saddle carefully for copper stitching, looked at the butt end of the
whip, ran their hands over Calamity's thin loins and last of all felt
in his bootlegs for wires connected with the spurs. All this time
Jockey Gillis might have been posing as a statue of outraged
innocence.
"Nothing on him," said the presiding judge shortly. "Hang up the
official."
Jockey Gillis bowed and saluted.
"Judges, can I go now?" said he.
"Yes," said the presiding judge, "and don't come back. You're warned
off, understand?"
"Judges," whined Jockey Gillis, "I ain't done a thing wrong. That old
horse, he----"
"Git!" said the presiding judge. "Now where is that man Hopwood? If
he bet much money on this race----"
The Bald-faced Kid was waiting at the paddock gate. He greeted Little
Calamity with blistering sarcasm.
"You're a sweet little boy, ain't you? A _nice_ little boy! Here I
stall for you for weeks and you didn't even tell me that the old
skate was going to have the Thomas A. Edison trimmings with him
to-day!"
"Honest," said the jockey, "I didn't think there was enough
'lectricity in the world to make it a cinch. I took a long chance
myself, that's all. I had to do it."
"And got caught with the battery on you, too. Didn't you know any
better'n to slip him the juice right in front of the wire? Think
those judges are blind?"
"Well," said Little Calamity, "I don't know how good their eyes are,
at that. Jock Hennessey, he's been riding with a hand buzzer every
time the stable checks are down. This morning he loaned it to me."
"Oh, it was a hand buzzer, eh?"
"Sure. I chucked it over the fence when I was turning him around
after the race."
"Fine work. What did the judges say to you?"
"They warned me away from the track. I should worry. There's other
tracks. Only thing is, they've got Hopwood in the stand now, and
he'll be fool enough to tell 'em this was the first time he bet on
the horse. Somehow, I'd hate to see the old bird get into trouble....
Say, by the way, how much did he bet?"
The Bald-faced Kid began to laugh. He laughed until he had to lean on
the rail for support.
"Don't worry," said he, at last. "The judges won't be too hard on
him. He hunted all over the ring until he found some 75 to 1 and then
he bet the wad--two great big iron dobey dollars--all at once, mind
you!"
"Two dollars!" gasped Little Calamity. "_Two dollars?_"
"It serves you right for not letting me know about the buzzer! I'd have
made him bet more. As it stands, your cut will be seventy-five--if he
splits with you, and I think he will. That's a lot of money--when you
haven't got it."
"Bah! Chicken feed!" This with an almost lordly scorn. "It's a good
thing those judges didn't take off my boots. Then they _would_ have
found something!" He fumbled for a moment and produced eight
pasteboards. "I had sixteen dollars saved up and one of the boys bet
it for me--every nickel of it on the nose. Seventy-five dollars! I'm
over eight hundred winner to the race!"
"Holy mackerel!" ejaculated the Kid. "What are you going to do with
all that money?"
"I'm goin' to buy a diamond pin and a gold watch and a ring with a
red stone in it and a suit of clothes and an overcoat and a derby
hat and a pair of silk socks and a porterhouse steak four inches
thick and a----"
"E--nough!" said the Kid. "Sufficient! If there's anything left over,
you better erect a monument to the guy that discovered electricity!"
This happened long ago. Hopwood's grocery store still does a
flourishing business. Over the cash register hangs a crayon portrait
of a large yellow horse with four white stockings and a blaze. The
original of the portrait hauls the Hopwood delivery wagon. Irritated
teamsters sometimes ask Mr. Hopwood's delivery man why he does not
drive where he is looking.
SANGUINARY JEREMIAH
It was not yet dawn, but Old Man Curry was abroad; more than that, he
was fully dressed. It was a tradition of the Jungle Circuit that he
had never been seen in any other condition. The owner of the "Bible
horses," in shirt sleeves and bareheaded, would have created a
sensation among his competing brethren, some of whom pretended to
believe that the patriarch slept in his clothes. Others, not so
positive on this point, averred that Old Man Curry slept with one eye
open and one ear cocked toward the O'Connor barn, where his enemies
met to plot against him.
Summer and winter, heat and cold, there was never a change in the old
man's raiment. The rusty frock coat--black where it was not green,
grey along the seams, and ravelled at the skirts--the broad-brimmed
and battered slouch hat, and the frayed string tie had seen fat years
and lean years on all the tracks of the Jungle Circuit, and no man
could say when these things had been new or their wearer had been
young. Old Man Curry was a fixture, as familiar a sight as the fence
about the track, and his shabby attire was as much a part of his
quaint personality as his habit of quoting the wise men of the Old
Testament and borrowing the names of the prophets for his horses.
