on. "Awful tough. You don't know. And then this Hopwood came along.
It ain't my fault if the sucker thinks he's got another Roseben, is
it? He wanted a trainer and a jockey, and somebody else would have
picked him up if I hadn't. It's the first piece of luck I've had
this year. All I want is a chance to string with this fellow as long
as he lasts and get a piece of change for myself. That ain't hurting
you any, is it? He's my only chance to eat regular; don't go scaring
him away."
The Kid was about to reply when a short, fat gentleman waddled around
the corner of the barn and paused, wheezing, at the door of the
stall. A new owners' badge dangled prominently from his buttonhole,
and this he fingered from time to time with manifest pride. He peered
in at Last Chance and beamed upon the Bald-faced Kid with the utmost
friendliness, his thick eyeglasses giving him the appearance of a
jovial owl.
"Well," said he heartily, "I see you're looking him over, young man.
He's mine; I just bought him, and I think I got him cheap. Pretty
fine-looking horse, eh?"
The Kid nodded gravely.
"You bet your life!" said he with emphasis. "Take it from me, he is
_some_ horse!"
"Some horse is right!" chimed in Little Calamity fervently. "Just
wait till I get him in shape, boss, and I'll show you how much horse
he is!"
"And that," said the Bald-faced Kid, "is no idle statement."
"Frank," said Old Man Curry, "you're making more of a fool of that
Hopwood than the Lord intended him to be, and it's a sin and a
shame. Why can't you let him alone?"
"Because he hands me many a laugh," said the Bald-faced Kid, "and
laughs are good for what ails me. He is a three-ring circus and
concert all by himself, but he doesn't know it, and that's what makes
him so good. And innocent? Say, the original Babes in the Wood
haven't got a thing on him. If he stays around here these
sharpshooters will have his shirt."
"And you're helping them to get it with your lies. First thing you
know you'll have him betting on that hoss when he starts, and Last
Chance never won a race in his life and never will. He can quit so
fast that it looks like he's going the wrong way of the track.
Hopwood was around here to-day all swelled up with the stories you've
been feeding him. It ain't right, my son, and, what's more, it ain't
_honest_. You might just as well pick his pockets and give the
money to the bookmakers."
"The bookmakers won't get fat on what they take away from him," was
the careless rejoinder. "This fellow has got a groceryman's heart.
He can squeeze a dollar until the eagle screams for help, and he
never heard of Riley Grannan. If he bets at all it won't be more
than a ten-dollar note. Last Chance goes in the second race
to-morrow--nonwinners at the meeting--and I'm going down to the
stable now to have a conference and give Calamity his riding
orders."
"I wash my hands of you," said the old man. "Fun is all right in its
place, but fun that hurts somebody else has a way of coming home to
roost. Don't forget that, my son."
"Aw, who's going to hurt him?" was the sulky rejoinder. "I'm only
helping the chump to buy some of the experience that you spoke about
the other day."
"Solomon says----" began Old Man Curry, but the Kid beat a hasty
retreat.
"Put him on ice till to-morrow!" he called back over his shoulder.
"This is my busy day!"
For a horse that had never won a race, Last Chance made a gay
appearance in the paddock. Little Calamity, conscious of his
shortcomings as a trainer, had done his best to offset them by extra
activities in his capacity as stable hand. The big chestnut had been
groomed and polished until his smooth coat shone like satin and blue
ribbons were braided in his mane. The other nonwinners were a
sorry-looking lot of dogs when compared with Last Chance, and the
owner's bosom swelled with proud anticipation.
"Look at the fire in his eye!" said Hopwood to the Bald-faced Kid.
"See how lively he is!"
"Uh-huh," said the Kid, who was present in the role of adviser. "He
seems to be full of pep to-day."
As a matter of fact, Last Chance was nervous. He knew that a trip to
the paddock was usually followed by a beating with a rawhide whip and
a prodding with blunt spurs, hence the skittishness of his behaviour
and the fire in his eye. Given a decent opportunity he would have
jumped the fence and gone home to his stall.
When the bell rang Little Calamity came out of the jockeys' room,
radiant as a butterfly in his new silks; he had the audacity to wink
when he saw the Kid looking at him.
"What do we do now?" demanded Hopwood, all in a flutter. "This is new
to me, you know."
"Well," said the Kid, "I'd say it would be a right pious idea to get
this fiery steed saddled up, unless Calamity here is figuring on
riding him bareback, which I don't think the judges would stand for."
Later it was the Kid who gave Calamity his riding orders. "All right,
boy," said he. "Nothing in here to beat but a lot of lizards. Never
look back and make every post a winning one. He can tow-rope this
field and drag 'em to death!"
