that laughs all the time ain't likely to mean it, Mose, but I don't
know's I would say that Johnson is exackly a fool. No, he's a pretty
wise man, of his breed. He owns a controllin' interest in this track
(under cover, of course), he's got a couple of books in the ring, and
the judges are with him. I reckon from what he said 'bout Walsh that
he's in with the jockey syndicate. No wonder he wins races! Sure, he
could get Walsh for me, or any other crook-legged little burglar
that would send word to Johnson what I was doing! Mose, yonder goes
the man we've got to beat!"
"Him too, boss?" Little Mose rolled his eyes. "Hawsses, judges,
jocks, an' Johnson! Sutny is a tough card to beat!"
"'A just man falleth seven times and riseth up again,'" repeated the
old man, "'but the wicked shall fall into mischief.' That's the rest
of the verse, Mose."
"Boss," said the little negro earnestly, "I don' wish nobody no hard
luck, but if somebody got to fall, I hope one of them Irish jocks
will fall in front an' git jumped on by ten hawsses!"
"Don't make any mistake about it, Curry is wise. He may look like a
Methodist preacher gone to seed, but the old scoundrel knows what's
going on. He ain't a fool, take it from me!"
The speaker was Smiley Johnson, who was addressing a small but
extremely select gathering of turf highwaymen who had met in his
tackle-room to discuss matters of importance. They were all men who
would willingly accept two tens for a five or betray a friend for
gain: Smiley Johnson, Billy Porter, Curly McManus, and Slats Wilson.
All owned horses and ran them in and out of the money, as they
pleased, and not one of them would have trusted the others as far as
a bull may be thrown by the tail.
"We can trim the old reprobate," continued Johnson, "but we can't
keep him from finding out that the clippers are on him."
"And who cares if he does know?" demanded Slats Wilson. "I'm in
favour of making it so raw that he'll take his horses and go
somewhere else. Look at what he did last season. Got Al Engle and a
lot of other people ruled off, didn't he? Raised particular hell all
over the circuit, the psalm-singing old hypocrite!"
"He's got a fine, fat chance to get anybody ruled off around this
track," interrupted Curly McManus. "These judges ain't reformers.
They know who's paying their salaries."
"Sure they do," assented Wilson, "but the longer this old rip hangs
on the more chance there is to get into a jam of some kind. He's a
natural-born trouble maker. If he loses many more races the way he
lost that one to-day, I wouldn't put it past him to go to the
newspapers with a holler. That would hurt. I'm in favour of giving
him the gate!"
"When he hasn't won a race?" argued Johnson. "Use your head, Slats.
Let him run his horses, and bet on 'em. He may squawk, but he can't
prove anything, and when he's lost enough dough he'll quit."
"Is there any way that we could frame up and get him ruled off?"
asked Porter.
"The ruling wouldn't stand," said Johnson. "Curry has got too many
friends higher up, and if we should try it and fall down it would
give the track a black eye. The sucker horsemen would be leery of
us."
"If any framing is to be done," announced McManus, "count me out now.
You fellows know Grouchy O'Connor? Him and Engle framed on Curry till
they were black in the face, and what did it get 'em? Not a nickel's
worth! You've got to admit that Al Engle was smart as they make 'em,
but O'Connor tells me that Curry made Al look like a selling-plater:
had him outguessed at every turn on the track. Let Curry run his
horses, and our boys will take care of the little nigger."
"That Elisha is quite a horse," commented Johnson. "If they take care
of him, they'll go some."
"What's the use of worrying about Elisha?" asked McManus. "Curry
hasn't started him yet at the meeting. He's trying to pick up some
dough with Elijah and Isaiah and the others. They ain't so very
much."
"Well, Elijah would have been right up there to-day if it hadn't been
for a little timely interference now and then." Johnson grinned
broadly as he spoke.
"A little timely interference!" ejaculated Wilson. "The boys did
everything to that horse but knock him over the fence!"
"And the judges didn't see a thing!" chuckled Johnson.
