classic, it was the Northwestern Handicap, by usage shortened to "the
Handicap." It was their Metropolitan, Suburban, and Brooklyn rolled
into one. The winner was crowned with garlands, the jockey was
photographed in the floral horseshoe, and the fortunate owner
pocketed something more than two thousand dollars--a large sum of
money on any race track in the land, but a princely reward to the
average jungle owner.
The best horses in training were entered each year and while a
scornful Eastern handicapper would doubtless have rated them all
among the cheap selling platers, they were still the kings of the
jungle tracks, small toads in a smaller puddle, and their annual
struggle was anticipated for weeks. Each candidate appeared in the
light of a possible winner because the purse was worth trying for and
each owner was credited with an honest desire to win. The Handicap
was emphatically the "big betting race" of the season.
This year Black Bill, famed for consistent performance and ability to
cover a distance of ground, was a pronounced favourite. Black Bill
had been running with better horses than the jungle campaigners and
winning from them and it was popularly believed that he had been
shipped from the South for the express purpose of capturing the
Handicap purse. His single start at the meeting had been won in what
the turf reporters called "impressive fashion," which is to say that
Jockey Grogan brought Black Bill home three lengths in front of his
field and but for the strength in his arms the gap would have been a
much wider one.
Regulator, a sturdy chestnut, and Miss Amber, a nervous brown mare,
were also high in public esteem, rivals for the position of second
choice.
"It's a three-horse race," said the wiseacres, "and the others are
outclassed. Whatever money there is will be split by Black Bill, Miss
Amber, and Regulator. If anything happens to Bill, one of the others
will win, but the rest of 'em won't get anything but a hard ride and
a lot of dust."
From his position on the block Abe Goldmark looked down on a surging
crowd. He was waiting for the official announcement on the third
race. The crowd was waiting for the posting of the odds on the
Handicap, waiting, money in hand, ready to dash at bargains. Al Engle
forced his way through the press and Goldmark bent to listen.
"The old nut is going to start him sure enough," whispered the
Sharpshooter. "No--he won't warm him up. Would you throw a gallop
into a horse with his leg full of coke? Curry is crazy, but he ain't
quite as crazy as that."
"The old boy was putting bandages on him at midnight last night,"
grinned Goldmark. "Dang it, Al, a man ought to be arrested for
starting a horse in that condition."
"The coke will die out before he's gone half a mile," said Engle.
"Might not even last that long--depends on how long they're at the
post. I saw a horse once----"
The melodious bellow of the official announcer rose above the hum of
the crowd and there was a sudden, tense shifting of the nervous
human mass. A dozen bookmakers turned leisurely to their slates, a
dozen pieces of chalk were poised aggravatingly--and a hoarse grunt
of disappointment rose from the watchers. Black Bill the favourite,
yes, but bet fives to win threes? Hardly. Wait a minute; don't go
after it now. Maybe it'll go up. Regulator, 8 to 5--Holy Moses! What
kind of booking is this, anyway? Miss Amber, 2 to 1.
"Make 'em _all_ odds on and be done with it!" sneered the gamblers.
"Talk about your syndicate books! Beat five races at this track and
if your money holds out you may beat the sixth, too. Huh!"
One bookmaker, more adventurous than his fellows, offered 4 to 5 on
Black Bill and was immediately mobbed. Then came the prices on the
outsiders. Simple Simon, 8 to 1; Pepper and Salt, 12 to 1; Ted
Mitchell and Everhardt, 15 to 1; and so on. Last of all, the chalk
paused at Elisha--40 to 1.
"Aw, be game!" taunted Al Engle. "Only 40--with what you know about
him? He ought to be 100, 40, and 20! Be game!"
"Who's doing this?" demanded Goldmark. "Come on, gentlemen! Make your
bets! We haven't got all day. Black Bill, 6 to 10. Simple Simon, 40
to 5. Thank _you_, sir."
Out in the paddock Old Man Curry rubbed the red flannel bandage on
Elisha's leg, stopping now and then to answer questions.
"Eh? Yes, been a little lame. Will he last? Well, it's this way; you
can't never tell. If it comes back on him--no, I didn't warm him up.
Why not? That's _my_ business, young man."
The Bald-faced Kid came also, alert as a fox, eager for any scrap of
information which might be converted into coin. He shook his head
reprovingly at Old Man Curry.
"I didn't think you'd have the heart, old-timer," said he. "Honest to
Pete, I didn't! Don't you care what happens to this horse or what?"
"Son," said the patriarch simply, "I care a lot. I care a-plenty. If
you've got any of that seven dollars left, you might put it on his
nose."
