Curry with marked cheerfulness. "Maybe he don't want to git on the
scales without it."
"Eh?" said the presiding judge. "What is that?"
"Looks like a weight pad to me," said Old Man Curry, "with quite a
mess of lead in it. Yes, it _is_ a weight pad."
"Where did you get it?"
"Well," said the old man, "I'll tell you 'bout that: Weaver's nigger
had it smuggled under a blanket, but he dropped it and I picked it
up. Maybe Weaver thought the nigger was a better weight packer than
the mare. I don't know. Maybe----"
"Young man," commanded the presiding judge, "that'll do you. Take
your tackle and get on the scales. Lively now!"
Murphy cast one despairing glance about him and slouched to his
undoing. The judge, weight pad in hand, followed him into the
weighing room underneath the stand. He was back again almost
instantly, and his voice had an angry ring.
"Change those numbers!" said he. "The mare is disqualified. Isaiah,
first; Rainbow, second; put the fourth horse third. Mr. Weaver, come
up here, sir! And where's that nigger? I want him too. Murphy, I'll
see you later.... Don't go away, Mr. Curry. I need you."
"That's what I call getting hunk with a vengeance, old-timer." Thus
the Bald-faced Kid, at the door of Old Man Curry's tack-room. "You
cleaned up right, didn't you? Weaver's ruled off for life, and his
horses with him--he can't even sell 'em to another stable. Murphy's
lost his license. Chicken Liver's out of a job. Engle and his bunch
are in the clear, but they lost a lot of money on the mare. Regular
old blunderbuss, ain't you? Didn't miss anybody."
"Son," said Old Man Curry, removing his spectacles, "Solomon had it
right. He says: 'Whoso diggeth a pit shall fall therein.' Weaver dug
one big enough to hold his entire stable. And that reminds me: I bet
fifty dollars for you to-day, and here's the two hundred. Run it up
if you can, but remember what Solomon says about that: 'He that
maketh haste to be rich shall not be innocent.'"
"I'll take a chance," said the Bald-faced Kid, reaching for the
money.
BY A HAIR
"Son," said Old Man Curry, "what's on your mind besides your hat? You
ain't said a word for as much as two minutes, and any time you keep
still that long there must be something wrong."
The Bald-faced Kid's glance rested for an instant upon the kindly
features of the patriarch of the Jungle Circuit, then flickered away
down the line of stables where other horsemen and race-track
followers were sunning themselves and waiting the summons to the noon
meal.
Old Man Curry, his eyes half closed, a straw in the corner of his
mouth, and the brim of his slouch hat resting upon the bridge of his
nose, seemed not to be conscious of this brief but piercing scrutiny.
As usual with him, there was about this venerable person a beguiling
air of innocence and confidence in his fellow man, a simple attitude
of trustfulness not entirely borne out by his method of handling a
racing stable. Certain dishonest horsemen and bookmakers were
beginning to suspect that Old Man Curry was smarter than he looked.
The Bald-faced Kid had never entertained any doubts upon this
subject. He remained silent, the thin edge of a grin playing about
his lips.
"I hope you ain't been trying to show any tinhorn gamblers the error
of their ways by ruining 'em financially," said the old man, one
drowsy eye upon the Kid's face. "That's one of the things what just
naturally can't be done. Steady growth is the thing to fat a bank
roll, Frank. I'm about to tell you how you can multiply yours
considerable. Last time you was here you had two hundred dollars,
spoiled Egyptian money----"
"Oh, I guess it wasn't so darn badly spoiled at that!" interrupted
the Kid. "I didn't have any trouble getting rid of it." He grinned
sheepishly. "Your friend Solomon called the turn on the
get-rich-quick stuff. 'He that maketh haste'--what's the rest of it,
old-timer?"
"'He that maketh haste to be rich shall not be innocent,'" quoted Old
Man Curry, rolling out the syllables in sonorous procession. "But I
reckon not being rich is worrying you more than not being innocent.
Who took the roll away from you?"
"Squeaking Henry got a piece of it," admitted the Kid. "Did you ever
play twenty-one--Black Jack, old-timer?"
Old Man Curry shook his head.
"I never monkeyed much with cards," said he, "but I've seen the game
played some--when I was younger."
"Well," said the Kid mournfully, "Squeaking Henry and a couple of his
friends rung in some marked cards--on my deal. Of course those
burglars could take one flash at the top of the deck and know just
when to draw and when not to. I sat up there like a flathead and let
'em clean me. What tipped it off was that when I was down to my last
smack, with a face card in sight and a face card in the hole, Henry
drew to twenty and caught an ace. The mangy little crook! Oh, well,
easy come, easy go. I'd have lost it some other way, I guess. But,
say, what was this proposition of yours about fattening the bank
roll? I've got seven dollars between me and the wolf, and he's so
close that I can smell his breath."
