away but for the Kid's compelling eye. At last he thought of
something to say:
"If this here Bismallah is such a hell-clinkin' good race horse, how
come they ain't _all_ bettin' on him?"
"Why ain't they?" the Kid fairly squealed. "Because we've been lucky
enough to keep him under cover from everybody! That's why! Nobody
knows what he can do; the stable money won't even be bet here for
fear of tipping him off; it'll be bet in the pool rooms all over the
Coast. He'll walk in, I tell you--just _walk_ in! Why, say! You
don't think I'd tell you this if I didn't know it was _so_? Here
comes the owner. I'll go talk with him. You wait right here!"
It was really the owner of Bismallah, who, speaking out of the corner
of his mouth, told the Bald-faced Kid to go to a warmer clime. The
hustler returned to his victim instead.
"He says it's all fixed up; everything framed; play him across the
board. Come on!"
The victim allowed himself to be dragged in the direction of the
betting ring, and Old Man Curry watched the proceedings with a
whimsical light in his eye. Later he found a chance to discuss the
matter with the Kid. The last race was over, and Frank was through
for the day.
"You're persuadin' 'em pretty _strong_, ain't you, son?" asked the
old man. "You used to give advice; now you're makin' 'em _take_ it
whether they want to or not."
"Where do you get that stuff?" demanded the Kid, bristling
immediately.
"Why, I saw you working on that big fellow in the grey suit. I was
afraid you'd have to hit him on the head and go into his pocket after
it. Looked to me like he wasn't exackly crazy to gamble."
"Oh, him!" The tout spat contemptuously. "Do you know what that piker
wanted to bet? Six dollars, across the board! I made him loosen up
for fifteen, and he howled like a wolf."
"The hoss--lost?" By the delicate inflection and the pause before the
final word, Old Man Curry might have been inquiring about the last
moments of a departed friend. The Kid was looking at the ground, so
he missed the twinkle in the old man's eyes.
"He ran like an apple woman," was the sullen response. "Confound it,
old-timer, I can't pick 'em every time!"
"No, I reckon not," said the patriarch. "I--reckon--not." He lapsed
into silence.
"Aw, spit it out!" said the Kid after a time. "I'd rather hear you
say it than feel you thinking it!"
Old Man Curry smiled one of his rare smiles, and his big, wrinkled
hand fell lightly on the boy's shoulder.
"What I was thinking wasn't much, son," said he. "It was this: if you
can make total strangers open up and spend their substance for
something they only think is there, you ought to get rid of an awful
lot of shirts and socks and flummery--the things that folks can see.
If you can sell stuff that _ain't_, you surely can sell stuff that
_is_!"
"I'm sick of the whole business!" The words ripped out with a snarl.
"I used to like this game for the excitement in it--for the kick. I
used to like to see 'em run. Now I don't give a damn, so long as I
can get some coin together quick. And the more you need it the harder
it is to get! To-day I had four suckers down on different horses in
the same race, and a sleeper woke up on me. Four bets down and not a
bean!"
The twinkle had gone from the old man's eyes.
"Four hosses in one race, eh? Do you need the money that bad, son?"
For answer the Kid plunged his hand into his pocket and brought out a
five-dollar gold piece and a small collection of silver coins which
he spread upon his palm.
"There's the bank roll," said he, "and don't tell me that Solomon
pulled that line about a fool and his money!"
The old man calmly appraised the exhibit of precious metals before he
spoke.
"How come you to be down so low, son?"
"I was trying to win myself out a little stake," was the sulky
answer; "but they cleaned me. That's why I'm hustling so hard. It's a
rotten game, but it owes me something, and I want to collect it
before I quit!"
"Ah, hah!" said Old Man Curry, stroking his beard meditatively. "Ah,
hah! You haven't told her yet."
"No, but I'm going to. That's honest."
"I believe you, son, but did it ever strike you that mebbe she
wouldn't want you to make a fresh start on money that you got this
way? Mebbe she wouldn't want to start with you."
"Dough is dough." The Bald-faced Kid stated this point in the manner
of one forestalling all argument. "At one time and another I've
handled quite a lot of it that I got different ways, but I never yet
had any trouble passing it off on folks, and they didn't hold their
noses when they took it either. Anything that'll spend is good money,
and don't you forget it!"
"But this girl, now--mebbe she won't think so."
"What she don't know won't hurt her."
"Son, what a woman don't know she guesses and feels, and she may have
the same sort of a feelin' that I've got--that some kinds of money
never bring anybody luck. A while ago you said this game was rotten,
and yet you're tryin' to cash in your stack and pick up all the
sleepers before you quit. Seems to me I'd want to start _clean_."
