspicious and cut the price too far. The Cricket
got out of a sick bed to ride the race and Silver Star came from
behind and won by seven lengths. Could have made it seventeen easy as
not. I reckon everybody was glad to see Caley win--everybody but the
bookmakers, but they hadn't any right to kick, seeing as he beat a
red-hot favourite.
"Caley went to bed that night and didn't get up any more. I used to
read to him when he couldn't sleep. Maybe that's how he come to give
me the hoss, along with a little secret 'bout him."
Old Man Curry paused, tantalisingly, and rummaged in his pockets for
his fine-cut. The Bald-faced Kid squirmed on his chair.
"It was a trick that nobody but a jockey would ever have thought of,
son. Caley taught the colt to stop whenever a certain word was
hollered in his ear. Dinged it into him, morning after morning, until
Silver Star got so's he'd quit as soon as he heard it, like a buggy
hoss stops when you say 'Whoa' to him. Best part of the trick,
though, was that all the whipping and spurring in the world couldn't
get him to running again. Caley taught him that for his own
protection. It gave him an alibi with the judges. Couldn't they see
he was riding the hoss as hard as he knew how? I don't say it was
exackly _honest_, but----"
"Oho!" interrupted the Bald-faced Kid, "now I know why you had a
front runner in that race! Between friends, old-timer, what was it
Mose hollered at Elisha when he came alongside?"
"Well," said Old Man Curry, "that's the secret of it, my son, and
it's this way 'bout a secret: you can't let too many folks in on it.
I reckon it was a word spoken in due season, as Solomon says. Elisha,
he won't hear it again unless he changes owners."
PLAYING EVEN FOR OBADIAH
Old Man Curry, owner of race horses, looked out of his tack-room door
at a streaming sky and gave thanks for the rain. Other owners were
cursing the steady downpour, for a wet track would sadly interfere
with their plans, but Curry expected to start the chestnut colt
Obadiah that afternoon, and Obadiah, as Jockey Moseby Jones was wont
to remark, was a mud-running fool on any man's track. The Bald-faced
Kid, who lived by doing the best he could and preferred to be called
a hustler rather than a tout, spoke from the tack-room interior. He
was a privileged character at the Curry barn.
"How does she look, old-timer? Going to clear up by noon?"
Old Man Curry shook his head. "Well, no," said he. "I reckon not.
Looks to me like reg'lar Noah weather, Frank. If a man's got a mud
hoss in his barn, now's the time to start him."
The Bald-faced Kid grunted absently. He was deep in a thick,
leather-backed, looseleaf volume of past performances, technically
known as a form book, generally mentioned as "the dope sheets"--the
library of the turf follower, the last resort and final court of
appeal. The Kid's lower lip had a studious droop and the pages
rustled under his nervous fingers. An unlighted cigarette was behind
his ear.
"What you looking for, son?"
"I'm trying to make Gaspargoo win his race to-day. He's in there with
a feather on his back, and there'll be a price on him. He's been
working good, too. He quits on a dry track, but in the mud he's
liable to go farther. His old feet won't get so hot." Curry peered
over the Kid's shoulder at the crowded columns of figures and
footnotes, unintelligible to any but the initiated, and supposedly a
complete record of the racing activities of every horse in training.
"Hm-m-m. Some folks say Solomon didn't write Ecclesiastes. Some say
he did--after he got rid of his wives."
The Bald-faced Kid laughed.
"You and your Solomon! Well, get it off your chest! What does he say
now?"