crowd in the betting ring continued to swarm about the stands until
the clang of the gong warned them that the race was on. Then there
was a wild rush for the lawn; even the fat Mr. Marx climbed down from
his perch and waddled out into the sunshine, blinking as he turned
his small eyes toward the back stretch.
Now little Mose had been watching the starter carefully and had
thrown his mount at the barrier just as it rose in the air, but there
were other jockeys in the race who had done the same thing, and
Jeremiah's was not the only early speed that sizzled down to the
half-mile pole. At least four of the "good things" were away to a
running start--Fireball, Sky Pilot, Harry Root, and Resolution.
Jeremiah trailed the quartet, content to kick clods at the second
division. On the upper turn Fireball and Harry Root found the pace
too warm for them and dropped back. Jeremiah found himself in third
place, coasting along easily under a strong pull. The presiding judge
turned his binoculars upon the black horse and favoured him with a
searching scrutiny.
"Ah, hah!" said he, wagging his head. "I thought as much. Jeremiah
may have bled this morning, but he ain't bleeding _now_ and that
little nigger is almost breaking his jaw to keep him from running
over the two in front!... Old Man Curry again! Oh, but he's a cute
rascal!"
"I'd rather see him get away with it than some of these other owners,
at that," said the associate judge.
"So would I ... I kind of like the old coot.... Now what on earth do
you suppose he's done to that horse since this morning?"
A few thousand spectators were asking variations of the same
question, but one spectator asked no questions at all. The Bald-faced
Kid was reduced by stuttering degrees to dumb amazement. He had
ignored Old Man Curry's kindly suggestion and had persuaded all and
sundry to plunge heavily on Fireball.
It really was not much of a contest. Sky Pilot, on the rail, swung
wide turning into the stretch and carried Resolution with him. Like a
flash Little Mose shot the black horse through the opening and
straightened away for the wire, an open length away for the wire, an
open length in the lead.
"Come git him, jocks!" shrilled Mose. "Come git ol' Jeremiah to-day!"
The most that can be said for the other jockeys is that they tried,
but Little Mose hugged the rail and Jeremiah came booming down the
home stretch alone, fighting for his head and hoping for some real
competition which never quite arrived. The black horse won by three
open lengths, won with wraps still on his jockey's wrists, and, as
the form chart stated, "did not bleed and was never fully extended."
"Well, anyhow," said Mr. Marx, as he wheezed back to his place of
business, "Curry won't get anything but the purse again and that'll
help some. If he brought a dead horse around here in a wagon, the
best he'd get from me would be 1 to 2!"
The judges, of course, were curious. They invited Old Man Curry into
the stand to ask him if he had bet on Jeremiah.
"Gentlemen," said he, removing his battered slouch hat, "I give you
my word, I never went near that betting ring but once to-day, and
that was to bet on a _real_ hoss. 'Elisha!' I says, and I shoved it
at 'em. Judges, they laughed at me. They wouldn't take a cent. Not a
cent! And I was so mad----"
"Yes, yes," said the presiding judge, soothingly, "but how do you
account for Jeremiah bleeding in his work this morning and running
such a good race this afternoon?"
"Gentlemen," said Old Man Curry, "I don't account for it. Solomon was
the smartest man that ever lived, I reckon, and there was a lot of
things he never figured out. I reckon now, if he'd been in this
business----"
"Good-bye, Mr. Curry," said the presiding judge, "and good luck!"
The Bald-faced Kid might see miracles with his eyes, but there was
that about him which demanded explanation. Chastened in spirit,
utterly humble and cast down, he called upon Old Man Curry. He found
him seated in his tackle-room, reading the Old Testament by the light
of a lantern.
"Come in, Frank.... Got the Lunacy Board with you?"
"Don't rub it in. And if you can spare the time, I wish you'd tell me
what you've been up to with Jeremiah."
"Oh, Jeremiah. Well, now, he's a better hoss than some folks think.
There wasn't anything wrong with him but just them little bleedin'
spells. When I got him cured of those----"
"Cured! Was he cured this morning? Didn't I see him bleed all over
the place?"
