Miles. "Booze in--brains out: the old story. If I hadn't been right
up against it, I wouldn't have sold the horse at all--attached to him
the way I was. I'd worked with him a long time, gettin' him ready to
win, and it was a mistake to let him go just when he was shapin' up.
I--I'd like to buy him back. Put a price on him, old man."
Miles stooped to extinguish a burning match end which the Kid had
thrown on the floor, and in that instant the Bald-faced Kid caught
Old Man Curry's eye and shook his head ever so slightly.
"He ain't for sale," said the owner of Eliphaz.
"Not for cash--and your own figure?" persisted Miles. Again a
wordless message flashed across the tackle-room. This time the Kid,
yawning, stretched one hand high over his head.
"Two thousand dollars!" said Old Man Curry promptly.
Miles gulped his astonishment.
"Why--why, you _got_ him for a hundred and fifty!" he cried.
"He's a better hoss than when I got him," said the old man, "and he's
won four races. Maybe he'll win four more. You asked for my figure.
You got it. Two thousand. Not a cent less."
Miles argued and pleaded, but the old man was firm.
"It ain't as if I was wantin' to sell," he explained. "I never want
to sell--when the other man wants to buy. That's business, ain't it?
Two thousand--take it or leave it."
"I'll see you later," said Miles. "You might come down some."
Hardly was he out of the room before Old Man Curry turned to his
remaining guest.
"Well, Frank," said he, "you know something. What is it?"
"I know Miles is trying to buy the black horse for Al Engle."
Old Man Curry's fist thumped upon his knee.
"Engle! How did you find that out, son?"
The Bald-faced Kid grinned.
"Everybody ain't as close-mouthed as you are, old-timer. Engle,
O'Connor, and Jimmy Miles split a quart of wine in the restaurant
under the grand stand after the last race to-day and the waiter hung
around and got an earful. O'Connor was against the deal from the
jump. He says nobody can win any money on a Bible horse without
queering his luck. Engle knows you wouldn't sell to him so he sent
Miles after you and told him what to say. He'd like to run that horse
in his colours next Saturday and win the Handicap with him."
"You're sure he ain't intending to lay him up with the books and have
him pulled, or something?"
"Not at this track, old-timer. You see, Engle is just the least
little bit leery of Pettigrew. They talked it all over and decided
that it wouldn't be healthy for him to buy a four-time winner and
make a bad showing with him the first time out. He wants the horse
for a gambling tool, all right enough, but he won't be foolish enough
to do any cheating with Eliphaz at this track. Engle says himself
that he don't dare take a chance--not with old Pettigrew laying for
him--on general principles. Engle thinks that if he buys the black
horse and wins a good race with him first time out it may pull the
wool over Pettigrew's eyes. He says Eliphaz is a cinch in the
Handicap next Saturday."
Old Man Curry fingered his beard for some time in silence.
"Blast the luck!" said he suddenly. "Why didn't I know Miles was
arepresentin' Al Engle?"
"You'd have said three thousand, eh?"
"No," said Old Man Curry. "No, son. Fifteen hundred."
"_Fifteen hundred!_ You're crazy!"
"Mebbe I am, but Solomon, he says that even a fool, if he keeps his
mouth shut tight enough, can pass for a wise man.... Frank, I wish
you'd go out and find Jimmy Miles. Sort of hint to him that if he
comes back here he won't be throwed out on his head. Do that for me,
and mebbe you won't lose nothing by it."
The negotiations for the purchase of Eliphaz were long drawn out, but
on Friday evening at dusk Old Man Curry went into the stall and said
good-bye to his four-time winner.
"Don't be so skittish!" said the old gentleman. "I ain't come to put
the strap on ye.... Habit is a great thing, black hoss, a great
thing. In this case I'm kind of dependin' on it. You know what the
dog done, don't ye? And the sow that was washed, she went wallerin'
in the mire, first chance she got. That's in the New Testament, but
Peter, he got the notion from Solomon and didn't give him credit
either.... Good-bye, black hoss, and whatever happens, good luck!"
This was at dusk, but it was close to eleven o'clock when the
transaction was completed by transfer of a fat roll of bills, which
Old Man Curry counted very carefully.
"Four hundred--five hundred--Jimmy, this hoss has got a engagement
for the Handicap to-morrow--seven hundred--seven-fifty--Was you
thinkin' of startin' him?"
"M--well, yes. I think he's got a chance," said Miles.
"A royal chance--'Leven hundred--twelve hundred.... In that case,
price bein' satisfactory and all, I oughtn't to hold out any
info'mation. This black hoss shouldn't be worked to-morrow mornin'.
