"and he'll have Calloway and Hartshorn to beat. There ought to be a
nice price on him--4 or 5 to 1, anyway, on account of what he's been
showing lately."
"Yo' goin' bet on him, suh?"
"Straight and place," said Pitkin, "but I won't bet a nickel here at
the track. They'll be asking you about the colt and trying to get a
line on him. You tell 'em that I'm starting him a little bit out of
his class just to see if he's game--any lie will do. And if they ask
you about the stable money, we're not playing him this time."
"Yes, suh."
"You're absolutely sure he's ready?"
"Ready? Why, boss, ain't yo' been watchin' the way that colt is
workin'? Yo' kin bet 'em till they quits takin' it an' not be
scared."
"That's all I want to know, Gabe, and mind what I told you about
keeping that big mouth of yours shut. If I hear of any talk----"
"I ain't neveh talked yit, has I?"
"Well, don't pick this time to start; that's all."
That night the lights burned late in two tackle-rooms. In one of them
Old Man Curry was bringing the judgment of Solomon down to date and
fitting it to turf conditions; in the other Henry M. Pitkin was
preparing code telegrams to certain business associates in Seattle,
Portland, Butte, and San Francisco, for this was in the unregenerate
days when pool rooms operated more or less openly in the West. Mr.
Pitkin was getting ready for the annual clean-up.
The next morning he was on hand early enough to see General Duval
return from an exercise gallop, and there was a small black boy on
the colt's back.
"Come here, Gabe," said Pitkin. "Ain't that Curry's nigger jockey?"
"Yes, suh; that's Jockey Moseby Jones, suh."
"What's he doing around this stable?"
"He kind o' gittin' acquainted with the Gen'al, suh."
"Acquainted? What for?"
"Well, suh, they's a maiden race nex' Satu'day, an' I was thinkin'
mebbe the Gen'al could win it if he gits a good ride. Jockey Jones
didn't have no otheh engagement, suh, so I done hired him fo' the
'casion."
"Oh, you did, did you? Now listen to me, Gabe: I don't want anybody
from the Curry stable hanging around this place. Chances are this
little nigger will be trying to pick up an earful to carry back to
his boss, the psalm-singing old hypocrite! If Curry should find out
we're leveling with Sergeant Smith next Saturday, he might go into
the ring and hurt the price. I can't stop you putting the little
nigger on your own horse, but if he tries to make my barn a hangout,
I'll warm his jacket for him, understand? You can tell him so."
"Yes, suh," answered Gabe meekly. "Mist' Curry an' yo' bad friends,
boss?"
"We ain't any kind of friends," snapped Pitkin, "and that goes for
every blackbird that eats out of his hand!"
"I thought he was a kin' o' pious ole gentleman," said Gabe.
"He's got a lot of people fooled, Curry has," replied Pitkin with
unnecessary profanity, "but I've had his number right along. He's a
crook, but he gets away with it on account of that long-tailed
coat--the sanctimonious old scoundrel! Don't you have anything to do
with him, Gabe."
"_Me?_" said Gabe professing mild astonishment. "Humph! I reckon
_not_!"
"Always stick with your friends," said Pitkin, "and remember which
side your bread is buttered on."
"That's whut I'm aimin' to do, suh. Yo' know, boss, I sort o' figgeh
the Gen'al's got a mighty good chance nex' Satu'day in that secon'
race. A mighty good chance."
Pitkin sneered. "Going to bet on him, are you?"
"No, suh; not 'less some people pay me whut they owes me."
"You'd only blow it in if you had it," replied Pitkin. "The General's
a darn bad race horse--always was and always will be."
"They ain't nothin' in that race fo' him to beat," responded Gabe.
"He's never had anything to beat yet," said Pitkin, "and he's still a
maiden, ain't he? Better let him run for the purse, Gabe. Playing a
horse like that is just throwing good money after bad."
"Mebbe yo' right, boss," answered the old negro. "Mebbe yo' right,
but I still thinks he's got a chance."
Now, in a maiden race every horse is supposed to have a chance, not a
particularly robust one, of course, but still a chance. The maidens
are the horses which have never won a race, and every jungle circuit
is well supplied with these equine misfits. They graduate, one at a
time, from their lowly state, and the owner is indeed fortunate who
wins enough to cover the cost of probation. The betting on a maiden
race is seldom heavy, but always sporadic enough to prove the truth
of the old saw about the hope which springs eternal.
