h a tiny negro boy crouched motionless in the saddle. A
rush, a flurry, a spatter of clods, a low-flying drift of yellow dust
and the vision passed, but the Bald-faced Kid had seen enough to
compensate him for the early hours and the lack of breakfast. He
glanced at his watch.

"Old Elisha, under wraps and fighting for his head," was his comment.
"The nigger didn't let him out any part of the way.... Oh, you
prophet of Israel!"

"What did that bird step the three-quarters in?" asked a voice, and
the Kid turned to confront Squeaking Henry, also a hustler, and at
times a competitor.

"Dunno; I didn't clock him," lied the Kid.

"That was Old Man Curry's nigger Mose," continued Squeaking Henry,
so-called because of his plaintive whine, "and I was wondering if the
horse wasn't Elijah. I didn't get a good look at him. Maybe it was
Obadiah or Nehemiah. Did you ever hear such a lot of names in your
life? They tell me Old Man Curry got 'em all out of the Bible." The
Kid nodded. "Bible horses are in fine company at this track,"
chuckled Squeaking Henry. "I been here a week now, and darned if I
can get onto the angles. I guess Old Man Curry is the only owner here
who ain't doin' business with some bookmaker or other. Look at that
King William bird yesterday! He was twenty pounds the best in the
race and he come fifth. The jock did everything to him but cut his
throat. What are you goin' to do when they run 'em in and out like
that?... Say, Kid, was that Elijah or was it another one of them
Bible beetles? I didn't get a good look at him."

The Bald-faced Kid stole a sidelong glance at Squeaking Henry.

"Neither did I," said he. "Why don't you ask Old Man Curry which
horse it was? He'd tell you. He's just foolish enough to do it."

Halfway up the back stretch a shabby, elderly man leaned against a
fence, thoughtfully chewing a straw as he watched the little negro
check the bay horse to a walk. He had the flowing beard of a
patriarch, the mild eye of a deacon, the calm, untroubled brow of a
philosopher, and his rusty black frock coat lent him a certain simple
dignity quite rare upon the race tracks of the Jungle Circuit. In the
tail pocket of the coat was something rarer still--a well-thumbed
Bible, for this was Old Man Curry, famous as the owner of Isaiah,
Elijah, Obadiah, Esther, Ezekiel, Jeremiah, Elisha, Nehemiah, and
Ruth. In his spare moments he read the Psalms of David for pleasure
in their rolling cadences and the Pr