"Seeing that you ain't got any more judgment than that," was Old Man
Curry's comment, "I don't know as I ought to tell you."
"Oh, all right," said the Kid, "if that's the way you feel about
it--but maybe I've got some information I could trade you for it."
"I never swapped hosses blind," said Old Man Curry.
"I won't ask you to," said the Bald-faced Kid. "It's no news that
Engle's bunch is out for your scalp, is it?"
"No-o," said the old man. "I kind of suspicioned as much."
"They're after you strong, old-timer. First you walloped 'em with
Elisha, then you double-crossed 'em with Elijah, and then you got
Weaver and Murphy ruled off. At first Engle thought you was only
ignorant but shot full of blind luck. Lately he ain't been so sure
about the ignorance. Engle hates to give anybody else credit for
being wise to the angles around this track."
"Solomon said something about him," remarked Old Man Curry gravely.
"Go ahead; pull it!" said the Kid.
"'Seest thou a man wise in his own conceit? There is more hope of a
fool than of him.' That's what Solomon thought about the Engle
family, son."
"Well, if I was you I wouldn't lay any fancy odds that Engle is a
fool," warned the Kid. "There's one baby that you've got to figure on
every minute. You've got a horse in your barn that Engle is watching
like a hawk."
"Elisha?"
"Elisha. When does he start the next time?"
"In the Handicap."
"The Handicap, eh? You must think pretty well of him. Some good
horses in that race. Well, there won't be a price on him worth
taking; you can bet on that."
Old Man Curry opened his eyes wide for the first time.
"No price on him! Nonsense! He's a selling plater going up agin
so-called stake horses! No price! Huh!"
"Even so, nevertheless, notwithstanding, and but," said the Kid with
exasperating calmness, "you won't get a price on him. I can quote
some myself. The voice of wisdom is speaking to you."
"But he ain't never done anything that would justify starting him
with stake hosses," argued Old Man Curry, feeling in his pockets for
his fine-cut.
"Is there any law to prevent 'em figuring that he might?"
"But why is Engle worrying about the price on my hosses?" demanded
Curry.
"Maybe to get even for what you've done to him. Maybe because he's
got some sort of an agreement with Abe Goldmark. You know Abe?"
"By sight, son, by sight. And that's the only way I want to know
him."
"You and me both," said the Kid quickly. "I don't like that fellow's
face or the way he wears it, but you can't afford to overlook him any
more than you can overlook a rattlesnake. Goldmark is another one of
the wise boys. He runs one book, but he's under cover with an
interest in five or six more. He comes pretty near being a
combination in restraint of trade, Goldmark does. The Handicap is
going to be the big betting race of the meeting. Goldmark has been
tipped to keep his eye out for Elisha. On Elisha's record he ought to
be 15 or 20 to 1."
"Longer than that!" said Old Man Curry.
"I'm figuring these syndicate books," said the Kid. "He'll open
around 3 to 1 and stay there whether there's a dollar bet on him or
not. False odds? Certainly, but they're taking no chances on you.
They figure you won't be trying at that price. And another thing:
This same Squeaking Henry, this marked-card gambler, has gone to work
for Goldmark. Three dollars a day for what he can find out. Is this
information worth anything to you?"
"It might be, son," said Old Man Curry. "It might be. I'll let you
know later on."
"On the level," said the Kid, "you don't figure that Elisha has got a
chance to win that race--not with Regulator and Black Bill and Miss
Amber in it? They're no Salvators, I admit, still they're the best we
ever see in this part of the country. Black Bill is a demon over a
distance, old-timer. He won that two-mile race last winter at Santa
Anita. Elisha has never gone more than a mile and an eighth, and this
is a mile and a half. Honest, now, you don't think he can beat horses
like Black Bill and Regulator, do you?"
"Son," said Old Man Curry, "I never think anything about a race until
the night before. That's time enough."
"But suppose they make him a short price? You wouldn't cut him loose
and let him make a showing that would spoil him as a betting
proposition?"
"Well, maybe he won't be a short price," said the old man. "You can't
tell a thing about it. It's this way with bookmakers: Once in a while
they change their minds, and that's where an honest hossman gets a
crack at 'em. Yes, they get to fooling with their little pieces of
chalk. I don't reckon Elisha will be less'n 20 to 1. There goes the
gong at the boarding house. Might as well eat with me and nurse that
seven dollars all you can."
The Bald-faced Kid rose with alacrity and bowed low, his hand upon
his heart.