"Him? To win? You're daffy as a cuckoo bird! Why, last night he
couldn't put that foot on the ground!"
"Well, of course, Frank, if you know that much about it, don't let me
advise you. If I had seven dollars and was looking for a soft spot
I'd put it square on 'Lisha's nose."
"You've been losing too much sleep lately," said the Kid, edging
away. "You want to win this race so much that you've bulled yourself
into thinking that you can."
"Mebbe so, Frank, mebbe so," was the mild response, "but don't let me
influence you none whatever. Go play Black Bill. What's his price?"
"Three to five. One to two in some books."
"False price!" said the old man. "He ain't got no license to be odds
on."
"See you later!" said the Bald-faced Kid, and went away with a
pitying grin upon his face. The pity was evenly divided between
Elisha and his owner.
Old Man Curry heaved little Mose into the saddle.
"Mind now, son. Ride just like I told you. Stay with that black hoss.
He'll lay out of it the first mile. When he moves up, you move up
too. We've got a big pull in the weights and that'll count in the
last quarter. Stay with him, just like his shadow, Mose."
"Yes, suh," said Jockey Jones. "If I'm goin' to be his shadder, he'll
sho' think the sun is settin' behind him when he starts down at
stretch!"
Abe Goldmark craned his neck to see the parade pass the grand stand.
Elisha was fifth in line, walking sedately, as was his habit.
"Not so very frisky, but at that he looks better than I thought he
would," was Goldmark's mental comment. "They must have shot all the
coke in the world into that old skate. As soon as he begins to run
the blood will pump into that sore leg and he'll quit. Black Bill
looks like the money to me. He outclasses these other horses."
Goldmark passed the eraser over his slate. Black Bill, 2 to 5.
Elisha, 60, 20, and 10.
A dozen restless, high-strung thoroughbreds and a dozen nervous,
scheming jockeys can make life exceedingly interesting for an
official starter, particularly if the race be an important one and a
ragged start certain to draw a storm of adverse criticism. The boys
on the front runners were all manoeuvring to beat the barrier and
thus add to a natural advantage while the boys on the top-weighted
horses were striving to secure an early start before the lead pads
began to tell on their mounts. As a result the barrier was broken
four times in as many minutes and the commandment against profanity
was broken much oftener. The starter grew hoarse and inarticulate;
sweat streamed down his face as he hurled anathemas at horses and
riders.
"Keep that Miss Amber back, Dugan! Go through that barrier again and
it'll cost you fifty! ---- ---- ----!!"
"I can't do nothing with her!" whined Dugan. "She's crazy; that's
what she is!"
Through all the turmoil and excitement two horses remained quietly in
their positions waiting for the word. These were Black Bill and
Elisha, stretch runners, to whom a few yards the worst of the start
meant nothing. Out of the corner of his eye little Mose watched
Jockey Grogan on the favourite. The black horse edged toward the
webbing, the line broke, wheeled, advanced, broke again and a third
time came swinging forward. As it advanced, Mose drove the blunt
spurs into Elisha's side. A roar from the starter, a spattering rain
of clods, a swirl of dust--and the Handicap was on.
"Nice start!" said the presiding judge, drawing a long breath.
Across the track, the official starter mopped his brow.
"Not so worse," said he. "Go on, you little devils! It's up to you!"
Away went the front runners, their riders checking them and rating
their speed with an eye to the long journey. Simple Simon, Pepper and
Salt, and Ted Mitchell engaged in a brisk struggle for the
pace-making position and the latter secured it. Miss Amber and
Regulator were in fifth and sixth places respectively, and at the
tail end of the procession was Black Bill, taking his time, barely
keeping up with the others. A distance race was no new thing to Black
Bill. He had seen front runners before and knew that they had a habit
of fading in the final quarter. Beside him was Elisha, matching him,
stride for stride.
Down the stretch they came, Ted Mitchell gradually increasing the
pace. Jockey Jones heard the crowd cheering as he passed the grand
stand and his lip curled.
"We eatin' it now, 'Lisha hawss," said he, "but nex' time we come
down yere they'll be eatin' _ow'_ dust an' don't make no mistake!
Take yo' time, baby. It's a long way yit, a lo-ong way!"
Entering the back stretch there was a sudden shifting of the coloured
jackets. The outsiders, nervous and overeager, were making their
bids for the purse, and making them too soon. The flurry toward the
front brought about a momentary spurt in the pace followed
immediately by the steady, machine-like advance of Regulator, but as
the chestnut horse moved up the brown mare went with him, on even
terms.