"You saw some blood, yes ... Frank, I wish't you wouldn't interrupt
me when I'm talkin'.... Well, about three weeks ago I met up with a
man that claimed he had a remedy to cure bleeders. I let him try his
hand on Jeremiah and he done a good job. Since then we've been
workin' the black rascal at two in the mornin' when all you wise
folks was in bed.... Of course, I didn't want anybody to know it was
Jeremiah I was figurin' on, so I gave 'em something else to think
about. I started 'Lisha the same day and I tried to get as many folks
interested in him as I could. I had the little nigger send him a mile
so fast that a wayfarin' man and a fool couldn't help but see he was
ready. And then I kind of distracted 'em some more by goin' into the
bettin' ring with a big mess of one dollar bills with a fifty on the
outside. I held the money up where everybody could see it and I
carried on scandalous when the bookmakers wouldn't take it, I'd have
carried on a lot worse if one of them children of Israel had called
my bluff. And then I got so mad because they wouldn't let me bet on
'Lisha that they thought I'd lost interest in Jeremiah.... I've heard
that Jeremiah wasn't played. He was played all over the ring, two
dollars at a time and it was my money that played him. But of course
those bookmakers knew I was sulkin' out in the paddock and took the
sucker money.... Anything else you want to know?"
"Yes!" The Bald-faced Kid had reached the bursting point. "Was
Jeremiah bleeding this morning or not?"
Old Man Curry stroked his beard thoughtfully.
"Well, it was real _blood_, if that's what you want to know," said
he. "It took me some time to study that out. Last week Mose came
around here, squawkin' on one of them little toy balloons. I took it
away from him for fear it would make the hosses nervous--and then I
got to studying how it was made. Last night I done some shopping. I
bought a nice, fat hen and a glass pumping arrangement from a drug
store.... The hen, she passed away this mornin' about daybreak. She
bled quite a lot, but I got most of it in that rubber bag, and when
Jeremiah was ready for his gallop----"
"You put it in his mouth?"
Old Man Curry nodded.
"Oh, why didn't you tell me?" wailed the Bald-faced Kid. "I could
have cleaned up!"
"I started in to tell you, son, and you said I ought to have my head
examined. And then, I kind of like to surprise folks, Frank. I knew
you wouldn't have the nerve to bet on a bleeder like Jeremiah, so I
had some bettin' done for you." Old Man Curry fumbled in his pocket
and produced a roll of bills. "Solomon says there's a time to get,
and I don't know of any better time than get-away day!"
ELIPHAZ, LATE FAIRFAX
When Old Man Curry's racing string arrived at the second stop on the
Jungle Circuit the Bald-faced Kid met the horse car in the railroad
yards and watched the thoroughbreds come down the chute into the
corral. One by one he checked them off: Elisha, the pride of the
stable; Elijah, Isaiah, Ezekiel, Esther, Nehemiah, Ruth, and
Jeremiah. The aged owner, straw in mouth and hands clasped behind
him, watched the unloading process narrowly giving an order now and
then and sparing no more than a nod for his young friend. This sort
of welcome did not discourage the Kid. He was accustomed to the old
man's spells of silence, as well as his garrulous interludes.
"They look all right, old-timer," said the Kid, making conversation
for its own sake. "Yes, sir, they look good. The trip didn't bother
'em much. Elisha, now, I'd say he was ready to step out and bust a
track record as soon as he gets the cinders out of his ears.
Shouldn't wonder if he----"
The aimless chatter died away into amazed silence. Shanghai, the
hostler, appeared at the head of the chute leading a large,
coal-black horse.
"Well, for Heaven's sake!" muttered the Kid, moving nearer the fence,
his eyes glued on the black stranger. "Where did you pick up that
fellow?... One white forefoot. H-m-m!... Say, you don't mean to tell
me this is Fairfax?"
Old Man Curry nodded.
"Fairfax!" ejaculated the Bald-faced Kid disgustedly. "Well, how in
the name of all that is good, great, and wise did you get that
crowbait wished on you?"
Old Man Curry threw away his straw and reached for his packet of fine
cut, a sure sign that he was about to unburden himself.
"He wa'n't wished on me, Frank. Jimmy Miles was stuck with a feed
bill, and at the last minute, just as I was loadin' my hosses,
he----"
"He stuck you with _that_," finished the Kid, pointing at the black
horse.
"Well, I dunno's I'd say _stuck_," remarked Old Man Curry, looking
critically at Fairfax. "Jimmy sold him to me for next to nothing."
"And you can bet he didn't misrepresent the goods any!" said the Kid.
"That's exactly what Fairfax is--next to nothing. He's so near
nothing that a lot of folks can't tell the difference. If you said to
me: 'This is a black horse named Fairfax and that over there is
nothing,' I couldn't tell which was which. Old-timer, you're in bad."
"Mebbe I am." Old Man Curry's tone was apologetic and conciliating in
the extreme. "Mebbe I am. You ought to know 'bout hosses, Frank. You
most gener'ly do."
"Cut out the sarcasm, because here's one I _do_ know.... You made a
sucker of me on Jeremiah, but don't rub it in. This Fairfax looks
like a stake horse and on his breeding he ought to run like one, but
he simply can't untrack himself in any kind of going. If hay was two
bits a ton and this black fellow had an appetite like a humming bird,
he wouldn't be worth feeding. I'm telling you!"