"You are the ideal host," said he, "and I am the ideal hostee! I
could eat a horse and chase the driver. Lead the way, old-timer!"
The money which Squeaking Henry won by reason of the marked cards did
him very little good, remaining in his possession barely long enough
to cause his vest pocket to sag a trifle. He lost it in a friendly
game with the friends who were clever enough to plan the raid on the
Bald-faced Kid's bank roll, using Henry as a tool, much as the
coastwise Chinaman uses a cormorant in his fishing operations.
Stripped of his opulence, Squeaking Henry found himself flat on the
market again.
Henry was a tout, hence an easy and extemporaneous liar, but, alas, a
clumsy one. He lacked the Bald-faced Kid's finesse; lacked also his
tireless energy, his insatiable curiosity, and the thin vein of pure
metal which lay underneath the base. There was nothing about
Squeaking Henry which was not for sale cheap; body and soul, he was
on life's bargain counter among the remnants, and Abe Goldmark,
examining the lot, found a price tag labelled three dollars a day.
"Uh-huh," said Henry. "I get you, Mr. Goldmark. You want me to stick
around Old Man Curry's barn and pump him."
"Never mind the pumping," said Goldmark. "The less you talk and the
fewer questions you ask the better. Curry is no fool, understand. He
might be just as smart as you are. Judging by the number of good
things he's put over at this meeting, he's smarter. I want to know
who calls on him, who his stable connections are, who he----"
"Aw, he ain't got no stable connections!" said Squeaking Henry in
great disgust. "He plays the game alone, and when he wants to bet he
walks into the ring and goes to it. Never had a betting commissioner
in his life, and if you want to know when the stable money is down,
all you've got to do is watch Curry. Cinch!"
"Oh, a cinch is it?" sneered Goldmark. "Then I'm making a big mistake
to hire you to find out things. You know everything already, eh?"
"Well, I guess not _everything_," mumbled the abashed Henry.
"That's my guess, too!" snapped Goldmark. "I'm paying you to watch
that Curry stable; get me? And I want you to _watch_ it! I want to
know everything that happens around there from now on, understand?
Particularly, I want a line on this Elisha horse. Know him when you
see him?"
"S-s-sure!" said Squeaking Henry. "Sure I do! Big, leggy bay with a
white spot on his forehead about the size of a nickel. Do I know him?
Well!"
"I want to know when Curry works him--how far and how fast. I want to
know what the old man thinks of his chances in the Handicap. You can
get me at the hotel every night after dinner. Better use the
telephone. In case you slip up or miss me, send word by Al Engle."
"All right," said Henry.
"And say," Goldmark actually grinned, "I hear this Curry is a
soft-hearted old fellow. Why couldn't you tell him a hard-luck story
and get to sleep in his tack-room nights? Then you'd be right on the
ground. Try a hard-luck story on him. The one you sprang on me wasn't
so bad."
"H-m-m-m," mused Henry. "I might, and that's a fact. He ain't a bad
guy, Old Man Curry ain't. He stakes the hustlers every once in a
while."
"Well," said Goldmark insinuatingly, "if he should be such a sucker
as to stake you, don't forget you was on my pay roll _first_; that's
all I ask."
"Aw, whadda you take me for?" growled Squeaking Henry, virtuously
indignant at the barest hint of duplicity. "I ain't that kind of a
guy."
Since the tout lives by his wits and his tongue, he is never without
a hard-luck story--a dependable one, tried, but seldom, if ever,
true. He circles human nature, searching for the weak point and,
having found it, delivers the attack. Squeaking Henry knew the armour
plate to be thinnest on man's sympathetic side, and the hard-luck
story which he told Old Man Curry would have melted the heart of a
golf club handicapper. The story was overworked and threadbare in
spots, but it brought an immediate result.
"And that's how I'm fixed," whined Squeaking Henry in conclusion. "I
think I can rustle the eats all right enough--one meal a day
anyway--and if I just had a place to sleep----" He paused and
regarded Old Man Curry expectantly.
"Come in, son," said the patriarch. A wiser man than Squeaking Henry
might have found Curry's manner almost too friendly. "Come in.
There's a spare cot here and you're welcome to it. Mose, my little
nigger, sleeps here too, but I reckon you won't mind him. He's
clean."
Strange to say, it was Jockey Moseby Jones who minded. He minded very
much, in plain English, waylaying Old Man Curry as he made the
rounds of the stalls that night, lantern in hand.