"Say, let's get down to business!" said Porter. "What I want to know
is this, Johnson: when are you going to cut loose with Zanzibar? You
said we'd all be in with that; there'll be a sweet price on him, and
we ought to clean up."
"Zanzibar is about ready," answered Johnson. "You'll know in plenty
of time, and he's a cinch."
"And nobody knows a thing about him," said McManus.
"Good reason why," laughed Porter. "That's a pretty smart trick:
working him away from the track."
"It's the only thing to do," said Johnson. "Zanzibar is a nervous
colt, and if I worked him on the track with the other horses he'd go
all to pieces. That's why I have Dutchy take him out on a country
road and canter him. It keeps him from fretting before a race."
"How fast can he step the three-quarters?" asked Wilson.
"Fast enough to run shoes off of anything around here," said Johnson.
"You needn't worry about that. We won't have to put him up against
the best, though. Zanzibar didn't do anything last season, and he's
bound to get a price in almost any kind of a race."
"You're sure he's under cover?"
"If he ain't under cover, a horse never was. He gets his work before
sunrise, and at that most of it is just cantering. I've set him down,
though, and I know what he can do."
"It sounds all right," admitted McManus.
"Where do we bet this money?" demanded Porter.
Johnson laughed. "That's a fool question! The less he's played at the
track the better. We'll unload in the pool rooms on the Coast, same
as we did before. Wilson here can enter Blitzen in the same race, and
they can't get away from making Blitzen the favourite: on form they'd
have to pick him to win easy. I'll let it leak out that I'm only
sending Zanzibar for a workout and to see whether he's improved any
over last season. The pool rooms won't know what hit 'em."
"Hold on!" said McManus suddenly. "Suppose Curry gets into the race."
"Bonehead!" growled Wilson. "You've got Curry on the brain. Outside
of Elisha there's no class to his string of beetles, and Elisha is a
distance horse. Three-quarters is too short for him."
"He can't get going under half a mile!" supplemented Porter.
"Well," apologised McManus, "I like to figure all the angles."...
Old Man Curry also liked to figure all the angles. He had the
utmost confidence in Solomon's statement concerning the righteous
man and the seven falls, but this did not keep him from taking the
ordinary precautions when preparing for the eighth start and the
promised rising up. He knew that the big rawboned bay horse Elijah
was a vastly improved animal, but he also desired to know the
company in which Elijah would find himself the next time out. His
investigations, while inconspicuous were thorough, and soon brought
him in contact with the name of an equine stranger.
"Zanzibar, eh?" thought the old man as he left the office of the
racing secretary. "Zanzibar? And Johnson owns him. H'm-m. I'll have
to find out about that one, sure. The others don't amount to much.
But this Zanzibar? If I only had Frank now!"
Since the Bald-faced Kid's retirement from the turf the Curry
secret-service department had consisted of Shanghai and Mose, and
there were times when the shambling hostler could be much wiser than
he looked. It was Shanghai who drew the assignment.
"Boy," said Old Man Curry, "Johnson has got a colt named Zanzibar
that starts next Saturday. I thought I knew all the hosses in
train-in' round here, but I've overlooked this one. Find out all you
can 'bout him."
"Yes, suh!" answered Shanghai. "Bes' way to do that would be to bus'
into a crap game. Misteh Johnson got a couple cullud swipes whut
might know somethin'--crap-shootin' fools, both of 'em--an' whiles
I'm rollin' them bones I could jus' let a few questions slip out.
Yes, suh, that's good way, but when you ain't shoot-in' yo' money in
the game they jus' nachelly don' know you 'mong them present. If you
got couple nice, big, moon-face' dollahs to inves', they can't he'p
but notice you. They got to do it!"
Old Man Curry smiled and dipped two fingers and a thumb into his vest
pocket.
"_Thank_ you, suh!" chuckled Shanghai, trying hard to appear
surprised. "Thank you! This sutny goin' _com_bine business with
pleasuah!"
"Get away with you!" scolded Old Man Curry.