"I hear you, Frank." Old Man Curry pretended to reflect deeply, but
there was a shifting light in his eye. "Ah, hah! Your advice, then,
would be to take him out and shoot him to save expense?"
"Oh, quit your kidding, old-timer. You've bought a race horse; now go
ahead and see what you can do with him."
"Well, ain't that queer?" ejaculated the old man. "Ain't it? Great
minds run in the same channels, for a fact. You know, that's exackly
what I was figgerin' to do! I ain't had time to look this black hoss
over yet--I bought him just before we pulled out of the railroad
yards--but I've been expectin' to see what I could do with him.
Whenever I get hold of a hoss that ought to run--a hoss that looks
as if he could run, but ain't doin' it--the next thing I want to find
out is _why_. If I thought there was a cold strain in Fairfax, I
wouldn't waste a minute on him, but I know he's bred right. His daddy
was sure a go-getter from 'way up the creek and his mother was a
nice, honest little mare and game as a badger.... And, speakin' about
breeding, Frank, I don't know's you ever thought of it, but when it
comes to ancestors, a real thoroughbred hoss has got something on a
human being. Even Fairfax over there had his ancestors picked out for
him by folks who knew their business and was after results--go back
with him as far as you like and that'll be true. A hoss or a mare
without class can't ring in on a family tree, whereas humans ain't
noways near that partickler. Son, good looks has made grandfathers
out of lots of men that by rights should have been locked up instead
of married. Did you ever think of that?"
The Bald-faced Kid laughed.
"I think that you're putting up a whale of an argument to excuse
yourself for shipping that black hay burner around the country. You'd
save breath by admitting that Miles slipped one over on you."
"Mebbe he did and mebbe he didn't. Jimmy Miles don't know all there
is to be knowed about hosses--coming right down to it, I'd say he's
pretty near ignorant. Like as not he's overlooked something about
this Fairfax. I tell you, on his breeding, the hoss ought to run."
"And Al Engle ought to be in jail, but he ain't. He's here, big as
life."
"And aspreading himself like a green bay tree, I reckon," said the
old man. "I've lopped a few branches off that rascal in my time, and
if I have any luck I'll lop off a few more at this meeting.... Ole
Maje Pettigrew is still the presiding judge here, ain't he?"
"Sure. They can't get rid of him."
"A lot of crooks would like to." There was a trace of grimness in the
old man's tone. "Pettigrew won't stand for no monkey business,
pullin' a boss's head off on Monday and cuttin' him loose on Tuesday.
They've got to be middlin' consistent p'formers to get by the major,
and if Al Engle goes runnin' 'em in and out he'll get his jacket
dusted good; you mark what I say!"
The Bald-faced Kid shook his head.
"That's your hope talking now," said he, "and not your common sense.
These race-track judges have been after The Sharpshooter a long time,
but I notice he's still wearing an owner's badge and coming in at the
free gate. He's a crook--no getting away from it--but he's got
high-up friends."
"Let him have 'em!" snapped Old Man Curry. "You know what Solomon
says? 'Though hand join in hand, the wicked shall not be unpunished.'
Let Engle have his pull; it won't buy him a nickel's worth with ole
Maje Pettigrew. When he starts dealin' out justice, the cards come
off the top of the deck and they lay as they fall. The major will get
him, I tell you!"
"I won't go into deep mourning if he does," said the Kid. "Al Engle
is no friend of mine, old-timer. If he was overboard in fifty feet of
water and couldn't swim a lick, I'd toss him a bar of lead--that's
how much I think of him. He did me a mean trick once and I haven't
got over it yet. He--say! Don't you feed that black horse, or what?"
"Huh? _Feed_ him? Of course we feed him! Why?"
"You don't feed him enough or he wouldn't be trying to eat up the top
rail of the fence. Take a look, will you?"
Sure enough, Fairfax was gnawing at the pine board; the grating rasp
of his teeth became audible in the silence. After a time the horse
dropped his head and gulped heavily.
"Suffering mackerel!" ejaculated the Kid. "He ain't really
_swallowing_ those splinters, is he?"
The time came when the Bald-faced Kid recalled that Old Man Curry's
next remark was not a direct reply to his question. After a careful
survey of the black horse the patriarch of the Jungle Circuit spoke.
"What Jimmy Miles don't know about hosses would fill a big book!"