The first faint golden glow appeared in the east; the adjoining
stables loomed dark in the half light; here and there lanterns moved,
and close at hand rose the wail of a sleepy exercise boy, roused from
slumber by a liberal application of rawhide. From the direction of
the track came the muffled beat of hoofs, swelling to a crescendo,
and diminishing to a thin tattoo as the thoroughbreds rounded the
upper turn.
Old Man Curry squared his shoulders, turned his face toward the east,
and saluted the dawn in characteristic fashion.
"'A time to get and a time to lose; a time to keep and a time to cast
away,'" he quoted. "Solomon was framin' up a system for hossmen, I
reckon. 'A time to get and a time to lose.' Only thing is, Solomon
himself couldn't figure which was which with some of these rascals!
_Oh, Mose!_"
"Yessuh, boss! Comin'!"
Jockey Moseby Jones emerged from the tackle-room, rubbing his eyes
with one hand and tugging at his sweater with the other. Later in the
day he would be a butterfly of fashion and an offence to the eye in
loud checks and conflicting colours; now he was only a very sleepy
little darky in a dingy red sweater and disreputable trousers.
"Seem like to me I ain't had no sleep a-a-a-tall," complained Mose,
swallowing a tremendous yawn. "This yer night work sutny got me goin'
south for fair."
Shanghai, the hostler, appeared leading Elisha, the star of the Curry
barn.
"Send him the full distance, Mose," said the aged owner, "and set him
down hard for the half-mile pole home."
"_Hard_, boss?"
"As hard as he can go."
"But, boss----" There was a note of strong protest in the jockey's
voice.
"You heard me," said Old Man Curry, already striding in the direction
of the track. "Extend him and let's see what he's got."
"Extend him so's _eve'ybody_ kin see whut he's got!" mumbled Mose
rebelliously. "Huh!"
In the shadow of the paddock Old Man Curry came upon his friend, the
Bald-faced Kid, a youth of many failings, frankly confessed. The Kid
sat upon the fence, nursing an old-fashioned silver stop watch, for
he was "clocking" the morning workouts.
"Morning, Frank," said Old Man Curry. "You're early."
"But not early enough for some of these birds," responded the Kid.
"You galloping something, old-timer?"
"'Lisha'll work in a minute or two."
"Uh-huh. I kind of figured you'd throw another work into him before
to-morrow's race. Confound it! If I didn't know you pretty well, I'd
say you ought to have your head examined! I'd say they ought to crawl
your cupola for loose shingles!"
"And if you didn't know me at all, Frank, you'd say I was just plain
crazy, eh?" Old Man Curry regarded his young friend with thoughtful
gravity. Here were two wise men of the turf approaching truth from
widely varying standpoints, yet able to meet on common ground and
exchange convictions to mutual profit. "Spit it out, son," said Old
Man Curry. "I'd sort of like to know how crazy I am."
"Fair enough!" said the Bald-faced Kid. "Elisha's a good horse--a
cracking good horse--but to-morrow's the end of the meeting and
you've gone and saved him up to slip him into the toughest race on
the card--on a day when all the burglars at the track will be
levelling for the get-away money! You could have found a softer spot
for him to pick up a purse, and, take it from me, the winner's end is
about all you'll get around here. The bookmakers lost a lot of
confidence in human nature when you pulled that horsehair stunt on
'em, and they wouldn't give you a price now, not even if you started
a nice motherly old cow against stake horses. As for Elisha--the
bookies begin reaching for the erasers the minute they hear his
name! You couldn't bet 'em diamonds against doughnuts on that horse.
They've been stung too often."
"Maybe I wasn't aiming to bet on him," was the mild reply.
"Then why put him up against such a hard game?"
"Oh, it was a kind of a notion I had. I know it'll be a tough race.
Engle is in there, and O'Connor and a lot more that have been under
cover. 'Lisha is goin' a mile this morning. Better catch him when he
breaks. He's off!"
Whatever Jockey Moseby Jones thought of his orders, he knew better
than to disobey them. He sent Elisha the distance, driving him hard
from the half-mile pole to the wire, and the Bald-faced Kid's
astounded comments furnished a profane obbligato.
"Take a look at that!" said he, thrusting the watch under Old Man
Curry's nose. "Pretty close to the track record for a mile, ain't it?
And every clocker on the track got him too! If I was you I'd peel the
hide off that nigger for showing a horse up like that!"
"No-o," said Old Man Curry, "I reckon I won't lick Mose--this time.
You forgot that Jeremiah is goin' in the last race to-morrow, didn't
you?"