Saturday's maiden race was no exception. There was a sizzling paddock
tip on The Cricket, a nervous brown mare which had twice finished
second at the meeting, the last time missing her graduation by a
nose; others had heard that Athelstan was "trying"; there was a
rumour that Laredo was about to annex his first brackets; suspicion
pointed to Miller Boy as likely to "do something," but nobody had
heard any good news of General Duval. Those who looked him up in the
form charts found his previous races sufficiently disgraceful.
The Cricket opened favourite at 8 to 5, and when her owner heard this
he grunted deep and soulfully and swore by all his gods that the
price was too short and the mare a false favourite. He had hoped for
not less than 4 to 1, in which case he would have sent the mare out
to win, carrying a few hundred dollars of ill-gotten gains as wagers,
but at 8 to 5 tickets on The Cricket had no value save as souvenirs
of a sad occasion.
Nobody bothered about General Duval; nobody questioned old Gabe as he
led a blanketed horse round and round the paddock stalls. Old Man
Curry sat on the fence, thoughtfully chewing fine-cut tobacco and
seemingly taking no interest in his surroundings, but he saw Pitkin
as soon as that fox-faced gentleman entered the paddock, and
thereafter he watched the disciple of the double-cross closely. It
was plain that Pitkin's visit had no business significance; he was
not the sort of man to play a maiden race, and after a few bantering
remarks addressed to old Gabe he drifted back into the betting ring,
where he made a casual note of the fact that on most of the slates
General Duval was quoted at 40 to 1.
"Anybody betting on the nigger's skate?" asked Pitkin of a black man
whom he knew.
"Not a soul," was the reply. "What does the old fool start him for?"
"Because that's what he is--an old fool," answered Pitkin briefly as
he moved away.
When the first bookmaker chalked up 50 to 1 on the General, a bulky,
flat-footed negro, dressed in a screaming plaid suit with an ancient
straw hat tilted sportively over one eye, fished a wrinkled
two-dollar bill out of his vest pocket, and bet it on Gabriel
Johnson's horse. "You like that one, do you?" grinned the bookmaker.
"No, suh, not 'specially," chuckled the negro, "but I sutny likes
that long price!"
Soon there was more 50 to 1 in sight, and the flat-footed negro began
to shuffle about the betting-ring, bringing to light other wrinkled
two-dollar bills. The bookmakers were glad to take in a few dollars
on General Duval, if for no other reason than to round out their
sheets. The flat-footed negro continued to bet until he arrived at
the bottom of his vest pocket, and then he began to draw upon a fund
concealed in the fob pocket of his trousers. When the first bugle
call sounded he was betting from the right hip--and never more than
two dollars at a time.
Jockey Moseby Jones, gorgeous as a tropical butterfly in the cherry
jacket with green sleeves and the red, white and blue cap, pranced
into General Duval's paddock stall and listened intently as old Gabe
bent over him.
"Yo' ain't fo'got whut we tole yo' last night, son?" asked Gabe in
anxious tones.
"Ain't fo'got nuthin'," was the sober answer.
"'Cause eve'ything 'pend on how it _look_."
"Uh huh," replied little Mose. "I make it _look_ all right."
"This hoss, he might take a notion to run off an' leave 'em soon as
the barrier go up," cautioned Gabe. "Keep him folded up in yo' lap to
the las' minute."
"An' then set him down," supplemented Mose. "Yo' jus' be watchin' me,
thass all!"
"Lot of folks'll be watchin' yo'," warned Gabe. "Them judges, they
goin' be watchin' yo'. Remembeh, it got to look _right_!"
As Jockey Jones passed out of the paddock he clucked to his mount and
glanced over toward the fence where Old Man Curry was still sitting.
"Hawss," whispered little Mose, "did yo' see that? The ole man winked
at us!"
There must have been some truth in the rumour concerning Laredo, for
he rushed to the front when the barrier rose, with Miller Boy and
Athelstan in hot pursuit. As for The Cricket, she was all but left at
the post, and her owner remarked to himself that he'd teach 'em when
to make _his_ mare a false favourite.
The three people most interested in the cherry jacket with the green
sleeves watched it go bobbing along the rail several lengths behind
the leaders, and were relieved to find it there instead of out in
front. Had the judges been watching the bay colt they could not have
helped noticing that his mouth was wide open, due to a powerful pull
on the reins, and they might have drawn certain conclusions from
this, but they were watching The Cricket instead and mentally putting
a rod in pickle for the owner of the favourite.
Laredo led around the turn and into the stretch with Miller Boy and
Athelstan crowding him hard, but the pace was beginning to tell on
the front runners, and the rear guard was closing in on them, headed
by the cherry jacket.
"It's anybody's race," remarked the presiding judge as he squinted up
the stretch. "Lord, what a lot of beetles!"