"_Pzzt!_" whispered the jockey. "Not so strong with it, not so
strong!"
While the horses were on their way to the post the Bald-faced Kid
escorted Hopwood to a position in front of the grand stand.
"You want to be handy in case he wins," said the Kid. "You'll have to
go down in the ring if he does. It's a selling race and they might
try to run him up on you."
"In the ring, eh?" said Hopwood, straightening his collar and
plucking at his tie. "Do I look all right?" But the Kid was coughing
so hard that he could not answer the question.
"I can't see very far with these glasses," said Hopwood, "and you'll
have to tell me about it. Where is he now?"
"At the post," said the Kid. "The starter won't fool away much time
with those ... there they go now! Good start."
Hopwood pawed at the Kid's arm.
"I can't see a thing! Where is he? How's he doing?"
"He broke flying and he's right up in front."
"That's good! That's fine!... And now? Where is he now?"
"Still up in front and winging, just winging. It's an exercise gallop
for him. How much did you bet?"
Hopwood took off his glasses and fumbled at them with his
handkerchief.
"Where is he now?"
"Second, turning for home. He ought to win all by himself. They're
choking to death behind him."
"And I didn't bet a cent!" wailed the owner. "But I said he was a
good horse, remember?"
"Sure you did, and he ... oh, tough luck! Well, if that ain't a dirty
shame!"
"What is it?" chattered Hopwood. "What happened?"
"They bumped him into the fence, I think.... Yes, he's dropping back.
And it looked like a cinch for him, too!... I'm afraid he won't get
anything this time.... Too bad! Well, that's racing luck for you.
It's to be expected in this game. Sometimes you win and sometimes you
lose. Good thing you didn't bet."
"I--I suppose so," gulped the unhappy owner. "Well, next time, eh?"
"That's the proper spirit! Keep after 'em!"
Hopwood put on his glasses in time to see the finish of the race.
First came four horses, well bunched; after them the stragglers. Last
of all a chestnut with four white stockings and a blaze galloped
heavily through the dust, snorting his indignation. Last Chance had
been hopelessly last all the way in spite of a rawhide tattoo on his
flanks.
The Bald-faced Kid, wishing to forestall a conflict of evidence, made
it his business to have the first word with the principal witness. He
walked beside Little Calamity as that dispirited midget shuffled down
the track from the judges' stand, saddle and tackle on his arm. Close
behind them was Hopwood, leading the horse.
"Pretty tough luck," said the Kid, "getting bumped in the stretch
when you had the race won." Little Calamity stared from under the
peak of his cap in blank, uncomprehending amazement.
"Huh?" he grunted. "Bumped?... Aw, quitcha kiddin'!"
"Well," said the Kid, "the boss couldn't see and I was telling him
about the race. It looked to me as if they bumped him."
A gleam of intelligence lighted the straying eyes; instantly the
jockey took his cue.
"Oh!" said he, loudly, "you mean in the _stretch_! Yeh, he had a
swell chance till then--goin' nice, and all, but the bumping took the
run out of him. He'll beat the same bunch like breakin' sticks the
next time." Then, under his breath: "_You're a pretty good guy after
all!_"
"Well," was the ungracious rejoinder, "don't kid yourself that it's
on your account."
Since it was his practice never to accept the obvious but to search
diligently for the hidden motive behind every deed, good or bad,
Little Calamity gave considerable thought to the matter and at last
believed that he had arrived at the only possible explanation of the
Kid's conduct. "Boss," said he that evening, "did you bet any money
to-day?"
"Not a nickel," was the answer.
"Or give anybody any money to bet for you?"
"No."
"Did anybody ask to be your bettin' commissioner?"
"No. Why?"
"Oh, nothing. I just wanted to know."
Before Little Calamity went to sleep that night he reviewed the
situation somewhat as follows:
"My dope was wrong, but it's a cinch a hustler like the Kid ain't
hangin' around the boss for his _health_.... And he didn't kick in
wit' that alibi because he loves _me_ any too well.... I can't figure
him at all."
If he could have heard a conversation then going on in Old Man
Curry's tackle-room, the figuring would have been easier.
"Frank," said the old man, "I had my eye on you to-day. You ain't got
designs on that fool's bank roll, have you?"
The Bald-faced Kid blew a cloud of cigarette smoke into the air and
watched it float to the rafters before he answered question with
question.
"How long have you known me, old-timer?"
"Quite a while, my son."
"You know that I get my living by doing the best I can?"
"Yes."
"Did you ever know me to steal anything from a blind man? Or even one
that was near-sighted?"
"No-o."
