"A maiden horse," he explained austerely, "is one which has never won a
race."
"Oh-h-h-h," she said. "Sorry."
"Now, if the worst comes to the worst and you do get claimed we can
figure out ways and means of getting you back. Can't we, Inky?"
Incubus laughed richly. "Clout him in the crupper!" she chortled. "Oh,
man!"
* * * * *
The day dawned when Incubus was to make her debut at Belmont. The odds
on her were a hundred to one. Laughing softly to himself, Watson put
five hundred dollars on her nose.
"You crazy, fella?" the seller said to him. "The horse to bet on is
Godlove's Pamplemousse. He's a natural to win."
"Incubus is my own horse," Watson explained patiently.
"Oh, I guess it's like my kid. He plays the pianner and stinks but I
gotta clap for him all the same."
"Why didn't you give her some hip reducing exercises," Godlove sneered
as the jockey led Incubus out into the paddock. "She'll never get
through the starting gate with that spread."
"Take it easy," Watson told her, as she reared. "Now, listen," he
said to the jockey, a sullen young apprentice--all he could get--"she
responds to direction very well. Talk to her. She practically
understands."
"Oh, sure," the jockey jeered. "Is snookums gonna win the race for
daddykins?"
"Ess," replied Incubus.
The jockey stared at her and at Watson. Watson laughed, a trifle too
hard. "I'm a great ventriloquist," he explained. "Can't break myself of
the habit."
"Well, you better begin now," the jockey said, "because I'm
temperamental and when I'm emotionally disturbed the horse senses it."
"The horses," the announcer declaimed through the loudspeaker, "are at
the post.... They're off!... All of them, that is, except Incubus. She
can't get through the starting gate. She's stuck."
"Yah, wear a girdle!" the crowd called derisively.
With a wrench of sheer rage Incubus pulled herself through the gate and
dashed after the other horses. "In the backstretch it's Pamplemousse
in the lead with Disestablishmentarianism and Epigram running half
a length behind and.... But who's this coming up from the rear? It's
Incubus! She's ahead by a length.... By two lengths.... By three
lengths! What a horse! What a jockey! He's giving her the whip!... Oh,
oh, something's wrong. Incubus has lost her rider! Too bad, Incubus."
The horses raced up the stretch, with Incubus keeping five lengths
ahead of Pamplemousse as per direction. She was much annoyed to
discover that he had won the race.
"But _I_ won it!" she kept whispering to Watson as he led her off. "I
was first. This is a frame-up. I'm going right to the judges and raise
an objection."
"It doesn't count if you don't have the jockey on you," he told her.
"That's the rule."
"Flap the rules!" she said. "You mean without that pee-wee it doesn't
count? A fine thing! I hate the rules, I hate the rules, I hate the
rules!" She stamped her foot. "He hit me with a whip, the little
bastard, so I gave him the old heave-ho."
"Aw, come on now, Incubus, we'll get another jockey who won't whip you.
You see how easy you can win a race?"