"There goes Regulator! There he goes!"
"Yes, but he can't shake Miss Amber! She's right there with him! Oh,
you Amber!"
"What ails Black Bill? He's a swell favourite, he is! He ain't done a
thing yet."
"He always runs that way," said the wise ones. "Wait till he hits the
upper turn."
Abe Goldmark, standing on a stool on the lawn, wrinkled his brow in
perplexity. "About time for that bird to quit," said he to himself.
"He ain't got any license to run a mile with a leg like that!"
Jockey Moseby Jones was also beginning to wonder what ailed Black
Bill. Grogan sat the favourite like a statue, apparently unmoved by
the gap widening in front of him.
"We kin wait 'long as he kin, baby," said Mose, comfortingly, "but I
sut'ny don't crave to see 'em otheh hawsses so far ahead!"
At the end of the mile Black Bill and Elisha were still at the end of
the procession. Miss Amber had managed to shove her brown nose in
front, with Regulator at her saddle girth. Many an anxious eye was
turned on Black Bill; many saw his transformation but none was
better prepared for it than Jockey Moseby Jones. He saw the first
wrap slide from Grogan's wrists.
"Come on, baby!" yelled Mose, bumping Elisha with his spurs. "Come
on! We got a race here afteh all! Yes, suh, 'is black hawss wakin'
up! Show him something, baby! Show him ow' _class_!"
Jockey Grogan laughed and flung an insult over his shoulder.
"Class? That skate?" said he. "Stay with us as long as you can. This
is a-a-a horse, nigger, a-a-a horse!"
Black Bill was beginning to run at last, as the grand stand
acknowledged with frenzied yells. Yes, he was running, but a gaunt
bay horse was running with him, stride for stride. Old Man Curry, at
the paddock gate, tugged at his beard with one hand and fumbled for
his tobacco with the other.
Side by side the black and the bay swept upon the floundering
outsiders, overwhelmed them, and passed on. Side by side they turned
into the home stretch, and only two horses were in front of
them--Regulator and Miss Amber. The mare was under the whip.
"You say you got a-a-a hawss there!" taunted Mose. "Show me how much
hawss he is!"
Grogan shook off the last wrap and bent to his work. Not until then
did he realise that the real race was beside him and not with the
chestnut out in front.
"Show him up, 'Lisha! Show him up!" shrilled Mose, and the bay
responded with a lengthened stride which gave him an advantage to be
measured in inches, but Black Bill gamely fought his way back on even
terms again. Miss Amber dropped behind. The boy on Regulator was
using his whip, but he might just as well have been beating a carpet
with it. Third money was his at the paddock gate.
Seventy-five yards--fifty yards--twenty-five yards--and still the two
heads bobbed side by side. Jockey Michael Grogan, hero of many a hard
finish; cool, calculating, and unmoved by the deafening clamour
beating down from the packed grand stand, measured the distance with
his eye--and took a chance. His rawhide whip whistled through the
air. Black Bill, unused to punishment, faltered for the briefest
fraction of a second, and came on again, but too late.
The presiding judge, an unprejudiced man with a stubby grey
moustache, squinted across an imaginary line and saw the bay head
before he saw the black. "_Jee-roozalum, my happy home!_" said he.
"That was an awful tight fit, but the Curry horse won--by a whisker.
Hang up the numbers. Lord! But that Elisha is a better horse than I
gave him credit for being!"
"Yeh," said the associate judge, "and the nigger outrode Grogan, if
anybody should ask you. He had a chance--if he hadn't let that
horse's head flop to go the bat!"
"It wasn't that," said the other quickly. "The horse flinched when he
hit him."
"I been photographed and interviewed till I'm black in the face,"
complained Old Man Curry, "and now you come along. You're worse than
them confounded reporters!"
"You bet I am," was the calm response of the Bald-faced Kid, "because
I know more. And yet I don't know enough to satisfy me. Somebody
played Elisha, and it wasn't me. You never went near the betting
ring. I watched you."
"My money did. Quite a gob of it."
"And you--you thought he'd win?"
"Didn't I tell you to bet on him?"
"Hell!" wailed the Bald-faced Kid. "He was _lame_--he couldn't walk
the night before! Bet on him? How could I after I'd seen him in that
fix?"
"Frank," said the old man, "you believe everything you see, don't
you?"
The Bald-faced Kid sat down and took his head in his hands.
"Tell it to me, old-timer," said he humbly. "I'm such a wise guy that
it hurts me; but something has come off here that's a mile over my
head. Tell me; I'm no mind reader."