Now, nearly every one knows that the simon-pure feed-box information,
the low-down and the dead-level tip, may be picked up behind any barn
where hostlers, exercise boys, and apprentice jockeys congregate.
Tongues are loosened at such a gathering, and the carefully guarded
secrets of trainers and owners are in danger, for the one absorbing
topic of conversation is horse, and then more horse.
Shanghai knew exactly where to go, and departed on his mission
whistling jubilantly and chinking two silver dollars in his pocket.
At the end of three hours he returned, his hamlike hands thrust deep
into empty pockets, and the look in his eye of one who has watched
rosy dreams vanish.
"Where you been all this time?" snapped his employer wrathfully. "'As
vinegar to the teeth, and as smoke to the eyes, so is a sluggard to
them that send him.' I declare, Solomon must have had some black
stable boys! What you been at, you triflin' hound?"
Shanghai smiled a sorrowful smile and shook his head.
"Well, you see, kunnel"--Shanghai always gave his employer a high
military rank when in fear of rebuke--"you see, kunnel, it took 'em
longer'n usual to break me this mawnin'. I start' off right good, but
I sutny bowed a tendon an' pulled up lame. Once I toss six passes at
them gamblehs----"
"Never mind that! What did you find out about Zanzibar?"
"Oh, him!" Shanghai blinked rapidly as if dispelling a vision.
"Zanzibar? Why, kunnel, they aimin' to slip him oveh Satu'day."
"Ah, hah!" Old Man Curry tugged at his white beard. "Ah, hah. I
thought so. Had him under cover, eh? Where have they been workin'
him?"
"Out on the county road 'bout two miles f'um yere. You know that nice
stretch with all them trees? Every mawnin', early, they takes him
out----"
"_Who_ takes him out?"
"Li'l white boy they calls Dutchy."
"Nobody else goes with him?"
Shanghai shook his head.
"How old is this boy?" asked the canny horseman.
"How ole? Why, kunnel, I reckon he's risin' fifteen, mebbe."
"Smart boy?"
Shanghai cackled derisively.
"I loaned him a two-bit piece, kunnel, an' he tol' me all he knowed!"
Old Man Curry fell to combing his beard, and Shanghai retreated to
the tackle-room where he found Little Mose.
"The boss, he pullin' his whiskehs an' cookin' up a job on somebody,"
remarked the hostler.
"Huh!" grunted Mose. "It's time he 'uz doin' somethin'! Betteh not
leave it _all_ to Sol'mun!"
The cooking process lasted until evening, by which time Old Man Curry
had ceased to comb his beard and was rolling a straw reflectively
from one corner of his mouth to the other.
"You, Shanghai!"
"Yes, suh! Comin' up!"
"Find that little rascal Mose and tell him I want to see him."
"Yes, suh."
"And, Shanghai?"
"Yes, suh."
"I believe I've found the way to rise up!"
"Good news!" ejaculated the startled negro, backing away. But to
himself the hostler said: "_Rise up?_ Sweet lan' o' libuhty! I wondeh
whut bitin' the ole man now?"
It was a small and very sleepy exercise boy whom Smiley Johnson
tossed into the saddle at four o'clock on Saturday morning: a boy
whose teeth were chattering, for he was cold.
"Canter him the usual distance, Dutchy," said the owner. "Then set
him down, but not for more than half a mile. Understand?"
"Y-yes, sir," stammered the boy, rubbing his eyes with the back of
one hand.
"Don't let him get hot, now!"
"No, sir; I won't."
"All right. Take him away!"
Johnson slapped Zanzibar on the shoulder, and the colt moved off in
the gloom. His rider, whose other name was Herman Getz, huddled
himself in the saddle and reflected on several things, including the
hard life of an exercise boy, the perils of the dark, and the hot cup
of coffee which he would get on his return.
Wrapped in these meditations, he had travelled some distance before
he became aware of a dark shape in the road ahead. Coming closer,
Herman saw that it was a horse and rider, evidently waiting for him.