"Dough is dough, I tell you!" repeated the Kid stubbornly. He turned
and shook his fist at the distant betting ring where the cashiers
were paying off the last of the winning tickets. "Look out for me,
all of you sharks!" said the boy. "From now till the end of the
meeting it's packing-house rules, and everything goes!"
"'A wise son heareth his father's instruction,'" quoted Old Man
Curry.
"I hear you, old-timer," said the Kid, "but I don't get you. Next
thing I suppose you'll pull Solomon on me and tell me what he says
about tainted money!"
"I can do that too. Let's see, how does it go? Oh, yes. 'There is
that maketh himself rich, _yet hath nothing_; there is that maketh
himself poor, yet hath great riches.' That's Solomon on the money
question, my boy."
"Huh!" scoffed the unregenerate one. "Solomon was a king, wasn't he,
with dough to burn? It's mighty easy to talk--when you've got yours.
I haven't got mine yet, but you watch my smoke while I go after it!"
Old Man Curry trudged across the infield in the wake of the good
horse Elisha. Another owner, on the day of an important race, might
have been nervous or worried; the patriarch maintained his customary
calm; his head was bent at a reflective angle, and he nibbled at a
straw. Certain gentlemen, speculatively inclined, would have given
much more than a penny for the old man's thoughts; having bought them
at any price, they would have felt themselves defrauded.
Elisha, the star performer of the Curry stable, had been combed and
groomed and polished within an inch of his life, and there were blue
ribbons in his mane, a sure sign of the confidence of Shanghai, the
hostler. He was also putting this confidence into words and telling
the horse what was expected of him.
"See all them folks, 'Lisha? They come out yere to see you win
anotheh stake an' trim that white hoss from Seattle. Grey Ghost,
thass whut they calls him. When you hooks up with him down in front
of that gran' stan', he'll think he's a ghost whut's mislaid his
graveyard, yes, indeedy! They tells me he got lots of that ol' early
speed; they tells me he kin go down to the half-mile pole in nothin',
flat. Let him _do_ it; 'tain't early speed whut wins a mile race;
it's _late_ speed. Ain't no money hung up on that ol' half-mile pole!
Let that white fool run his head off; he'll come back to you. Lawdy,
all them front runners comes back to the reg'lar hosses. Run the same
like you allus do, an' eat 'em up in the stretch, 'Lisha! Grey
Ghost--pooh! I neveh seen _his_ name on no lamp-post! I bet befo' you
git th'ough with him he'll wish he'd saved some that ol' early speed
to finish on. You ask me, 'Lisha, I'd say we's spendin' this yere
first money right _now_!"
It was the closing day of the meeting, always in itself an excuse for
a crowd, but the management had generously provided an added
attraction in the shape of a stake event. Now a Jungle Circuit stake
race does not mean great wealth as a general thing, but this was one
of the few rich plums provided for the horsemen. First money would
mean not less than $2,000, which accounted for the presence of the
Grey Ghost. The horse had been shipped from Seattle, where he had
been running with and winning from a higher grade of thoroughbreds
than the Jungle Circuit boasted, and there were many who professed to
believe that the Ghost's victory would be a hollow one. There were
others who pinned their faith on the slow-beginning Elisha, for he
was, as his owner often remarked, "an honest hoss that always did his
level best." Eight other horses were entered, but the general opinion
seemed to be that there were only two contenders. The others, they
said, would run for Sweeney--and third money.
Old Man Curry elbowed his way through the paddock crowd, calmly
nibbling at his straw. He was besieged by men anxious for his opinion
as to the outcome of the race; they plucked at the skirts of his
rusty black coat; they caught him by the arms. Serene and untroubled,
he had but one answer for all.
"Yes, he's ready, and we're tryin'."
In the betting ring Grey Ghost opened at even money with Elisha at 7
to 5. The Jungle speculators went to the Curry horse with a rush that
almost swept the block men off their stands, and inside of three
minutes Elisha was at even money with every prospect of going to
odds-on, and the grey visitor was ascending in price. The sturdy big
stretch-runner from the Curry barn had not been defeated at the
meeting; he was the known quantity and could be depended upon to run
his usual honest race.
The Ghost's owner also attracted considerable attention in the
paddock. He was a large man, rather pompous in appearance, hairless
save for a fringe above this ears, and answered to the name of "Con"
Parker, the Con standing for concrete. He had been in the cement
business before taking to the turf, and there were those who hinted
that he still carried a massive sample of the old line above his
shoulders. When cross-examined about the grey horse, he blunted every
sharp inquiry with polite evasions, but he looked wiser than any
human could possibly be, and the impression prevailed that he knew
more than he would tell. Perhaps this was true.