Old Man Curry combed his beard reflectively and gazed through the
tack-room door into the dusk of the summer evening.
"Son," said he at length, "you never swapped hosses much, did you?"
"Never owned any to swap," was the muffled response.
"Too bad. You would have learned things. For instance, there's a
trick that can be worked when you want to buy a hoss cheap and can
get at him for a minute. It's done with a needle and thread and a
hair from the hoss's tail. There's a spot in the leg where the
tendons come together, and the trick is to pass that hosshair in
between the tendons and trim off the ends just long enough so's you
can find 'em again. Best part of the trick is it don't hurt the hoss
none, but he knows it's there and he won't hardly rest his foot on
the ground till it's pulled out. Then he's as good as new again."
"Lovely!" groaned the Kid. "What makes you so close-mouthed,
old-timer?"
"Experience, son, experience. 'He that hath knowledge spareth his
words.' I spared quite a-many. I knew there was a spy in camp, and I
sewed up Elisha on Wednesday and let Henry see him. Al Engle came
over and peeked to make sure. I had the little nigger watching for
him. You saw Elisha that same night, and the whole kit and boiling of
you got a couple of notions fixed in your heads--first, that it _was_
Elisha; second, that he was a tol'able lame hoss. You expected, when
you looked in that stall again, you'd see a big red hoss with a white
spot on his forehead--lame. Well, you did, but it wasn't the same
one."
"Elijah!" said the Kid. "And you lamed him too?"
"I had to do it. People expected to see a lame hoss; I had to have
one to show 'em, didn't I? But nobody got a look at him in bright
daylight, son. After you went away Wednesday night I pulled out the
hosshair, put Elisha in Elijah's stall, and vice versey, as they say.
Then I worked on Elijah, and when Henry came along he didn't know the
difference. Them hosses look a lot alike, anyway; put a little daub
of white stuff on Elijah's forehead, keep him blanketed up pretty
snug, and--well, I reckon that's about all they was to it."
"Fifty and sixty to one--going begging!" mourning the Kid. "Why
didn't you tell me what was coming off?"
"Because Henry was watching both of us," was the reply. "And,
speaking of Henry, it was you told me the sons of Belial had gone
into the spy business, so I p'tected your interests the best I could.
Here's a little ticket calling for quite a mess of money. It's on the
Abe Goldmark's book, and I didn't cash it because I wanted you to
have a chance to laugh at him when he pays off. Last I seen of him he
was sore but solvent."
THE LAST CHANCE
It was the Bald-faced Kid who christened him Little Calamity because,
as he explained, Jockey Gillis was a sniffling, whining, half portion
of hard luck and a disgrace to the disreputable profession of
touting. "Every season," said the Bald-faced Kid, "is a tough season
for a guy like that. He carries his hard luck with him. He's cockeyed
something awful; his face was put on upside down; you can't tell
whether he's looking you in the eye or watching out for a policeman,
and drunks shy clear across the betting ring to get away from him.
That's the tip-off; when a souse won't listen to your gentle voice,
it's time to change your system of approach. This Little Calamity
person has only got one thing in his favour, and that's an honest
face; he _looks_ like a thief, and, by golly, he _is_ one. He
couldn't sell a twenty-dollar gold piece for a dime or make a sucker
put down a bet with the winning numbers already hanging on the board
in front of him. They all give him the once over and holler for the
police. And as for his riding, he's about as much help to a horse as
a fine case of the heaves. I'm darned if I know how he manages to
live!"
Little Calamity sometimes wondered about this himself. Of course
there were the rare occasions when he was able to persuade a
weak-minded owner to give him a mount on a hopeless outsider or a
horse entered only for the sake of the workout, but the five-dollar
jockey fees were few and far between. They could not be stretched to
cover the intervening periods, so Little Calamity did his best to be
a petty larcenist with indifferent success.
He infested the betting ring with a persistence almost pitiful, but
he had neither the appearance nor the manner which begets confidence
in unlikely tales, and in his mouth the truth itself sounded like a
fabrication. He was a willing but an unconvincing liar, and the few
who lingered long enough to listen to his clumsy attempts went away
smiling.
Little Calamity was nearer thirty than twenty, wrinkled and weazened
and bow-legged. Worse than everything else, he was cross-eyed. The
direct and compelling gaze is an absolute necessity in the touting
business because the average man believes that the liar will be
unable to look him in the eye. Little Calamity could not look any man
in the eye without first undergoing a surgical operation. He had few
acquaintances and no friends; he ate when he could slept where he
could, and life to him was just a continued hard-luck story.