"This yer Squawkin' Henry, boss, he's a no-good hound. He's no good
a-a-atall. They ketched him at Butte last year ringin' in hawss dice
on 'e crap game 'mong friends an' 'ey jus' nachelly sunk his floatin'
ribs an' kicked him out on his haid. Thass all they done to him,
Mist' Curry. Betteh watch him clost, else he'll steal 'em gol'
fillin's outen yo' teeth!"
"You know him, do you, Mose?" asked Old Man Curry.
"Do I knows him!" ejaculated the little negro. "I knows him well
'nough to wish yo' hadn't 'vited him to do his floppin' in yo'
tack-room!"
"Ah-hah!" said Old Man Curry reflectively. "Mose, I reckon you never
heard what Job said?"
Jockey Moseby Jones heaved a deep sigh.
"Heah it comes again!" he murmured. "No, boss; he said such a many
things I kain't seem to keep track of 'em all. Whut he say now?"
"Something about the wise being taken in their own craftiness; I've
forgotten the exact words."
"Umph! Sho'lly yo' don't call Squawkin' Henry _wise_?"
"No-o, but he may have wise friends. Somehow I've sort of been
expecting this visitor, Mose. You heard him tell about how bad off
his mother is. It seems a shame not to accommodate him, when all he
wants is a place to sleep--and some information on the side."
"Info'mation, boss?"
"Well, I can't exactly swear to it, Mose, but I think the children of
Israel have sent this Henry person among us to spy out the land.
That's a trick they learned a long time ago, after they got out of
Egypt. Joshua taught it to 'em. Ever since then they don't take any
more chances than they can help. They always want to know what the
other fellow is doing--and it's a pretty good system at that. Being
as things are the way they are, a spy in camp, etcetry, mebbe what
hoss talk is done had better be done by me. You _sabe_, Mose?"
"Humph!" sniffed the little jockey. "I got you long ago, boss, lo-ong
ago!"
Al Engle, sometimes known as the Sharpshooter, horse owner and
recognised head of a small but busy band of turf pirates, was leaving
his stable at seven-thirty on a Wednesday evening, intending to
proceed by automobile to the brightly lighted district. Sleek, blond,
youthful in appearance, without betraying wrinkle or line, Engle's
innocent exterior had been his chief dependence in his touting days.
He seemed, on the surface, to be everything which he was not.
As he stepped forth from the shadow of the stable awning a hand
plucked at his sleeve.
"It's me--Henry," said a voice. "I've got a message for
Goldmark--couldn't catch him on the phone."
"Shoot it!" said Engle.
"Tell him that Elisha has gone dead lame--can't hardly rest his foot
on the ground."
"That'll do for Sweeney!" said the Sharpshooter. "Elisha worked fine
this morning. I clocked him myself."
"But that was this morning," argued Squeaking Henry. "He must have
bowed a tendon or something. His left foreleg is in awful shape."
"Are you sure it's Elisha?" demanded Engle.
"Come and see for yourself. You know the horse. Owned him for a few
weeks, didn't you? Curry is working on his leg now. You can peek in
at the door of the stall and see for yourself. He won't even know
you're there."
Together they crossed the dark space under the trees, heading for a
thin ribbon of light which streamed from beneath the awning of
Curry's barn. Somewhere, close at hand, a piping voice was lifted in
song:
_"On 'e dummy, on 'e dummy line;_
_Rise an' shine an' pay my fine;_
_Rise an' shi-i-ine an' pay my fi-i-ine,_
_Ridin' on 'e dummy, on 'e dummy, dummy line."_
"What's that?" ejaculated Engle, pausing.
"Aw, that's only Curry's little nigger, Mose. He's always singing or
whistling or something!"
"I hope he chokes!" said Engle, advancing cautiously.
The stall door was almost closed, but by applying his eye to the
crack Engle could see the interior. Old Man Curry was kneeling in the
straw, dipping bandages in a bucket of hot water. The horse was
watching him, ears pricked nervously.
"If this ain't tough luck, I don't know what is!" Old Man Curry was
talking to himself, his voice querulous and complaining. "Tough
luck--yes, sir! Tough for you, 'Lisha, and tough for me. Job knew
something when he said that man born of woman is of few days and full
of trouble. Yes, indeed! Here I had you right on edge, and ready
to--whoa, boy! Stand still, there! I ain't goin' to hurt ye, 'Lisha.
What's the matter with ye, anyway? _Stand still!_"
The horse backed away on three legs, snorting with indignation. Engle
had seen enough. He withdrew swiftly, nor did he pause to chuckle
until he was fifty yards from Curry's barn.
"Well," said Squeaking Henry, "it was him, wasn't it?"
"Sure it was him, and he's got a pretty badly strained tendon, too.
At first I thought the old fox might be trying to palm off one of his
other cripples on you, but that was Elisha all right enough. Yes,
he's through for about a month or so."