He got his last workout to-day; the full distance, and he's ready. I
wasn't even goin' to warm him up before takin' him to the paddock.
Some hosses run better hot; some run better cold.... Fourteen
hundred--fifteen hundred, and O. K.--Better not forget that, Jimmy."
"I won't, old-timer. Guess I better take him now, eh?"
"As well now as any other time. He's your hoss."
Major Ewell Duval Pettigrew was an early riser, but he was barely
into his trousers when a bell boy tapped at his door. The major was
small and plump, with a face like a harvest moon, if you can imagine
a harvest moon wearing a bristling moustache and goatee. Horsemen
knew to their sorrow that the major owned a long memory, a short
temper, and strong prejudices. Consistent racing was his cry and woe
to the in-and-outer.
"Somebody to see me, eh?" sputtered the major. "Blankety blank it to
blank! Man can't even get his breakfast in peace! Oh, Mr. Curry. Show
the gentleman up, boy."
"Judge," said Old Man Curry, after shaking hands, "there's something
you ought to know. I bought that Eliphaz hoss from Jimmy
Miles--bought him cheap."
"And a good bargain, suh," remarked Major Pettigrew.
"Mebbe. Well, Miles has been pesterin' me for a week wantin' to buy
the hoss back. Said he never would have sold him if he hadn't been in
licker. He kind of thought I took advantage of him, he said, but it
wa'n't true, judge, not a word of it. So last night I let him buy the
hoss back--for cash. This mornin' the hoss is in Al Engle's barn."
"Ah!" Major Pettigrew twisted his goatee until it stuck out straight
from his chin. "Engle, eh?"
"He knew I never would have sold that hoss to him, so he sent Miles,"
explained Old Man Curry. "I--I've had some trouble with Engle,
judge. I beat him a few times when he wasn't lookin' for me to win.
In case anything happens, I thought I better see you and explain how
Engle got hold of the hoss--through another party."
"Yes, suh," said Major Pettigrew. "I understand yo' position
perfectly, suh. Suppose, now, you had not sold the animal. Would you
say he had a chance to win the Handicap?"
"Judge," said Old Man Curry earnestly, "I would have bet on him from
hell to breakfast. Now I don't know's I would put a nickel on him."
"Neither would I, suh. And, speaking of breakfast, Mr. Curry, will
yo' join me in a grilled kidney?"
"Thank you just the same, judge, but I reckon I better be gettin'
back to the track. I had my breakfast at sunup. I thought you ought
to know the straight of how this black hoss come to change owners."
"I am indebted to you, suh," said the major, with a bow.
Jockey Merritt, wearing Engle's colours, stood in the paddock stall
eyeing Eliphaz and listening to the whispered instructions of the new
owner.
"Get him away flying, jock, and never look back. He's a fast breaker.
Keep him in front all the way, but don't win too far."
"Bettin' much on him?" asked Merritt.
"Not a nickel. He opened at even money and they played him to 4 to
5. I don't fancy the odds, but you ride him just the same as if the
last check was down--mind that. On his workout yesterday morning he's
ready for a better race than any he's shown so far, so bring him home
in front."
The bugle blared, the jockeys were flung into the saddles and the
parade began. The race was at seven-eighths, and as the horses passed
the grand stand on the way to the post Jockey Merritt heard his name
called. Major Pettigrew was standing on the platform in front of the
pagoda, bawling through a megaphone.
"Boy, bring that black hoss over here!"
Merritt reined Eliphaz across the track, touched the visor of his cap
with his whip, and looked up inquiringly.
"Son," said Major Pettigrew, "you're on the favourite, so don't make
any mistakes with him. I want to see you ride from start to
finish--and I'm goin' to be watchin' you. That's all."
"I'll do my best, judge," was Merritt's answer.
"You see that the hoss does his best," warned the major. "Proceed
with him, son."
The Handicap was a great race, but we are concerned with but one
horse--Eliphaz, late Fairfax. When the barrier rose Jockey Merritt
booted the spurs home and tried to hurl the big black into the lead.
He might as well have tried to get early speed out of a porpoise.
Eliphaz grunted loudly and in exactly five lumbering jumps was in
last place; the other horses went on and left the favourite snorting
in the dust. Jockey Merritt raked the black sides with his spurs and
slashed cruelly with his whip--the favourite would not, could not get
out of a slow, awkward gallop.
"Blankety blank it!" exclaimed Major Pettigrew to the associate
judge. "What did I tell you, eh? Sure as a gun, Engle laid him up,
and the books made him favourite and took in a ton of money! Look at
him, will you? Ain't that pitiful?"