"Howdy, Jockey Walsh!" called a voice.
The shortest cut to an exercise boy's heart is to address him as
Jockey. Herman's heart warmed toward this stranger, and he drew
alongside, trying to make out his features in the darkness.
"'Taint Walsh," said Herman, not without regret. "It's Getz."
"Jockey Getz? I don' seem to place you, jock. Where you been ridin'?
East?"
"I ain't a jock. I'm only gallopin' 'em. Who are you?"
"Jockey Jones, whut rides faw Misteh Curry. If you ain't a jock, you
sutny ought to be. You don't set a hawss like no exercise boy. Thass
why I mistook you faw Walsh."
"What horse is that?"
"This jus' one 'em Curry beetles. Whut you got, jock?"
"Zanzibar."
"Any good?"
"Well," was the cautious reply, "he ain't done anything yet."
The boys jogged on for some time in silence. "You sutny set him nice
an' easy," commented Mose. "Le's breeze 'em a little an' see how you
handle a hawss." Mose booted his mount in the ribs, chirruped twice,
and the horse broke into a gallop. Herman immediately followed suit,
and soon the riders were knee to knee, flying along the lonely road.
"Shake him up, jock!" urged Little Mose. "That all you kin get out of
him? Shake him up, if you knows how!"
Of course Herman could not allow any one to hint that he did not know
how. He went out on Zanzibar's neck and shook him up vigorously, a la
Tod Sloan in his palmy days. The colt began to draw ahead. From the
rear came shrill encouragement.
"Thass whut I calls reg'luh race ridin', jock! Let him out if he got
some lef'! Let him out!"
Carried away by these kind words, Herman forgot his instructions:
forgot everything but the thrill of the race. He drove his heels into
Zanzibar's sides and crouched low in the saddle. The cold dawn wind
cut like a knife. After a time there came a wail from the rear.
"Nothin' to it, jock! You too good! Too good! Wait faw me."
Herman drew rein, and soon Mose was alongside again. "Canter 'em a
while now," said he. "Say, who taught you to ride like that?"
"Nobody," answered Herman modestly. "I just picked it up."
"A natchel-bawn race rideh. Sometimes you finds 'em. I wish't I could
set a hawss down like that. Show me again."
"It's easy," bragged Herman, and proceeded to demonstrate that
statement. Again the compliments floated from the rear, coupled with
requests for speed, and yet more speed. Mose was not an apt pupil,
however, for he required a third lesson, and at the end of it
Zanzibar was blowing heavily. Mose suggested that they turn and go
back. "If I could git that much out of a hawss, I wouldn't take off
my cap to no jock!" said he. "Whyn't you make Johnson give you a
mount once in a while?"
"He says I ain't smart enough," was the sulky reply.
Little Mose laughed. "He jus' pig-headed, thass all ail him! You like
to git a reg'luh job ridin' faw a good man?"
"_Would_ I!"
"Well, I knows a man whut wants a good boy. See that tree yondeh?
That big one? Le's see who kin get there first!"
"It--it's pretty far, ain't it?"
"Shucks! Quahteh of a mile, mebbe. Come on!"
But it was nearer half a mile, and the three brisk sprints had told
on the colt. Boot him never so hard, it was all Herman could do to
keep Zanzibar on even terms with Mose's mount.
"You on'y foolin' 'ith me. He kin do betteh than that! We in the
stretch now; _shake him up_!"
Zanzibar was shaken up for the fourth and last time--shaken up to the
limit--and Mose was generous enough to say that the race was a dead
heat.
As the boys brought the horses to a walk, another negro stepped out
from behind a tree, a blanket on his arm. Mose slipped from the
saddle and tossed the bridle to Shanghai.
"Ain't you goin' to ride back to the track?" demanded Herman.
"No. My boss, he always wants this skate blanketed an' led round a
while.... Sufferin' mackerel, jock! What you goin' do 'ith that
hawss? Shave him?"
Then for the first time Herman realised that Zanzibar was lathered
with sweat; for the first time also he recalled his instructions.