The saddling bell rang, and the jockeys trooped into the paddock,
followed by the roustabouts with the tackle. Old Man Curry, waiting
quietly in the far corner of Elisha's stall, saw the Bald-faced Kid
wriggling his way through the crowd. He came straight to the old man.
"Elisha's 4 to 5 now," he announced breathlessly, "and they're still
playing him hard. The other one is 5 to 2. Looks like a false price
on the Ghost, and I know that Parker is going to set in a chunk on
him at post time. What do you think about it?"
"You goin' to bet your own money, son?"
"I've got to do it--make or break right here."
"How strong are you?"
"Just about two hundred bones."
"Ah, hah!" Old Man Curry paused a moment for thought and sucked at
his straw. "Two hundred at 5 to 2--that'd make seven hundred,
wouldn't it? Pretty nice little pile."
The Kid's eyes widened. "Then you don't think Elisha can beat the
Ghost to-day?"
"I ain't bettin' a cent on him," said the old man. "Not a cent." And
the manner in which he said it meant more than the words.
"Then, shall I--?"
Old Man Curry glanced over at the grey horse, standing quietly in his
stall.
"Play that one, son," he whispered.
After the Kid had gone rocketing back to the betting ring, Curry
turned to Jockey Moseby Jones.
"Mose," said he, "don't lay too far out of it to-day. This grey hoss
lasts pretty well, so begin workin' on 'Lisha sooner than usual. He's
ready to stand a long, hard drive. Bring him home in front, boy!"
"Sutny will!" chuckled the little negro. "At's bes' thing I do!"
When the barrier rose, a grey streak shot to the front and went
skimming along the rail, opening an amazingly wide gap on the field.
It was the Ghost's habit to make every post a winning one; he liked
to run in front of the pack.
As he piloted the big bay horse around the first turn into the back
stretch, Jockey Mose estimated the distance between his mount and the
flying Ghost, taking no note of the other entries. Then he began to
urge Elisha slightly.
"Can't loaf much to-day, hawss!" he coaxed. "Shake yo'self! Li'l mo'
steam!"
The men who had played the Curry horse to odds on and thought they
knew his running habits were surprised to see him steadily moving up
on the back stretch. It was customary for Elisha to begin to run at
the half-mile pole--usually from a tail-end position--but to-day he
was mowing down the outsiders even before he reached that point, and
on the upper turn he went thundering into second place--with the
Ghost only five lengths away. The imported jockey on Parker's horse
cast one glance behind him, and at the head of the stretch he sat
down hard in his saddle and began hand riding with all his might.
Close in the rear rose a shrill whoop of triumph.
"No white hawss eveh was _game_, 'Lisha! Sic him, you big red rascal,
sic him! Make him dawg it!"
But the Ghost was game to the last ounce. More than that, he had
something left for the final quarter, though his rider had not
expected to draw upon that reserve so soon. The Ghost spurted, for a
time maintaining his advantage. Then, annihilating incredible
distances with his long, awkward strides and gathering increased
momentum with every one, Elisha drew alongside. Again the Ghost was
called on and responded, but the best he had left and all he had
left, was barely sufficient to enable him to hold his own. Opposite
the paddock inclosure, with the grand stand looming ahead, the horses
were running nose and nose; ten yards more and the imported jockey
drew his whip. Moseby Jones cackled aloud.
"You ain't _stuck_ on 'is yere white sellin' plater, is you, 'Lisha?
Whut you hangin' round him faw, then? Bid him good night _an'
good-bye_!"
He drove the blunt spurs into Elisha's sides, and the big bay horse
leaped out and away in a whirlwind finish that left the staggering
Ghost five lengths behind and incidentally lowered the track record
for one mile.
It was a very popular victory, as was attested by the leaping,
howling dervishes in the grand stand and on the lawn, but there were
some who took no part in the demonstration. Some, like Con Parker,
were hit hard.
There was one who was hit hardest of all, a youth of pleasing
appearance who drew several pasteboards from his pocket and scowled
at them for a moment before he ripped them to bits and hurled the
fragments into the air.
"Cleaned out! Busted!" ejaculated the Bald-faced Kid bitterly. "The
old scoundrel double-crossed me!"
The last race of the meeting was over when Old Man Curry emerged from
the track office of the Rating Association. The grand stand was
empty, and the exits were jammed with a hurrying crowd. The betting
ring still held its quota, and the cashiers were paying off the lines
with all possible speed. As they slapped the winning tickets upon the
spindles, they exchanged pleasantries with the fortunate holders.