"Yes, they're rotten," said the associate judge. "Laredo's quitting
already. Now, then, you hounds, come on! Whose turn is it to-day?"
The maidens came floundering down to the wire spread out like a
cavalry charge and covering half the track. At the sixteenth pole a
bold man would have hesitated to pick the winner; indeed, it looked
to be anybody's race, with the sole exception of The Cricket, sulking
far in the rear. It was Gabe Johnson who saw that the wraps were
still about Mose's wrists, but it was Old Man Curry who chuckled to
himself as the horses passed the paddock gate, and it was Shanghai,
Curry's negro hostler, who began to count tickets on General Duval.
"The old nigger's horse is going to be there or thereabouts to-day,"
commented the presiding judge. "Just--about--there--or--thereabouts.
Keep your eye on him, Ed--there he is on the inside. Darn these
spread-eagle finishes! They always look bad from angle!"
Thirty yards away from home a single length separated the first five
horses, and the fifth horse carried the racing colours of Gabriel
Johnson. It was cutting it fine, very fine, but little Mose had an
excellent eye for distance; he felt the strength of the mount under
him and timed his closing rush to the fraction of a second. Those who
were yelling wildly for Athelstan, Miller Boy, and the others saw a
flash of cherry jacket on the rail, caught a glimpse of a
bullet-headed little negro hurling himself forward in the
stirrups--and the race was over. Jockey Moseby Jones had brought a
despised outsider home a winner by half a length. There was a stunned
silence as the numbers dropped into place, broken only by one
terrific whoop from Shanghai, betting commissioner.
"Well," said the associate judge, looking at his chief, "what do you
make of that? The winner had a lot left, didn't he? Think the old
nigger has been cheating with him?"
The presiding judge rubbed his chin.
"No-o, Ed, I reckon not," said he. "It was a poor race, run in slow
time. And we've got to figure that the change of jockeys would make a
difference; this Jones is a better boy than Duval is used to. I
reckon it's all right--and I'm glad the old nigger finally won a
race."
"The Cricket would have walked home if she'd got away good," said the
associate judge.
"Have to look into that business," said the other. "Well, I'm glad
the old darky finally put one over!"
Many people seemed glad of it, even Mr. Pitkin, who slapped Gabe on
the back as he led the winner from the ring.
"Didn't see the race--I was down getting another drink--but they tell
me the General just lucked in on the last jump. Everything dead in
front of him, eh?"
"Yes, suh," answered Gabe, passing the halter to one of the black
stable hands. "It did look like he win lucky, that's a fac'!"
"Well, don't go to celebrating and overlook that fourth race!"
ordered Pitkin. "No gin now! You bring Sergeant Smith over to the
paddock yourself."
"Yes, suh, boss."
"And if anybody asks you about him, he's only in there for a tryout."
"Jus' fo' a tryout, yes, suh."
To such as were simple enough to expect a crooked man to return
straight answers to foolish questions, Pitkin stated (1) that he was
not betting a plugged nickel on his colt, (2) that he hardly figured
to have a chance with such horses as Calloway and Hartshorn, (3) that
he might possibly be third if he got the best of the breaks, and (4)
that he had lost his regular jockey and was forced to give the mount
to a bad little boy about whom he knew nothing.
The real truth he uncovered to Jockey Shea, a freckled young savage
who had taken up the burden where Mulligan laid it down.
"Listen, kid, and don't make any mistakes with this colt. I'm down on
him hook, line, and sinker to win and place, so give him a nice ride
and I'll declare you in with a piece of the dough. Eh? Never you
mind; it'll be _enough_. Now, then, this is a mile race, and Calloway
will go out in front--he always does. Lay in behind him and stay
there till you get to the head of the stretch, then shake up the colt
and come on with him. He can stand a long, hard drive under whip and
spur, so give it to him good and plenty from the quarter pole home.
Don't try to draw a close finish--win just as far as you can with
him, because Hartshorn will be coming from behind."
This was the race as programmed; this was the Pitkin annual clean-up
as planned. Imagine, then, Pitkin's sheer, dumb amazement at the
spectacle of Shea, going to the bat at the rise of the barrier in
order to keep his mount within striking distance of the tail end of
the procession! Imagine his wrath as the colt continued to lag in
last place, losing ground in spite of the savage punishment
administered by Shea. Imagine his sensations when he thought of the
Pitkin bank roll, scattered in all the pool rooms between Seattle and
San Francisco, tossed to the winds, burned up, gone forever, bet on a
colt that would not or could not make a respectable fight for it!