"I can't take him back like that!" he cried. "Johnson'll kill me! He
told me not to get this horse hot: and look at him!"
"He sutny some _warm_," said Shanghai critically. "He steamin' like a
kettle!"
"Whut if he is?" asked Mose. "We kin fix that all hunky-dory, an'
Johnson, he won't neveh know."
"How can we fix it?"
"Got to let that sweat dry first," warned Shanghai.
"And then wipe it off," said Mose.
"It comes off easy when it's dry," supplemented Shanghai as he
started down the road with the other horse.
"Let him stand a while," said Mose. "We'll tie him up to this tree.
Pity you ain't ridin' some 'em races Johnson's jock tosses off. Once
round that limb's enough. He'll stand."
And for rather more than half an hour the good colt Zanzibar shivered
in a cold wind while Herman warmed himself in the genial glow of
flattering speeches and honeyed compliments.
"He looks dry now," said Mose at length. "We'll rub him down with
grass. See how easy it comes off an' don't leave no marks neither.
Mebbe you betteh not say anythin' to yo' boss 'bout this."
"Say, you don't think I'm a fool, do you?"
"Sutny not! I see yo' a pretty wise kid, all right!"
"If I could only get that reg'lar job you was talkin' about!"
"It boun' to come, jock, boun' to come! You be steerin' 'em down 'at
ol' stretch one of these days, sure! If we jus' had a li'l wateh,
now, we could do a betteh job on 'is hawss."
"He's shakin' a lot, ain't he?" asked Herman.
"Nuhvous, thass all ail him. My side 'mos' clean a'ready; how you
gettin' along?"
Smiley Johnson stood at the entrance to his paddock stall shaking
hands with acquaintances, slapping his friends on the back, and
passing out information. "I don't know a great deal about this
horse," he would remark confidently. "He wasn't much account last
season--too nervous and high-strung. I'm only sending him to-day to
see what he'll do, but of course he never figured to beat horses like
Blitzen. Not enough class."
Curly McManus forced his way into Zanzibar's stall and moved to the
far corner where Johnson followed him.
"Curry is in the betting ring," McManus whispered.
"Well, what of that?"
"He's betting an awful chunk of dough on Elijah; they're giving him 4
and 5 to 1."
"The more he bets the more he'll lose."
"But it ain't like him to unbelt for a chunk unless he _knows_
something."
Johnson chuckled.
"Most of his betting is done in books where I've got an interest.
D'you think they'd be laying top prices on Elijah if they didn't know
something too?"
"I guess that's right, Smiley. You didn't warm this one up to-day.
Why?"
"It would make him too nervous: the crowd, and all."
"He's fit, is he?"
"Fitter than a snake! We're getting 8 and 10 to 1 in the pool rooms
all over the Coast, and I wish we'd gone even stronger with him. Here
comes Curry now. Listen to me kid him!"
The old man entered the paddock from the betting ring, bound for
Elijah's stall. Johnson halted him with a shout. "Well, old
Stick-in-the-mud! You trying to-day?"
"I'm always tryin'," answered Curry mildly. "My hosses are always
tryin' too."
"Wish you a lot of luck!"
"Same to you, sir; same to you."
"But everybody can't win."
"True as gospel. I found that out right here at this track."
Old Man Curry continued on his way as calm and untroubled as if his
pockets were not loaded down with pasteboards calling for a small
fortune in the event of Elijah's winning the race. His instructions
to Little Mose were brief:
"Get away in front and stay there."
A few moments later Johnson and McManus leaned over the top rail of
the fence and watched the horses on their way to the post.
"That colt of yours looks a little stiff to me," said McManus
critically.
"Nonsense! He may be a bit nervous, but he ain't stiff."
"Well, I _hope_ he ain't. Curry's horse looks good."
Later they levelled their field glasses at the starting point.
Johnson could see nothing but his own colours: a blazing cherry
jacket and cap; McManus spent his time watching Little Mose and
Elijah.