"He runs like a cow," said the major's assistant. "Merritt is
certainly riding him, though. He's whipping at every jump."
It was a long way around the track, and probably only one man was
really sorry for Eliphaz. Old Man Curry, at the paddock gate, shook
his head as the black horse floundered down the stretch, last by
fifty yards, the blunt spurs tearing at his sides and the rawhide
raising welts on his shoulders.
The winning numbers had dropped into position before Eliphaz came
under the wire. Major Pettigrew took one look at the horse and called
to the official messenger.
"Find Engle and tell him I want to see him!"
"Well, old-timer, here we are again with our hat in our hand!" It was
the Bald-faced Kid, at the door of Old Man Curry's tackle-room. "This
time you've put one over for fair! Major Pettigrew has just passed
out his decision to the newspaper boys."
"Ah, hah!" said the old man, looking up from the Book of Proverbs.
"His decision, eh? Was he--kind of severelike?"
"Oh, no--o! Not what you'd call severe. I suppose he could have
ordered Engle boiled in oil or hung by the neck or something like
that, but the major let him down light. All he did was to rule him
off the turf for life!"
"Gracious Peter! You don't tell me!"
"Yes, and his horses too. The whole bunch! Engle is almost crazy. He
swears on his mother's grave that he's in-no-cent and he's going to
appeal to the Jockey Club and have Eliphaz examined by a 'vet' and
the Lord knows what all. Oh, he's wild! It seems that Pettigrew
wanted him to prove that he'd backed the horse and he couldn't
produce the losing tickets. If Merritt hadn't half killed the horse,
Pettigrew would have got him too."
"Well, well!" said the old man, turning back to Proverbs. "I was just
readin' something here. 'He that seeketh mischief, it shall come unto
him.' Engle has been seekin' mischief a long time now and look what
he's got."
"Too true, old-timer," said the Bald-faced Kid, "but who was it
ordered the mischief wrapped up and delivered to him? Come through!"
"Hold up your right hand!" said Old Man Curry.
"Cross my heart and hope to die if I ever tell!" said the Kid. "Now
then, come clean."
"Frank," said the old man, "do you remember when we was unloadin' the
hosses and ketched Eliphaz bitin' at the fence?... You do? Then you
ought to be ashamed to ask any questions, because if you know hosses
like you should know 'em--in your business--you wouldn't need to ask
questions.
"Eliphaz is a cribber, and a cribber is a hoss that sucks itself full
of wind like a balloon. I knew the minute I see him drop his head and
swallow that way that cribbin' was what ailed him. That explained his
bein' such a bad race hoss. Jimmy Miles probably never done a thing
to correct that habit--didn't know he had it, likely.
"Well, the first thing I did was to keep the hoss's head tied high in
the daytime, because no hoss will crib unless he can get his head
down. Then at night I put on a cribbin' strap and buckled it tight
around his neck. He could get his head down all right, but he
couldn't suck any air. With that habit corrected, Eliphaz was a great
hoss.
"When I found out that Engle wanted to buy him, I let Eliphaz crib
all day Friday, after he'd been worked, and when I sold him I didn't
sell the strap. That's all, Frank. When he went to the post he was so
full of air that if Merritt hadn't been settin' on him he'd have gone
up like a balloon. That's why I warned you not to let anybody bet on
him.... Did you do pretty well, Frank?"
"I got a toothful while some other folks was getting a meal,"
answered the Kid. "Just one thing more: where did you get that
name--Eliphaz?"
"That was a sort of a joke," confessed the old man. "Once there was a
party named Job, and he had all sorts of hard luck. Some of that hard
luck was in not bein' able to lose his friends. They used to come and
see him and hold a lodge of sorrow and set on the ground and talk and
talk--whole chapters of talk--and the windiest one of 'em all----"
"I get you!" chuckled the Bald-faced Kid. "That was Eliphaz!"
Old Man Curry nodded.
"'Knowledge is easy unto him that understandeth,'" he quoted.
"Yes, but an inside tip now and then never hurt anybody," said the
Bald-faced Kid. "Declare me in on the next miracle, will you?"
THE REDEMPTION HANDICAP
"Well, old sport, are you going to slip another one over on 'em
to-day?"
"What do you think of Jeremiah's chances, Mr. Curry?"
"Can this black thing of yours beat the favourite?"
"There's even money on Jeremiah for a place; shall I grab it?"