"Jeremiah!" The Bald-faced Kid spoke with scorn. "Why, he bleeds
every time out! It's a shame to start him!"
"Maybe he won't bleed to-morrow, Frank."
"He won't, eh?" The Bald-faced Kid drew out the leather-backed volume
which was his constant companion, and began to thumb the leaves
rapidly. "You're always heaving your friend Solomon at me. I'll give
you a quotation I got out of the Fourth Reader at school--something
about judging the future by the past. Look here: '_Jeremiah bled and
was pulled up.' 'Jeremiah bled badly._' Why, everybody around here
knows that he's a bleeder!"
"There you go again," said Old Man Curry patiently. "You study them
dad-burned dope sheets, and all you can see is what a hoss _has_
done. You listen to me: it ain't what a hoss did last week or last
month--it's what he's goin' to do to-day that counts."
"A quitter will quit and a bleeder will bleed," said the Kid
sententiously.
"And Jeremiah says the leopard can't change his spots," said Old Man
Curry. "Have it your own way, Frank."
Exactly twenty-four hours later the Bald-faced Kid, peering across
the track to the back stretch, saw Old Man Curry lead a black horse
to the quarter pole, exchange a few words with Mose, adjust the bit,
and stand aside.
"What's that one, Kid?" The question was asked by Shine McManus, a
professional clocker employed by a bookmaker to time the various
workouts and make a report on them at noon.
"That's Jeremiah," said the Kid. "The old man hasn't worked him much
lately."
"Good reason why," said Shine. "I wouldn't work a horse either if he
bled every time he got out of a walk! There he goes!"
Jeremiah went to the half pole like the wind, slacked somewhat on the
upper turn, and floundered heavily into the stretch.
"Bleeding, ain't he?" asked Shine.
"He acts like it--yes, you can see it now."
As Jeremiah neared the paddock he stopped to a choppy gallop, and the
railbirds saw that blood was streaming from both nostrils and
trickling from his mouth.
"Ain't that sickening? You wouldn't think that Old Man Curry would
abuse a horse like that!"
The Bald-faced Kid went valiantly to the defence of his aged friend.
He would criticise Old Man Curry if he saw fit, but no one else had
that privilege.
"Aw, where do you get that abusing-a-horse stuff! It don't really
_hurt_ a horse any more'n it would hurt you to have a good nosebleed.
It just chokes him up so't he can't get his breath, and he quits,
that's all."
"Yes, but it looks bad, and it's a shame to start a horse in that
condition."
The argument waxed long and loud, and in the end the Kid was
vanquished, borne down by superior numbers. The popular verdict was
that Old Man Curry ought to be ashamed of himself for owning and
starting a confirmed bleeder like Jeremiah.
On get-away day the speculative soul whose financial operations show
a loss makes a determined effort to plunge a red-ink balance into a
black one. On get-away day the honest owner has doubts and the
dishonest owner has fears. On get-away day the bookmaker wears deep
creases in his brow, for few horses are "laid up" with him, and he
wonders which dead one will come to life. On get-away day the tout
redoubles his activities, hoping to be far away before his victims
awake to a sense of injury. On get-away day the program boy bawls his
loudest and the hot-dog purveyor pushes his fragrant wares with the
utmost energy. On get-away day the judges are more than usually
alert, scenting outward indications of a "job." On get-away day the
betting ring boils and seethes and bubbles; the prices are short and
arguments are long; strange stories are current and disquieting
rumours hang in the very air.
"Now, if ever!" is the motto.
"Shoot 'em in the back and run!" is the spirit of the day, reduced to
words.
In the midst of all this feverish excitement, Old Man Curry
maintained his customary calm. He had seen many get-away days on many
tracks. Elisha was entered in the fourth race, the feature event of
the day, and promptly on the dot, Elisha appeared in the paddock,
steaming after a brisk gallop down the stretch.
Soon there came a wild rush from the betting ring; the prices were
up and Elisha ruled the opening favourite at 7 to 5. Did Mr. Curry
think that Elisha could win? Wasn't the price a little short? In case
Mr. Curry had any doubts about Elisha, what other horse did he
favour? The old man answered all questions patiently, courteously,
and truthfully--and patience, courtesy, and truth seldom meet in the
paddock.
We-ell, about 'Lisha, now, he was an honest hoss and he would try as
hard to win at 7 to 5 as any other price. 'Lisha was trained not to
look in the bettin' ring on the way to the post. Ye-es, 'Lisha had a
chance; he always had a chance 'count of bein' honest and doin' the
best he knowed how. The other owners? Well, now, it was this way: he
couldn't really say what they was up to; he expected, though, they'd
all be tryin'. Himself person'ly, he only bothered about his own
hosses; they kept his hands full. Was Engle going to bet on
Cornflower? Well, about Engle--hm-m-m. He's right over there, sonny;
better ask him.