Ten days later Fairfax, running in Old Man Curry's colours and under
the name of Eliphaz, won a cheap selling race from very bad
horses--won it in a canter after leading all the way. The Bald-faced
Kid, a student to whom past performance was a sacred thing, was
shocked at this amazing reversal of form and sought Old Man
Curry--and information.
"I don't know how you do it!" said the youth. "All I can say is that
you're a marvel--a wizard. This Fairfax----"
"Eliphaz, son," said the old man. "Eliphaz. I got his name changed."
"And his heart too," said the Kid. "And maybe you got him a new set
of legs, or lungs, or something? Well, Eliphaz, then--do you know how
fast that bird stepped the first half mile?"
Old Man Curry nodded.
"I reckon I do," said he simply. "I bet quite a chunk on him."
"But of course you wouldn't open up and tell a friend!" The
Bald-faced Kid was beginning to show signs of exasperation. "You're
the fellow that invented secrets, ain't you, old-timer? You're by a
clam out of an oyster, you are! Never mind! Don't say it! I can tell
by the look in your eye that Solomon thought the clam was the king of
beasts. What I want to know is this: how did that black brute come to
change his heart at the same time with his name?"
"I dunno's there was ever anything wrong with his _heart_," said Old
Man Curry. "Lots of folks make that mistake and think a man's heart
is bad when it's only his habits that need reformin'. Now Eliphaz, on
his breeding, he ought to----"
"Yes, yes! I know all about his breeding--by Stormcloud out of
Frippery--but he never ran to his breeding before. The way he ran for
Jimmy Miles you'd have thought he was by a steam roller out of a
wheelbarrow. What in Sam Hill have you been doing to him--sprinkling
powders on his tongue?"
The old man's eyes flashed wrathfully.
"You know better'n that, Frank. All the help the black hoss had was
what little bit Mose give him after the barrier went up. Ketch me
handing the drug habit to a dumb critter! I guess _not_!"
"Keep your shirt on," was the soothing reply. "I'm only telling you
what they say. They think Jimmy Miles didn't know the right
prescription."
"A lot of things he don't know besides p'scriptions!" retorted Old
Man Curry, still nettled. "Hosses, for one!"
"But you're getting away from the subject, old-timer. Ain't you going
to tell me what you've done to this horse to make him win?"
"Some day, Frank--some day." The aged horseman combed his white beard
with his fingers and regarded his impatient young friend with benign
tolerance. "You--got many clients, so far?" Thus tactfully did Old
Man Curry recognise the fact that the Bald-faced Kid was what another
man might have called a tout.
"A few, yes," said the Kid. "Pikers."
"Well, sort of whisper to 'em that Eliphaz'll be a good bet the next
time out."
"If it's a dog race, there won't be any price on him," was the sulky
response.
"It won't be a dog race," said Old Man Curry. "It'll be a hoss race."
A few days afterward the Bald-faced Kid picked up the overnight entry
slip and there found something which caused him to emit a long, low
whistle.
"Well, the poor old nut!" murmured the Kid. "Just because he thinks
well of the black horse, he's got no license to slip him in against
the real ones.... Too much class here for Eliphaz. He may be able to
beat dogs and nonwinners, but Topaz and Miss Louise will run the
eyeballs out of him. Let's see--Topaz won his last start----" and the
Bald-faced Kid fell to thumbing his form charts.
Topaz and Miss Louise did not run the eyeballs out of Eliphaz; the
supposed contenders never got near enough to the black horse to give
him a race. Eliphaz burst out in front when the barrier rose and
stayed there, triumphantly kicking clods in the faces of his
pursuers. To quote from the form chart notes: "Eliphaz much too good;
surprised the talent by winning as he pleased."
He certainly surprised the Bald-faced Kid, and grieved him too, for
that youth had persuaded a most promising client to bet his last
dollar on Topaz. Topaz was second, which was some consolation, but
the horse without any license to start in such company passed under
the wire with three lengths to spare, his mouth wide open because of
a strong pull. That night Old Man Curry poured vinegar into the
wound.
"Well, son," said he, "I hope and trust you remembered what I said
and cashed in on the black hoss to-day. They was offerin' 10 to 1 on
him in the openin' betting. He's an improved hoss, ain't he?"
"He's _another_ horse!" grunted the Kid. "Mose had to choke him all
the way down the stretch to keep him from breaking a track record!
What on earth have you done to him?"
"That's what they'd all like to know," chuckled the old man. "'A word
spoken in due season, how good it is!' I spoke one a few days ago.
Did you heed it, Frank?"
"How in hell could I figure him to beat Topaz?" snarled the Kid. "On
his past performance he ain't even in the same class with horses like
he beat to-day!"
Old Man Curry smiled and returned to Solomon.