Old Man Curry, standing at the entrance to a paddock stall, lent an
unwilling ear to these queries. He was a firm believer in the truth,
but more firmly he believed in the fitness of time and place. The
whole truth, spoken incautiously in the paddock, has been known to
affect closing odds, and it was the old man's habit to wager at post
time, if at all. Those who pestered the owner of the "Bible stable"
with questions about the fitness of Jeremiah and his chances to be
first past the post went back to the betting ring with their
enthusiasm for the black horse slightly abated. Old Man Curry
admitted, under persistent prodding, that if Jeremiah got off well,
and nothing happened to him, and it was one of his good days, and he
didn't get bumped on the turn, and the boy rode him just right, and
he could stay in front of the favourite, he might win. Pressed
further, a note of pessimism developed in the patriarch's
conversation; he became the bearded embodiment of reasonable doubt.
Curry's remarks, rapidly circulating in the betting ring, may have
made it possible for Curry's betting commissioner, also rapidly
circulating at the last minute, to unload a considerable bundle of
Curry's money on Jeremiah at odds of 5 and 6 to 1.
One paddock habitue, usually a keen seeker after information, might
have received a hint worth money had he come after it. Old Man Curry
noted the absence of the Bald-faced Kid, and when the bugle sounded
the call to the track he turned the bridle over to Shanghai, the
negro hostler, and ambled into the betting ring in search of his
young friend. The betting ring was the Kid's place of business--if
touting is classed as an occupation and not a misdemeanour--but Old
Man Curry did not find him in the crowd. It was not until the
horseman stepped out on the lawn that he spied the Kid, his elbows on
the top rail of the fence, his chin in his hands, and his back
squarely turned to the betting ring. He did not even look around when
the old man addressed him.
"Well, Frank, I kind of expected you in the paddock."
The Kid was staring out across the track with the fixed gaze of one
who sees nothing in particular; he grunted slightly, but did not
speak.
"Jeremiah--he's worth a bet to-day."
"Uh-huh!" This without interest or enthusiasm.
"I saw some 5 to 1 on him just now."
The Kid swung about and glanced listlessly toward the betting ring.
Then he looked at the horses on their way to the post. The old man
read his thought.
"You've got a couple of minutes yet," said he. "Mebbe more; there's
some bad actors in that bunch, and they'll delay the start."
The Kid looked again at the betting ring; then he shook his head.
"Aw, what's the use?" said he irritably. "What's the use?"
Old Man Curry's countenance took on a look of deep concern.
"What ails you, son? Ain't you well?"
"Well enough, I guess. Why?"
"Because I never see you pass up a mortal cinch before."
The Kid chuckled mirthlessly. "Old-timer," said he, "I'm up against a
cinch of my own--but it's a cinch to lose."
He returned to his survey of the open field, but Old Man Curry
lingered. He stroked his beard meditatively.
"Son," said he at length, "Solomon says that a brother is born for
adversity. I don't know what a father is born for, but I reckon it's
to give advice. Where you been the last week or ten days? It's
mighty lonesome round the stable without you."
"I'm in a jam, and you can't help me."
"Mebbe not, but it might do some good to talk it all out of your
system. You know the number, Frank."
"You mean well, old-timer," said the Kid; "and your heart's in the
right place, but you--you don't understand."
"No, and how can I 'less you open up and tell me what's the matter?
If you've done anything wrong----"
"Forget it!" said the Kid shortly. "You're barking up the wrong tree.
I'm trying to figure out how to do right!"...
That night the door of Old Man Curry's tack room swung gently open,
and the aged horseman, looking up from his well-thumbed copy of the
Old Testament, nodded to an expected visitor.
"Set down, Frank, and take a load off your feet," said he hospitably.
"I sort of thought you'd come."
For a time they talked horse, usually an engrossing subject, but
after a bit the conversation flagged. The Kid rolled many cigarettes
which he tossed away unfinished, and the old man waited in silence
for that which he knew could not long be delayed. It came at last in
the form of a startling question. "Old-timer," said the Kid
abruptly, "you--you never got married, did you?"
Old Man Curry blinked a few times, passed his fingers through his
beard, and stared at his questioner. "Why, no, son." The old man
spoke slowly, and it was plain that he was puzzled. "Why, no; I never
did."
"Did you ever think of it--seriously, I mean?"
Old Man Curry met this added impertinence without resentment, for the
light was beginning to dawn on him. He drew out his packet of fine
cut and studied its wrappings carefully.
"I'm not kidding, old-timer. Did you ever think of it?"
"Once," was the reply. "Once, son, and I've been thinking about it
ever since. She was the right one for me, but she got the notion I
wasn't the right one for her. Sometimes it happens that way. She
found the man she thought she wanted, and I took to runnin' round the
country with race horses. After that she was sure I was a lost soul
and hell-bent for certain. This was a long time ago--before you was
born, I reckon."
