never won yet."

"But a chap can't lose all the time," Chetwood observed. "And then the
Frenches are offering even money against the field. No end sporting of
'em, but risky. That little ex-jockey knows his business?"

"I think so. Perhaps you'd like to have a talk with him and see the
horse. He's going out now, and we'll go with him, if you care to."

"Thanks," Chetwood acknowledged. "That's very decent of you, Mackay. I'd
like it very much."

CHAPTER XI

A HOLD-UP

The road to the track, which was nearly a mile beyond the town, was
lonely and dark. Most of the way it ran through a wooded flat, and the
tree shadows overlay it with denser gloom. But at last they emerged from
the trees upon the natural prairie which held track and fair grounds.
Along one side was a row of sheds, and here and there a lantern gleamed.
Toward one of these lights Dorgan led them.

Dave Rennie, reading beside a lantern, nodded silently and, introduced
to Chetwood, regarded him with disfavor, as a remittance man, one of the
balloon-pants brigade.

"Everything all right, Davy?" Dorgan asked.

"Quiet now. There was a row down among the sheds a while ago. A pair of
drunks mixed it, till we pulled 'em apart."

Dorgan picked up the lantern and illuminated a stall at the rear. Chief
seemed uneasy, sidling away from the light, snorting and shaking his
head. Chetwood moved with him, inspecting him closely.

"I should say that he has plenty of staying power," he observed. "At the
distance I'd back him rather than any weedy, greyhound stock."

"And you'd be a good judge," Dorgan agreed, regarding Chetwood with more
respect. Chief blew noisily, shaking his head and rubbing his nose
against the feed-box. "How long's he been actin' that way, Dave?"

"Maybe an hour. I thought it might be a fly or a bit of foxtail in his
feed."

"Not a bit of foxtail in his hay or beddin'. Might be a fly. Hold the
lantern a minute."

He passed his hand over Chief's muzzle, and the horse thrust against his
body, twisting and shaking his head. Dorgan examined his ears.

"Seems all right. What's worryin' you, old boy?"

The horse nosed him again, and exhaled a deep breath. Chetwood uttered
an exclamation.

"How was his wind to-day when you exercised him?"

"Wind? Good. Why?"

"No cold--no stoppage of the nostrils?"

"No. What you gettin' at?"

"Listen to his breathing. There's something about it--not clear--a
little, straining wheeze----"