"That's what I figure," said Henry. "The old man, though, he's got
his heart set on starting Elisha in the Handicap next Saturday. He
thinks maybe he can dope him up so's he won't feel the soreness."
"In a mile and a half race?" said Engle. "I hope he tries it! He'll
just about ruin that skate for life if he does. Five-eighths, yes,
but a mile and a half? No chance!"
"You'll tell Goldmark?"
"Yes, I'll tell him. So long."
Engle swung away through the dark and Squeaking Henry watched him
until he was swallowed up in the gloom.
"That being the case," said he, "and Elisha on the bum, I guess I'll
take a night off. This Sherlock Holmes stuff is wearing on the
nerves."
Al Engle delivered the message, giving it a strong backing of
personal opinion.
"No, Abe, it's all right, I tell you. It's straight. I've seen the
horse myself, ain't I? Know him? Man alive, I had the skate in my
barn for nearly a month! I ought to know him. Why, there's no
question about it. He's so lame he can hardly touch his foot to the
ground. If he starts, he's a million to one to win; a hundred to one
he won't even finish. Certainly I'm sure! You can go broke on it.
Don't talk to me! Haven't I seen strained tendons before? Next to a
broken leg, it's the worst thing that can happen to a race horse."
While Engle was closeted with Goldmark, Old Man Curry was
entertaining another nocturnal visitor. It was the Bald-faced Kid,
breathless, his brow beaded with perspiration.
"Just got the tip that Elisha has gone lame," said the Kid. "I was in
the crap game over at Devlin's barn when Squeaking Henry came in with
the news. I ran all the way over here."
"Oho, so it was Henry, eh?" Old Man Curry rumbled behind his
whiskers--his nearest approach to a laugh. "Henry, eh? Well, now,
it's this way 'bout Henry. He's better than a newspaper because it
don't cost a cent to subscribe to him. He's got the loosest jaw and
the longest tongue in the world."
"But on the level," said the Kid earnestly, "is Elisha lame?"
"Come and see for yourself," said Old Man Curry, taking his lantern
from the peg. After an interval they returned to the tack-room, the
Bald-faced Kid shaking his head commiseratingly.
"That would have been rotten luck if it had happened to a dog!" said
he. "And the Handicap coming on and all."
"There'll be a better opening price than 3 to 1 now, I reckon," said
Old Man Curry grimly.
"Opening price!" ejaculated the Kid, startled. "Say, what are you
talking about? You don't mean to tell me you're thinking of starting
him with his leg in this shape, old-timer?"
"'M--well, no, not in this shape, exackly."
"But Lordy, man, the Handicap is on Saturday and here it is Wednesday
night already. You can't fix up a leg like that in two days. You're
going some if you get it straightened out in two weeks. Of course,
you can shoot the leg full of cocaine and he'll run on it a little
ways, but asking him to go a mile and a half--confound it, old-timer!
That's murdering a game horse. You're liable to have a hopeless
cripple on your hands when it's over. I tell you, if Elisha was
mine----"
"You'd own a real race hoss, son," said Old Man Curry. "Now run
along, Frank, and don't try to teach your grandad to suck aigs. I was
doctoring hosses before you come to this country at all, and I'm
going to doctor this one some more and then go to bed."
Shortly thereafter the good horse Elisha entertained a visitor who
brought no lantern with him, but operated in the dark, swiftly and
silently. Later a door creaked, there were muffled footfalls under
the stable awning and one resounding thump, as it might have been a
shod hoof striking a doorsill. Still later Squeaking Henry, returning
to his post of duty, saw a light in Elisha's stall and looked in at
Old Man Curry applying cold compresses to the left foreleg of a gaunt
bay horse with a small splash of white in the centre of the
forehead.
"How they coming, uncle?" asked Henry.
"Oh, about the same, I reckon," was the reply.
"You might as well hit the hay. You've been fooling with that leg
since dark, but you'll never get the bird ready to fly by Saturday."
"'Wisdom crieth without,'" quoted Old Man Curry sententiously. "'She
uttereth her voice in the street.'"
"Quit kidding yourself," argued Henry, "and look how sore he is.
You're in big luck if he ain't lame a whole month from now."
"Well," said Old Man Curry, "Solomon says that the righteous man
regardeth the life of his beast."
"He does, eh?" Squeaking Henry chuckled unpleasantly. "There's a
whole lot of things Solomon didn't know about bowed tendons. That leg
needs something besides regards, I'm telling you."
"And I'm listening," said Old Man Curry patiently. "Wisdom will die
with you, I reckon, Henry, so take care of yourself."