"Then don't worry about this Hopwood."
"But he ain't blind--except in the Scriptural sense."
"Think not, eh? Listen! That bird can't see as far as the sixteenth
pole. Somebody has got to watch the races and tell him how well his
horse is going or else he'll never know. Think what he'd miss! I'm
his form chart and his eyes, old-timer, and all I charge him is a
laugh now and then. Cheap enough, ain't it?"
Old Man Curry found his packet of fine-cut and thrust a large helping
into his left cheek. "'For as the crackling of thorns under a pot,'"
he quoted, "'so is the laughter of a fool.'"
The end of the meeting was close at hand; the next town on the Jungle
Circuit was preparing to receive the survivors. The owners were
plotting to secure that elusive commodity known as get-away money;
some of them would have been glad to mortgage their chances for a
receipted feed bill. Last Chance had started five times and each time
Hopwood had listened to a thrilling description of the race; the
chestnut's performances had been bad enough to strain the Kid's
powers of invention.
On the eve of the final struggle of the nonwinners, the Kid sat in
grave consultation with Hopwood and Little Calamity and the rain
drummed on the shingle roof of the tackle room. The fat man was
downcast; he had been hinting about selling Last Chance at auction
and returning to Butte.
"You don't mean to say that you're going to _quit_?" demanded the
Kid, incredulously. "Just when he's getting good?"
"What's the use?" was the dreary reply. "Luck is against me, ain't
it?"
"But he's always knocking at the door, ain't he? He's always right up
there part of the way. You can't get the worst of it every time, you
know. Be game."
"I've had the worst of it every time so far," said Hopwood, with a
dejected shake of his head. "Every time. I swear I don't know what's
wrong with that horse. He _looks_ all right and he _acts_ all right,
but every time he starts something happens. They bump him into the
fence or pocket him or he gets a clod in his eye and quits. He's been
last every time but one and then he was next to last. I--I'm sort of
discouraged, boys."
"Aw, never mind, boss!" chirped Little Calamity, one eye on the Kid
and the other wandering in the general direction of the owner.
"To-morrow is another day and there ain't a thing left in the
nonwinner class for him to beat. All the good ones are gone. He
worked fine this morning, and----"
"You've said that every time."
"Yes, but you're overlooking the muddy track!" Hopwood blinked in
perplexity as the Kid came to the rescue with a new story.
"The muddy track? What difference will that make?"
"Listen to him! All the difference in the wide world!"
"Yeh," chimed in Calamity. "You bet it makes a difference!"
"You're forgetting that Last Chance is by a mudder out of a mudder,"
suavely explained the Kid. "His daddy used to win stakes kneedeep in
it. His mother liked mud so well they had to mix it with her oats to
get her to eat regular. What difference will it make? Huh! Wait and
see!"
The owner rose, grunting heavily.
"I hope you're right this time," said he. "Lord knows I've had
disappointments enough. When I bought this horse they guaranteed him
to win at least every other time he started----"
"With an even break in the luck, of course," interrupted the Kid.
"You've got to have luck too."
"They didn't mention anything about luck when they took my money."
Hopwood was positive on this point. "They told me it was a sure thing
and I wouldn't be in this mess if I hadn't thought it was.... You
boys talk it over between you. I'm going to ask Mr. Curry if he wants
to buy a horse. He can have him for half what he cost me."
Hopwood turned up his collar and departed; the two conspirators
listened until his footsteps died away down the row of stables. "Will
Curry split on us?" asked Little Calamity, anxiously.
"Not in a thousand years!" was the confident reply. "The old man is a
sport in his way. It's a queer way, but he's all right at that. He
plays his own string and lets you play yours. Hopwood will find out
what Solomon says about buying strange horses, but the old man won't
tip your hand or mine. Queer genius, Curry is.... Well, your sucker
has lasted longer than I thought he would."
"And now he's getting onto himself," said Calamity mournfully.
"He's not. He's getting cold feet."
"To-morrow is the last crack we'll get at him.... _Can_ this beagle
run in the mud?"
"How do I know? I was only stringing him."
Little Calamity sighed and the Kid rose to take his departure.
"Wait a minute!" said the other. "Don't go yet. Maybe this horse
_will_ do better in the mud. You don't know and I don't know, but he
_might_."
"What he might do ain't worrying me," said the Kid.
"Listen a second. Maybe you won't believe it, but I've been on the up
and up with the boss. Honest, I have. I could have tipped one of the
other hustlers to tout him and sink the money for a split, but--well,
I didn't do it, that's all. He was white to me and I tried to be
white too, see? I even told him not to bet on the horse until I gave
him the office, and so far we've been running for nothing but the
purse. You haven't touted him either----"
"Draw your bat and make a quick finish!" said the Kid shortly.