"Just keep this till we come back again next season," said they.
"We're lending it to you--that's all."
Old Man Curry made one brisk circle of the ring, examining every line
of ticket holders, then he walked out on the lawn. The Bald-faced Kid
was sitting on the steps of the grand stand smoking a cigarette.
Curry went over to him. "Well, Frank," said he cheerfully, "how did
you come out on the day?"
The boy stared up at him for a moment before he spoke.
"You ought to know," said he slowly. "You told me to bet on that grey
horse--and then you went out and beat him to death!"
"Ah, hah!" said the old man.
"I was crazy for a minute," said the Kid. "I thought you'd
double-crossed me. I've cooled out since then; now I'm only sorry
that you didn't know more about what your own horse could do. That
tip made a tramp out of me, old-timer."
"Exackly what I hoped it would do, son," and Old Man Curry fairly
beamed.
"_What's that?_" The cigarette fell from the Kid's fingers, and his
lower jaw sagged. "You thought Elisha could _win_--and you went and
touted me on to the other one?"
Old Man Curry nodded, smiling.
As the boy watched him, his expression changed to one of deep
disgust. He dipped into his vest pocket and produced his silver stop
watch. "Here's something you overlooked," he sneered. "Take it, and
I'll be cleaned right!"
Old Man Curry sat down beside him, but the Kid edged away. "I
wouldn't have thought it of you, old-timer," said he.
"Frank," said the old man gently, "you don't understand. You don't
know what I was figgerin' on."
"I know this," retorted the Kid: "if it hadn't been for you, I
wouldn't have to go to Butte alone!"
"You've told her, then?"
"Last night."
"And I was right about the forgivin' business, son?"
"Didn't I say she was going to Butte with me? We had it all fixed to
get married, but now----"
"Well, I don't see no reason for callin' it off." Old Man Curry's
cheerfulness had returned, and as he spoke he drew out his
old-fashioned leather wallet. "You know what I told you 'bout bad
money, son--tainted money? You wouldn't take my word for it that
gamblers' money brings bad luck; I just nachelly had to fix up some
scheme on you so that you wouldn't have no bad money to start out
with." He opened the wallet and extracted a check upon which the ink
was scarcely dry--the check of the Racing Association for the
winner's portion of the stake just decided. "I wouldn't want you to
have bad luck, son," the old man continued. "I wanted you to have
good luck--and a clean start. Here's some money that it wouldn't hurt
anybody to handle--an honest hoss went out and run for it and earned
it, an' he was runnin' for you every step of the way! Here, take it."
He thrust the check into the boy's hand--and let it stand to his
credit that he answered before looking at it.
"I--I had you wrong, old-timer," he stammered: "wrong from the start.
I--I can't take this. I ain't a pauper, and I--I----"
"Why of course you can take it, son," urged the old man. "You said
this game owed you a stake, and maybe it does, but the only money you
can afford to start out with is clean money, and the only clean money
on a race track is the money that an honest hoss can go out and run
for--and win. No, I can't take it back; it's indorsed over to you."
Then, and not before, did the Kid look at the figures on the check.
"Why," he gasped, "this--this is for twenty-four hundred and
something! I don't _need_ that much! I--we--_she_ says three hundred
would be plenty! I----"
"That's all right," interrupted Old Man Curry. "Money--clean
money--never comes amiss. You can call the three hundred the stake
that was owin' to you; the rest, well, I reckon that's just my
weddin' present. Good-bye, son, and good luck!"
A MORNING WORKOUT
"Well, boss, they sutny done it to us again to-day. Look like it
gittin' to be a _habit_ on thisyere track!"
Thus, querulously, Jockey Moseby Jones, otherwise Little Mose, as he
trudged dejectedly across the infield beside his employer, Old Man
Curry, owner of Elisha, Elijah, Ezekiel, Isaiah, and other horses
bearing the names of major and minor prophets. Mose was still in his
silks--there were reasons, principally Irish, why the little negro
found it more comfortable to dress in the Curry tack room--and the
patriarch of the Jungle Circuit wore the inevitable rusty frock coat
and battered slouch hat. Side by side they made a queer picture: the
small, bullet-headed negro in gay stable colours, and the tall,
bearded scarecrow, the frayed skirts of his coat flapping at his
knees as he walked. Ahead of them was Shanghai, the hostler, leading
a steaming thoroughbred which had managed to finish outside the money
in a race that his owner had expected him to win: expected it to the
extent of several hundred dollars. "Yes, suh, it gittin' to be a
habit!" complained Little Mose. "Been so long since I rode into 'at
ring I fo'get what it feels like to win a race!"
"It's a habit we're goin' to break one of these days, Mose. What
happened!"