Let us drop the curtain over the rest of the race--Hartshorn won it
in a neck-and-neck drive with Calloway just as Shea was flogging the
bay colt past the sixteenth pole--and we will lift the curtain again
at the point where the judges summoned Pitkin into the stand to ask
him for an explanation of Sergeant Smith's pitiful showing.
"Now, sir," said the presiding judge; "we've been pretty lenient with
you, Mr. Pitkin. We've overlooked a lot of things that we didn't
like--a lot of things. I figured this colt to have a fair chance to
win to-day, or be in the money at least. He ran like a cow. How do
you account for that?"
"Why, judges," stammered Pitkin, "I--I don't account for it. I
_can't_ account for it. The colt's been working good, and--and----"
"And you thought he had a chance, did you?"
"Why sure, judges, and I----"
"Well, then, why did you tell your friends that the colt was only in
for a tryout? How about that?"
"I--I didn't want 'em spoiling the price, I mean, judges; I didn't
think it was anybody's business."
"Oh, so you bet on him, did you? Let's see the tickets."
And of course Mr. Pitkin had no tickets to show. He offered to
produce copies of telegrams, but the judges had him exactly where
they had been wanting to get him and they gave him a very unhappy ten
minutes. At the end of this period the presiding judge cleared his
throat and pronounced sentence. "Your entries are refused from now
on, and you are warned off this track. Take your horses somewhere
else, sir, and don't ever bring 'em back here. That's all."
To Pitkin it seemed enough.
He walked down the steps in a daze and wandered away in the general
direction of his stable. He was still in a daze when he reached his
destination, and the first thing he saw was old Gabe, his coat on and
a satchel in his hand.
"Oh, you've heard about it already, have you?" asked Pitkin dully.
"Heard whut?" And Gabe did not touch the brim of his hat.
"We've got the gate--been warned off: entries refused."
"Glory!" ejaculated the aged trainer. "Time they was gittin' onto
you!"
"What's that?" shouted Pitkin. "Why, you black hound, I'll----"
"Yo' won't do nuthin'!" said Gabe stoutly. "Pitkin, yo' an' me is
_through_; yo' an' me is _done_! Yo' made me all the trouble yo' eveh
goin' make. Nex' time they ketches yo' cheatin' on a race track I
hopes they shoot yo' head off!"
Old Gabe walked away toward the Curry barn, and all Pitkin could do
was stare after him. Then he sat down on a bale of hay and took stock
of his misfortunes.
"I reckon everything's all right, Gabe," said Old Man Curry, who was
counting money in his tackle-room. "It was sort o' risky. When a man
can't tell his own hoss when he sees him, anything is liable to
happen to him on a bush track. I've just cut this bank roll in two,
Gabe, and here's your bit. Shanghai's a good bettin' commissioner,
eh?"
Old Gabe's eyes bulged as he contemplated the size of his fortune.
"All this, suh--mine?"
"All yours--an' you better not miss that six o'clock train. Never can
tell what'll happen, you know, Gabe. Pitkin will keep General Duval,
I reckon?"
Gabe grinned from ear to ear.
"I fo'got to tell him so," he chuckled, "but he got both them hosses
now. Mist' Curry, whut yo' reckon Sol'mun would say 'bout us?"
"'The Lord will not suffer the soul of the righteous to famish,'"
quoted the horseman, "'but he casteth away the substance of the
wicked.'"
"A-a-men!" said old Gabe. "An' a fine job o' castin' away been done
this evenin'! Mist' Curry, I'm quit hoss racin' now, but yo' the
whites' man I met in all my time."
"Go 'way with you!" laughed Curry.
It was one of the black stable hands who recalled Pitkin to a sense
of his responsibilities. The roustabout approached, leading a bay
colt.
"Boss, is Gabe done quit us?"
"Huh?" grunted Pitkin, emerging from a deep-brown study. "Yes, he's
gone, confound him!"
"Well, he lef thisyer Gen'al Duval hoss behin' him. The Gen'al's
cooled out now; whut you want me to do with him?"
"Put him in his stall," mumbled Pitkin. "To-morrow I'll see if I can
get rid of him."
It is a very stupid race horse which does not know its own stall. The
stable hand released his hold on the halter and slapped the colt's
flank.
"G'long with yo'!" said he.
Then, and not until then, did Henry M. Pitkin begin to estimate his
misfortune correctly, for the bay colt which had won the maiden race
in the name of General Duval and carried the racing colours of
Gabriel Johnson to their first and only victory marched straight into
Sergeant Smith's stall and thrust his muzzle into Sergeant Smith's
feed box!