"What's it all about?"
"Suppose I should talk him into putting a bet down to-morrow?"
"A bet on what?"
"On Last Chance. It ain't no crime for a man to bet on his own horse,
is it? He told me he'd give me a percentage of what he won. Maybe the
old crowbait will go better in the mud, and I'll ride him until his
eyes stick out a foot. We might accidentally get down there to the
judges' stand in front, and----"
"And still you haven't said anything," interrupted the Kid. "You want
something; what is it?"
"I want you not to queer the play. Hopwood won't bet much; like as
not he won't bet anything without putting it up to you first. It's my
last chance to pick up a piece of change----"
"Last chance on Last Chance," mused the Kid, "and that's a hunch, but
I wouldn't play it with counterfeit Confederate money."
"But if he comes to you, you won't knock it, will you?"
"I'll tell him that as an owner he ought to use his own judgment. If
he wants to bet, I'll see that he gets the top price."
"You _are_ a good guy!" said Little Calamity. "I think Last Chance
will be a better horse to-morrow--somehow."
The Bald-faced Kid shot a keen glance at the jockey.
"What do you mean, a better horse? A powder on his tongue, maybe?"
Calamity shook his head.
"I never hopped a horse; I wouldn't know how to go about it. If I
got to fooling with them speed powders I might give him too much and
have him climbing a tree on the way to the post.... Cheese it! Here
comes the boss!"
Hopwood entered, shaking the water from the brim of his hat, his
lower lip sagging and an angry light in his eye.
"Well," asked the Kid from the doorway, "what did Curry say?"
"Umph!" grunted the fat man, disgustedly. "He read me a chapter out
of Proverbs. It was all about the difference between a wise man and a
fool. Confound it! He needn't have rubbed it in!"
It was the last race of the day and from their sheltered pagoda the
judges looked out upon the river of mud which had been the home
stretch. Forty-eight hours of rain had turned it into a grand canal.
The presiding judge scowled as he examined the opening odds.
"Nonwinners, eh? Same old bunch of hounds. Grayling, 2 to 1; Ivy
Leaf, 4 to 1; Montezuma, 10 to 1; Bluestone, 10 to 1; Alibi, 15 to 1;
Stuffy Eaton, 25 to 1--and here's Last Chance again! I wonder where
Hopwood got that horse? Remember him, two years ago at Butte? I
thought he was pulling a junk wagon by now. Last Chance, 50 to 1.
Jockey Gillis; hm-m-m. There's a sweet combination for you! A horse
that can't untrack himself, a jockey that never rode a winner, and a
half-witted grocer! Why couldn't the chump stick to the little
villainies that he knows about--sanding the sugar and watering the
kerosene? I declare, sir, if I had half an excuse I'd refuse the
entry of that horse and warn Hopwood away from here! It would be an
act of Christian charity to do it."
The Bald-faced Kid, faithful to the bitter end, assisted in the
paddock as usual. Last Chance, his tail braided in a hard knot and
minus the ribbons in his mane, submitted to the saddling process with
unusual docility. His customary attitude of protest seemed to be
swallowed up in a gloomy acquiescence to fate. It was as if he said:
"You can do this to me again if you want to, but I assure you now
that it is useless, quite useless."
Calamity leaned down from the saddle and whispered in the Kid's ear:
"You can get 50 and 60 to 1 on him! The boss said he'd make a bet.
Don't let him overlook it!"
When the bugle sounded, Hopwood grasped the bridle and led the horse
through the chute to the track. The rain beat hard upon his hunched
shoulders and his feet plowed heavily through the puddles. Repeated
failure had robbed him of the pride of ownership and all confidence
in horseflesh. He was, as the Bald-faced Kid said to himself, "a sad
looking mess." Hopwood spoke but once, wasting no words.
"Make good if you're going to," said he tersely, "because win or lose
I'm _through_!"
"Yes, boss, and don't forget what I told you. To-day's the day to bet
on him. Go to it!"
Last Chance splashed away down the track and Hopwood turned on his
heel with a growl.
"Come along!" said he to the Kid. "I might as well be all the
different kinds of fool while I'm about it!"
"Where to now?" asked the Kid innocently.
"To the betting ring," was the grim response. "I said I'd bet on him
this time and I will! Come along!"
From his perch on the inside rail the official starter eyed the
nonwinners with undisguised malevolence. Some of them were cantering
steadily toward the barrier, some were walking and one, a black
brute, seemed almost unmanageable, advancing in a series of wild
plunges and sudden sidesteps.