"Huh! Ast me whut didn't happen! Ol' 'Lijah, he got off good, an'
first dash--_wham_! he gits bumped by 'at ches'nut hawss o' Dyer's. I
taken him back some an' talk to him, an' jus' when I'm sendin' him
again--_pow_! Jock Merritt busts ol' 'Lijah 'cross 'e nose 'ith his
whip. In 'e stretch I tries to come th'oo on inside, an' two of 'em
Irish jocks pulls oveh to 'e rail and puts us in a pocket. 'Niggeh,'
they say to me, 'take 'at oat hound home 'e long way; you sutny neveh
git him th'oo!' They was right, boss! 'Lijah, he come fourth, sewed
up like a eagle in a cage!"
"H'm-m. And the judges didn't pay any attention when you claimed a
foul?"
Little Mose gurgled wrathfully. "Huh! I done claim _three_ fouls!
Judges, they say they didn't see no foul a-a-a-tall! Didn't see us
git bumped; didn't see Jock Merritt hit 'Lijah; didn't see us
pocketed. 'Course they didn't; they wasn't _lookin'_ faw no foul! On
'is track we not on'y got to beat hawsses; we got to beat jocks an'
judges too. How we goin' lay up any bacon agin such odds as that?"
"It can't last, Mose," was the calm reply. "'There shall be no reward
to the evil man; the candle of the wicked shall be put out.'"
"It burnin' mighty bright jus' now, boss. Sol'mun, he say that?"
Old Man Curry nodded, and Little Mose sniffed sceptically. "Uh huh.
Sol'mun he neveh got jipped out of seven races in a row!"
"Seven, eh!" The old man counted on his fingers. "Why, so it is,
Mose! This is the seventh time they've licked us, for a fact!" Old
Man Curry began to chuckle, and the jockey eyed him curiously.
"You sutny enjoy it mo'n I do, boss," said he.
"That's because you don't read Solomon," replied the owner. "Listen:
'A just man falleth seven times and riseth up again.' Mose, we're due
to rise up and smite these Philistines."
"Huh! Why not smite some 'em Irish boys first? You reckon 'em crooked
judges kin see us when we risin' up?"
"We'll have to fix it so's they can't overlook us, Mose."
"Ought to git 'em some eyeglasses then," was the sulky response.
"Seven and one--that's eight, Mose. We've got Solomon's word for it."
Jockey Moseby Jones shook his head doubtfully. "Mebbe so, boss, mebbe
so, but thisyere Sol'mun's been dead a lo-o-ng time now. He neveh got
up agin a syndicate bettin' ring an' crooked judgin'. He neveh rode
no close finish 'ith Irish jocks an' had his shin barked on 'e
fence. You kin take Sol'mun's word faw it, boss, but li'l Moseby,
he's f'um Mizzoury. He'll steal a flyin' start nex' time out an' try
to stay so far in front that no Irish boy kin reach him 'ith a
lariat!"
A big, jovial-looking man, striding rapidly toward the stables,
overtook them from the rear and announced his presence by slapping
Old Man Curry resoundingly on the back. "Tough luck!" said he with a
grin. "Awful tough luck, but you can't win all the time, you know,
old-timer!"
"Why, yes," said Curry quietly; "that's a fact, Johnson. Nobody but a
hog would want to win _all_ the time. And I wish you wouldn't wallop
me on the back thataway. I most nigh swallered my tobacco."
Johnson laughed loudly. "How do you like our track?" he asked.
"Your track is all right," answered the old man, with just a shade of
emphasis placed where it would do the most good. "A visitor don't
seem to do very well here, though," he added.
"The fortunes of war!" chuckled Johnson.
"Ah, hah," said Curry. "My boy here can tell you 'bout that. He says
the other jockeys fight him all the way round the track."
"Well," said Johnson, "you know why that is, don't you? The boys
ain't stuck on his colour, and you can't blame 'em for that, Curry.
If you had a boy like Walsh, now, it would be different."
"I'll bet it would!" was the emphatic response of Old Man Curry.
"I think I can get Walsh for you."
"No-o." Old Man Curry dropped his hand on the negro's shoulder. "No.
Mose has been ridin' for me quite some time now. He suits me first
rate."
"You're the doctor," grinned Johnson. "Do as you think best, of
course. I'm only telling you how it is."
"Thankee. I reckon I'll play the string out the way I started. Luck
might change."
"Yes, it'll run bad for a while and then turn right round and get
worse. So long!" Johnson hurried on toward the stables, laughing
loudly at his ancient jest, and Old Man Curry looked after him with a
meditative squint in his eyes.