After Little Mose had been given his riding orders--briefly, they
were to do the best he could and come home in front if possible--Old
Man Curry turned Elisha over to Shanghai and went into the betting
ring. Elisha's price was still 7 to 5. The old man paused in front of
the first book, a thick wallet in his fingers. The bookmaker, a
red-eyed, dyspeptic-looking person, glanced down, recognised the
flowing white beard under the slouch hat, took note of the thick
wallet, and with one swipe of his eraser sent Elisha to even money.
"That's it! Squawk before you're hurt!" grunted Elisha's owner,
shouldering his way through the crowd to the next stand.
This bookmaker was an immensely fat gentleman with purplish jowls and
piggy eyes which narrowed to slits as they rested upon the corpulent
roll of bills which Old Man Curry was holding up to him.
"Don't want it," he wheezed.
"What ails it?" Old Man Curry's voice rose in a high, piping treble,
shrill with wrath. "It's good money. I got some of it from you. Your
slate says 6 to 5, 'Lisha."
"Don't want it," repeated the bookmaker, his eyes roving over the
crowd. "Get it next door."
"That's a fine howdy-do!" snapped the exasperated old man. "I can't
bet on my own horse--at a short price, too!"
Word ran around the betting ring that Old Man Curry was trying to bet
so much money on Elisha that the bookmakers refused his wagers, and
there was an immediate stampede for the betting booths and a demand
for Elisha at any figure.
The third bookmaker forestalled all argument by wiping out the
prophet's price entirely, while the crowd jeered.
"Does a bet scare you that bad?" asked Old Man Curry with sarcasm.
"Any bet from you would scare me, professor. Any bet at all. Try the
next store."
Old Man Curry worked his way around the circle, Elisha's price
dropping before his advance. His very appearance in the ring had been
enough to encourage play on the horse, and the large roll of bills
which he carried so conspicuously added a powerful impetus to the
rush on the favourite.
"Curry's betting a million!"
"Elisha's a cinch!"
"The old coot's got 'em scared!"
Elisha dropped to even money, then went to odds on. At 4 to 5 and
even at 3 to 5 the crowd played him, and sheet and ticket writers
were kept busy recording bets on the Curry horse.
Somewhere in the maelstrom Old Man Curry encountered the Bald-faced
Kid plying his vocation. He was earnestly endeavouring to persuade a
whiskered rustic to bet more money than he owned on Cornflower at 3
to 1. Though very busy, the young man was abreast of the situation
and fully informed of events, as indeed he usually was. Retaining his
interest in the rustic by the simple expedient of thrusting a
forefinger through his buttonhole, the Kid leaned toward the old man.
"See what your little nigger did, riding that horse out yesterday
morning? You might have got 2 or 3 to 1 on him if Mose hadn't tipped
him off to every clocker at the track!"
Old Man Curry digested this remark in silence.
"I hear that Engle is sending the mare for a killing," whispered the
Kid. "Know anything about it?"
"Everything is bein' sent for a killing to-day," said Old Man Curry.
"Well, she'll have 'Lisha to beat, I reckon. And all he's runnin' for
is the purse, Frank, like you said. I did my best to bet 'em until
the price got too plumb ridiculous, but the children of Israel
wouldn't take my money."
The Bald-faced Kid glanced at the roll of bills which the old man
still held in his hand.
"Well, no wonder!" he snorted. "Don't you know that ain't any way to
do? You come in here and wave a chunk like that under their noses,
and--by golly, you ought to have your head examined!"
"I reckon you're right," said the old man apologetically. "All I ask
is please don't have me yanked up before the Lunacy Board till after
the last race, because----"
"Aw, rats! Beat it now till I land this sucker!"
"Frank," whispered the old man, "tell him to save a couple of dollars
to bet on Jeremiah!"
It was a great race. Cornflower, lightly weighted, able to set a pace
or hold one, did not show in front until the homestretch was reached.
Then the mare suddenly shot out of the ruck and flashed into the
lead. But she soon had company. Honest old Elisha had been plugging
along in the dust for the first half mile, but at that point he began
to run, and the Curry colours moved up with great celerity. Merritt,
glancing over his shoulders, shook out the last wrap on the mare just
as Elisha thundered into second place. Gathering speed with every
awkward bound, the big bay horse slowly closed the gap. At the
paddock there was no longer daylight between them, and Old Man Curry
stopped combing his beard. He knew what that meant. So did Jockey
Merritt, plying whip and spur. So did Al Engle and those who had been
given the quiet tip to play Cornflower for a killing. So did the
Bald-faced Kid, edging away from the rustic who, with a Cornflower
ticket clutched in his sweating palm, seemed to be trying to swallow
the thyroid cartilage of his larynx. So did Jockey Moseby Jones,
driving straight into the hurricane of cheers which beat down from
the packed grand stand.