"Smiley, that nigger is playing for a running start."
"Let him have it. Zanzibar'll be in front in ten jumps. Hennessey
knows just how to handle the colt, and he's chain lightning on the
break."
"I suppose the boy on Blitzen'll take care of the nigger if he has
to. Slats gave him orders. _They're off!_"
Johnson opened his mouth to say something, but the words died away
into a choking gurgle. Instead of rushing to the front, the cherry
jacket was rapidly dropping back. It was McManus who broke the
stunned silence.
"In front in ten jumps, hey? He's _last_ in ten jumps, that's what he
is: stiffer'n a board! And look where Curry's nigger is, will you?"
"To hell with Curry's nigger!" barked Johnson. "Look at the colt!
He--he can't untrack himself: runs like he was all bound up somehow!
Something has gone wrong, sure!"
"You bet it has!" snarled McManus. "Quite a pile of dough has gone
wrong, and some of it was mine too!"
A comfortable ten lengths to the good at the upper turn, Little Mose
addressed a few vigorous remarks to his mount.
"This a nice place faw us to stay, 'Lijah! Them Irish boys all behin'
us! Nobody goin' bump you to-day! Nobody goin' slash you 'ith no
whip! Go on, big red hawss! Show 'em how we risin' up!"
"The nigger'll win in a romp!" announced McManus disgustedly.
"Oh, dry up! I want to know what's happened to Zanzibar!"
"I can tell you what's _going_ to happen to him," remarked the
unfeeling McManus. "He's going to finish last, and a damn bad last at
that. Why, he can't get up a gallop! Didn't you know any more than to
start a horse in that condition?"
"But how the devil did he get stiff all at once?" howled Johnson.
"That's what you'd better find out. How do we know you didn't cross
us, Johnson? It would be just like you!"
Old Man Curry, watching at the paddock gate, thrust his hands under
the tails of his rusty frock coat and smiled.
"'A just man falleth seven times and riseth up again!'" he quoted
softly. "And the wicked: well, they'll have a mighty lame hoss on
their hands, I reckon."
Mose began checking Elijah, several lengths in front of the wire.
"Don't go bustin' a lung, hawss," said he. "Might need it again. You
winnin' by a mile. A-a-a mile. Sol'mun was right, but maybe he
wouldn't have been if I hadn't done some risin' up myse'f this
mawnin'! Whoa, hawss! This where they pay off! We th'oo faw the day!"
Old Man Curry was striding down the track from the judges' stand when
he met a large man whose face was purple and his language purple
also.
"Man, don't talk like that!" said Curry reprovingly. "And ca'm down
or you'll bust an artery. You can't win _all_ the time: that's what
you told me."
Johnson sputtered like a damp Roman candle, but a portion of his
remarks were intelligible.
"Oh, Zanzibar?" said Old Man Curry. "He's a right nice colt. He ought
to be. He pretty nigh run the legs off my 'Lisha this mornin'."
"Wha--_what's that_?"
"Yes," continued Old Man Curry, "they had it back an' forth up that
road, hot an' heavy. I expect maybe Zanzibar got a chill from
sweatin' so hard."
Out of the whirl of Mr. Johnson's remarks and statements of intention
Curry selected one.
"No," said he, "I reckon you won't beat that German kid to death. He
didn't know any better. You won't lay a finger on him, because why?
He's on a railroad train by now, goin' home to Cincinnati. I reckoned
his mother might like to see him. And you ain't goin' to make no
trouble for me, Johnson. Not a mite. You might whip a little kid, you
big, bulldozin' windbag, but I reckon you won't stand up to a man, no
matter how old he is!"
"I--I'll have your entries refused!"
"Don't go to no such trouble as that," was the soothing reply. "There
won't be no more Curry entries at this track. A just man might fall
down seven times again in such a nest of thieves an' robbers! Tell
that to your judges, an' be damned!"
And, head erect, shoulders squared, and eyes flashing, Old Man Curry
started for the betting ring to collect his due.
EGYPTIAN CORN