"Ah, hah," said the starter, with suitable profanity. "Old Alibi has
got his hop in him again! I'll recommend the judges to refuse his
entry." Then, to his assistant: "Jake, take hold of that crazy black
thing and lead him up here. Don't let go of his head for a second or
he'll be all over the place! Lively now! I want to get out of this
rain.... Walk 'em up, you crook-legged little devils! _Walk 'em up, I
say!_"
Last Chance advanced sedately to his position, which was on the outer
rail. Grayling, the favourite, had drawn the inner rail. Jake,
obeying orders, swung his weight on Alibi's bit and dragged the
rearing, plunging creature into the middle of the line. At that
instant the starter jerked the trigger and yelled:
"_Come on! Come on!_"
The whole thing happened in the flicker of an eyelid. As Jake
released his hold, Alibi whirled at right angles and bolted for the
inner rail, carrying Grayling, Ivy Leaf, Satsuma, and Jolson with
him. They crashed into the fence, a squealing, kicking tangle, above
which rose the shrill, frightened yells of the jockeys. This left but
four horses in the race, and one of them, old Last Chance, passed
under the barrier with a wild bound which all but unseated his rider.
It was not his habit to display such unseemly haste in getting away
from the post and, to do him justice, Last Chance was no less
surprised--and shocked--than a certain young man of our acquaintance.
"Well, look at that lizard go!" gasped the Bald-faced Kid.
_"Look--at--him--go!_"
"Honest Injun?" asked Hopwood. "Is he going--really?"
"Is he going! He's going crazy! And listen to this! That black thing
carried a big bunch of 'em into the fence and they're out of it! Only
four in the race and we're away flying! Do you get that? Flying!"
"Honest?"
"Can't you hear the crowd hissing the rotten start?"
"Well," said Hopwood, "it--it's about time I had a little luck."
"That skate has got something besides luck with him to-day!"
exclaimed the Kid. "I wonder now--did he try a powder after all? But
no, he was quiet enough on the way to the post."
Seeing nothing ahead of him but mud and water, Jockey Gillis steered
Last Chance toward the inner rail.
"Don't you quit on me, you crab!" he muttered. "Don't you quit! Keep
goin' if you don't want me to put the bee on you again! Hi-ya!"
Montezuma, Bluestone, and Stuffy Eaton were the other survivors--bad
horses all. Their riders, realizing that something had happened to
the real contenders, drove them hard and on the upper turn Jockey
Gillis, peering over his shoulder, saw that he was about to have
competition. He began to boot Last Chance in the ribs, but the aged
chestnut refused to respond to such ordinary treatment.
"All right!" said Jockey Gillis, savagely. "If you won't run for the
spurs, you'll run for _this_!" And he drove his clenched fist against
the horse's shoulder. Last Chance grunted and did his best to leap
out from under his tormentor. Failing in this he spurted crazily and
the gap widened.
"There it goes again!" muttered the Kid, under his breath. "He's
pretty raw with it. Now if the judges notice the way that horse is
running they may frisk Calamity for an electric battery and if they
find one on him--good night!"
"Where is he now?" demanded Hopwood.
"Still in front--if he can stay there."
"Honest--is he?"
"_Ask_ anybody!" howled the Kid, in sudden anger. "You don't need to
take my word for it!"
At the paddock gate Last Chance was rocking from side to side with
weariness and the pursuit was closing in on him. Jockey Gillis
measured the distance to the wire and waited until Montezuma and
Bluestone drew alongside. Twenty-five feet from home his fist thumped
Last Chance on the shoulder again. The big chestnut answered with a
frenzied bound and came floundering under the wire, a winner by a
neck.
"He won!" cried Hopwood. "That--that was him in front, wasn't it?"
"That was what's left of him," was the response. "Maybe we'd better
not cheer until the judges give us the 'official' on those numbers.
I've got a hunch they may want to see Jock Gillis in the stand." And
to himself: "The fool! He handed it to him again right under their
noses! Does he think the judges are cockeyed too?"
"Here's our chance to get rid of the grocer," said the presiding
judge to his associate. "Did you notice the way that horse acted?
The boy's got a battery on him, sure as guns!"
One hundred yards from the wire Last Chance checked to a walk and as
Jockey Gillis turned the horse he tossed a small, dark object over
the inside fence. It fell in a puddle of water and disappeared from
sight. When the winner staggered stiffly into the ring, Gillis
flicked the visor of his cap with his whip.
"Judges?" he piped.
The presiding judge answered the salute with a nod, but later when
the rider was leaving the weighing room, he halted him with a curt
command.
"Bring that tack up here, boy!"