"_Elisha! Elisha! Come on, you Elisha!_"
Now the gaunt bay head was at the mare's flank, now at the saddle
girth, now it blotted out the shoulder, now they were neck and neck;
one more terrific bound, an ear-splitting yell from the grand stand,
and Elisha's number went slowly to the top of the pole.
The judges were examining the opening betting on the last race of the
meeting.
"Ah, we have Old Man Curry with us again!" said the presiding judge.
"Jeremiah. If the meeting had another two weeks to run I'd ask him
not to start that horse again. I'm told he bled at his workout this
morning. By the way, the old man acted sort of grouchy after the
Elisha race. Did you notice it?"
"Yes, and I know why," said the associate judge. "He tried to bet a
barrel of money and the bookmakers laughed at him. As a general thing
he bets a few dollars in each book; this time he went at 'em too
strong. The bookies are a little leary of that innocent old boy."
"Call him innocent if you want to. He's either the shrewdest horseman
on this circuit--or the luckiest, and I be damned if I can tell
which! Hm-m-m. Jeremiah, 20 to 1. If he bled this morning, he ought
to be a thousand!"
So, also, thought the employer of Shine McManus, none other than the
fat gentleman with the purple jowls, otherwise Izzy Marx, known to
his friends as "Easy Marks." McManus was a not unimportant cog in the
secret-service department maintained by the bookmaker.
"Listen, Mac!" wheezed Marx. "I want you to tail Old Man Curry from
now until the barrier goes up, understand? Yes, yes, you _told_ me
the horse bled this morning, but that old fox has got the miracle
habit; I'd hate to give him too long a price on a _dead_ horse,
understand, Mac? If Curry is going to bet a plugged nickel on this
here Jeremiah, I'll hold him out and not take a cent on him. Stick
around close and shoot me back word by Abie. The rest of these
fellows have got 20 to 1 on him; he's 15 to 1 in this book until I
hear from you. Hurry, now!"
There were ten horses entered in the final race of the meeting, and
nine of them were strongly touted as "good things." The tenth was
Jeremiah and the most reckless hustler at the track refused to
consider the black horse as a contender for anything but sanguinary
honours.
"Him? Nix! Didn't you hear about him? Why, he bled this morning in
his workout! No chance!"
Of course there were those who did not believe this, so they asked
Jeremiah's owner and Old Man Curry stamped up and down the paddock
stall and complained querulously. They asked him if Jeremiah had a
chance and he replied that Elisha was a good hoss, a crackin' good
hoss, but they wouldn't let him bet his money. They asked him if
Jeremiah was likely to bleed and he told them that a bookmaker who
wouldn't take a bet when it was shoved under his nose ought to be run
off the track. They asked him what the other owners were doing and
were informed that he had a tarnation good mind to make a holler to
the judges. Word of this condition of affairs soon reached Mr. Marx.
"The old nut is ravin' all over the place about how he couldn't get a
bet down on Elisha. Says if he wasn't allowed to bet on the best
horse in his barn he certainly ain't goin' to bet on the worst one.
Oh, yes, and he's talkin' about makin' a holler to the judges!"
"Fat chance!" chuckled Marx, and Jeremiah went to 25 to 1.
Clear and high above the hum of the betting ring rose the notes of a
bugle. The last field of the season was being called to the track and
instead of the usual staccato summons the bugler blew "Taps."
"There she goes, boys!" bellowed the bookmakers. "That's good-by for
a whole year, you know! Bet 'em fast! They're on the way to the post!
Only a few minutes more!"
The final attack closed in around the stands. Men who had solemnly
promised themselves not to make another bet caught the fever and
hurled themselves into the jam, bent on exchanging coin of the realm
for pasteboard tickets and hope of sudden prosperity. It was the last
race of the season, wasn't it, and good-bye to the bangtails for
another year!
During this mad attack Abie squirmed through the mob and plucked at
Marx's sleeve. It was his third report.
"The old bird is settin' out there in the corner of the stall all by
himself, chewin' a straw. Says he's so disgusted he don't care if he
sees the race or not. I started to kid him about bein' such a crab
and, honest, I was afraid he'd bite me!"
Mr. Marx grinned and chalked up 40 to 1 on Jeremiah. "Now let him
bleed!" said he.