Imagine, then, the incredulous amazement of the Bald-faced Kid when
Old Man Curry informed him that Jockey Gillis had secured steady
employment.
"That shrimp?" said the Kid. "Why, if he had the ice-water privilege
in hell he'd starve to death!"
"Frank," said the old man, "I wish you wouldn't be so blame keerless
with your figures of speech. There won't be any ice water for the
wicked, it says in the Book, and, anyway, it ain't a fit subject to
joke about. It don't sound pretty."
The Bald-faced Kid took this reproof with a sober countenance, for he
respected the old man's principles even if he did not understand
them.
"All right, old-timer. I'll take your word for it. Got a steady job,
has he? For Heaven's sake, what doing?"
"Running a racing stable for a man named Hopwood."
"Running a stable! What does Calamity know about training horses?"
"A heap more than Hopwood, I reckon, and, anyway, he'll only have one
hoss to experiment on. Hopwood was over here this morning, visiting
around and getting acquainted, he said. Awful gabby old coot. He's
got a grocery store up in Butte, and used to go out to the race
track once in a while. Some of those burglars got hold of him and
sold him something with four legs and a tail. They told him it was a
sure enough race hoss, and now he's down here to make his fortune.
Gillis saw him first, I reckon. Hopwood has hired him by the
month--and a percentage of what he wins."
At this the Bald-faced Kid laughed long and loud.
"There's one of 'em born every minute," said he, "but I didn't think
the supply was big enough to reach as far as Calamity. Didn't you
tell this poor nut what he was up against, trying to horn his way
into the Jungle Circuit with one lonely lizard and a human jinx to
handle him?"
"No-o," said Old Man Curry, "I didn't. What would be the use! You
know what Solomon says about that sort of thing, don't you?"
"I do not," answered the Kid promptly, "but I'll be the goat as
usual. What does he say?"
"'Answer not a fool according to his folly, lest thou also be like
unto him,'" quoted Old Man Curry, "and that's sound advice, my son.
When a fool gets an idea crossways in his head, nothing but a cold
chisel will get it out again, and, anyway, people don't thank you for
pointing out their mistakes. It's human nature to get mad at a man
that can prove he knows more than you do. This Hopwood has got it all
whittled down to a fine point how he's going to do right well at the
racing game, and the best way is to let him try it a while. It'll
cost him money to find out that a grocery store is a safer place for
him than a race track. 'A whip for the horse, a bridle for the ass,
and a rod for the fool's back.' That's Solomon again. Hopwood has got
the gad coming to him for sure."
"Ain't that the truth!" exclaimed the Kid. "By the way, did he
mention the name of the beetle that's going to do all this heavy
work?"
"That's the best joke of all," said Old Man Curry. "Hopwood stables
down at the end of the line, where Gilfeather used to be. Go take a
look at what they sold him for five hundred dollars."
"I'll do that little thing," said the Kid, rising. "If he's got any
dough left, I may want to sell him something myself!"
Little Calamity was in the box stall, industriously grooming a tall,
wild-eyed chestnut animal with four white stockings and a blaze, and
as he worked he hummed a tune under his breath. The tune stopped when
he became aware of a head thrust in at the open door. The Bald-faced
Kid glanced at the horse and his jaw dropped.
"Well, by the limping Lazarus!" he ejaculated. "If they haven't gone
and slipped him Last Chance! Yes, I'd know that darned old hay hound
if he was stuffed and in a museum, and, by golly, that's where he
ought to be! Last Chance!"
"What's it _to_ you?" growled Little Calamity sullenly. "Can't you
mind your own business?"
"Your boss is in big luck," continued the visitor, pleasantly
ignoring Calamity's manner. "The worst horse and the worst jock in
the world--a prize package for fair! Last Chance! His name ought to
be No Chance!"
"Now looka here," whined Calamity, "I never tried to queer anything
for you, did I? Live and let live; that's what I say, and let a guy
get by if he can. If you was right up against it and had a chance to
grab off eating money, you wouldn't want anybody around knocking,
would you? On the level?"
He looked up as he finished, and the Bald-faced Kid's heart smote
him. Little Calamity's face was thinner than ever, there were hollows
under his wandering eyes, and in them the anxious, wistful look of a
half-starved cur which has found a bone and fears that it will be
taken away from him. It occurred to the Kid that even a rat like
Gillis might have feelings--such feelings as may be touched by hunger
and physical discomfort. And there was no mistaking the desperate
earnestness of his plea.