After a silence, the Kid asked another question:
"Well, at that, the race-track game is no game for a married man, is
it?"
"M-m-well," answered the patriarch thoughtfully, "that's as how a
man's wife looks at it. Some of 'em think it ain't no harm to gamble
s'long's you can win, but the average woman, Frank, she don't want
the hosses runnin' for her bread and butter. You can't blame her for
that, because a woman is dependent by nature. If the Lord had figured
her to git out an' hustle with the men, He'd have built her
different, but He made her to be p'tected and shelteredlike. A single
man can hustle and bat round an' go hungry if he wants to, but he
ain't got no right to ask a woman to gamble her vittles on any
proposition whatever."
"Ain't it the truth!" ejaculated the Bald-faced Kid, with a depth of
feeling quite foreign to his nature. "You surely spoke a mouthful
then!" Old Man Curry raised one eyebrow slightly and continued his
discourse.
"For a man even to figger on gettin' married, he ought to have
something comin' in steady--something that bad hosses an' worse men
can't take away from him. He oughtn't to bet at all, but if he does
it ought to be on a mortal cinch. There ain't many real cinches on a
race track, Frank; not the kind that a married man'd be justified in
bettin' the rent money on. Yes, sir, a man thinkin' 'bout gettin'
married ought to have a job--and stick to it!"
"And that job oughtn't to be on a race track either," supplemented
the Kid, his eyes fixed on the cigarette which he was rolling. "But
that ain't all I wanted to ask you about, old-timer. Suppose, now, a
fellow had a girl that was too good for him--a girl that wouldn't
wipe her feet on a gambler if she knew it, and was brought up to
think that betting was wrong. And suppose now that this fellow wasn't
even a gambler. Suppose he was a hustler--a tout--but he'd asked the
girl to marry him without telling her what he was, and she'd said she
would. What ought that fellow to do?"
Old Man Curry took his time about answering; took also a large
portion of fine cut and stowed it away in his cheek.
"Well, son," said he gently, "it would depend a lot on which the
fellow cared the most for--the race track or the girl."
The Kid flung the cigarette from him and looked up, meeting the old
man's eyes for the first time. "I beat you to it, old-timer! Win or
lose, I'm through at the end of this meeting. There's a fellow over
in Butte just about my age. He was a hustler too, and a pal of mine,
but two years ago he quit, and now he's got a little gents'
furnishing-goods place--nothing swell, of course, but the business is
growing all the time. He's been after me to come in with him on a
percentage of the profits, and last night I wrote him to look for me
when they get done running here. That part of it is settled. No more
race track in mine. But that ain't what I was getting at. Have I got
to tell the girl what I've been doing the last five years?"
"Would you rather have her find out from some one else, Frank?"
"No-o."
"If you want to start clean, son, the best place to begin is with the
girl."
"But what if she throws me down?"
"That's the chance you'll have to take. You've been taking 'em all
your life."
"Yes, but nothing ever meant as much to me as this does."
"Well, son, the more a woman cares for a man the more she'll
forgive."
"Did Solomon say that?" demanded the Kid suspiciously.
"No, _I_ said it. You see, Frank, it was this way with Solomon: he
had a thousand wives, more or less, and I reckon he never had time to
strike a general average. He wrote a lot 'bout women, first and last,
but it seems he only remembered two kinds--the ones that was too good
to live and the ones that wasn't worth killin'. It would have been
more helpful to common folks if he'd said something 'bout the general
run of women. You'd better tell her, Frank."
The Bald-faced Kid sighed.
"I'd rather take a licking. You're sure about that forgiving
business, old-timer?"
"It's the one best bet, my son."
"Pull for it to go through, then. Good night--and thank you."
Left alone, Old Man Curry turned the pages for a time, then read
aloud:
"'There be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four
which I know not: The way of an eagle in the air; the way of a
serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea, and
the way of a man with a maid--_the way of a man with a maid_.' Well,
after all, the straight way is the best way, and the boy's on the
right track."
A few days later Old Man Curry, sunning himself in the paddock,
caught sight of the Kid. That engaging youth had a victim pinned in a
corner and, programme in hand, was pointing the way to prosperity.
"Now, listen," he was saying; "you ain't taking a chance when you bet
on this bird to-day. Didn't I tell you that the boy that rides him is
my cousin? And ain't the owner my pal? What better do you want than
that? This tip comes straight from the barn, and you can get 20 to 1
for all your money!"