"'A scorner seeketh wisdom and findeth it not, but knowledge is easy
unto him that understandeth.'"
"Yes--'unto him that understandeth!' That's the point; I don't
understand. Nobody understands. Here's a dead horse come to life and
he's got everybody guessing. Miracles are all right, but I'm never
going to bet on one until I know how it's done. Say, old-timer, ain't
you going to tell me what's happened to Eliphaz?"
"No, but I'll tell you what Solomon says 'bout a loose tongue, my
son." Old Man Curry paused, for he was addressing the vanishing coat
tails of a much-disgusted young man. The Bald-faced Kid took himself
off in a highly inflamed state of mind, and the patriarch, looking
after him, shook his head sorrowfully.
"'How much better is it to get wisdom than gold,'" he quoted, "but
Frank, now--he wants 'em both at the same time!"
There were others who were earnest in their search for information,
which became acute when Eliphaz, late Fairfax, won his fourth race, a
brilliant victory over the best horses at the track. Among the
seekers after knowledge, were Al Engle and Martin O'Connor, horsemen
and turf pirates with whom Old Man Curry had been at war for some
time. Engle, sometimes called The Sharpshooter, was the chief
conspirator; O'Connor was his lieutenant. Engle, who was responsible
for the skirmishes with Curry, had begun operations with the theory
that Old Man Curry was a harmless, brainless individual, "shot full
of luck," he expressed it. Circumstances had caused him to alter his
opinion somewhat; he no longer pitied the owner of Eliphaz and
Elisha; he suspected him. O'Connor went even farther. He respected
and feared everything bearing the Curry tag, the latter feeling
amounting almost to superstition.
These two unworthies discussed the resurrection of Fairfax, the place
of the confab being O'Connor's tackle-room and the time being the
night following the fourth straight victory of the Curry colours as
borne by Eliphaz.
"If it ain't hop he's using on that horse," said O'Connor, "I wish
you'd tell me what it is. A month ago Fairfax was a bum; now he's
pretty near a stake horse and getting better every time he starts.
Why couldn't we have a smart 'vet' look him over on the sly before he
goes to the post the next time? Then we could send word to the judge
that Curry was stimulating the horse and----"
"And create a lovely precedent," sneered Engle. "Use your head a
little more; that's what it's for. A man that hops his horses as
often as you do can't afford to start any investigations along that
line. If you must throw something at Curry, throw a brick, not a
boomerang.... And somehow I don't believe it's hop. Fairfax was
probably a good horse all the time, but Jimmy Miles didn't know it;
and, as for training, Jimmy couldn't train a goat for a butting
contest, let alone a thoroughbred for a race! Curry is a wise
horseman--I'll give the old scoundrel that much--and he's got this
bird edged up. Take it from me, he's a cracking good selling plater.
I'd like to have him in my barn."
O'Connor laughed unpleasantly. He resented Engle's easy and arrogant
assumption of mental superiority, and was thankful for a chance to
remind The Sharpshooter of one skirmish in which all the honours had
gone to Old Man Curry.
"G'wan, run him up like you did Elisha," said O'Connor. "Grab him out
of a selling race. My memory ain't what it used to be, Al, but seems
to me you took one of Curry's horses away from him and framed him up
for a killing. Did I dream it, or did the skate run last? Go on and
grab another horse away from the old boy!"
"Will you ever quit beefing about the money you lost on that race?"
snapped Engle.
"Will I ever forget who got me into it?" countered O'Connor. "And if
you'll take a tip from me--which you won't because you think you're
smarter than I am--you'll let Old Man Curry's horses alone. It ain't
in the cards that you or me can monkey with those Bible horses
without getting hurt. Grab this Fairfax, or whatever they call him
now, but count me out."
"No-o," said The Sharpshooter, his lips pursed and his brow wrinkled.
"I don't want to grab him. I'd rather get him some other way."
"Buy him, then."
Engle shook his head.
"Curry wouldn't sell--not to me, anyway. He might to some one else. I
saw Jimmy Miles this afternoon, and he was crying about what a
wonderful horse he'd sold for nothing. I wonder where I could get
hold of Jimmy?"
The following evening the Bald-faced Kid called upon his aged friend
and interrupted a heart-to-heart session in Old Man Curry's
tackle-room.
"Hello, old-timer! Hello, Jimmy! Am I butting in here?"
Jimmy Miles, a thin, sandy-haired man with pale-blue eyes and a
retreating chin, answered for both.
"No, nothing private. I've been tryin' to tell Curry here that he
kind of took a mean advantage of me when he bought Fairfax so cheap."
"Eliphaz," corrected the old man, "and it wa'n't no advantage because
you was crazy to sell."