e "big betting race" of the season.

This year Black Bill, famed for consistent performance and ability to
cover a distance of ground, was a pronounced favourite. Black Bill
had been running with better horses than the jungle campaigners and
winning from them and it was popularly believed that he had been
shipped from the South for the express purpose of capturing the
Handicap purse. His single start at the meeting had been won in what
the turf reporters called "impressive fashion," which is to say that
Jockey Grogan brought Black Bill home three lengths in front of his
field and but for the strength in his arms the gap would have been a
much wider one.

Regulator, a sturdy chestnut, and Miss Amber, a nervous brown mare,
were also high in public esteem, rivals for the position of second
choice.

"It's a three-horse race," said the wiseacres, "and the others are
outclassed. Whatever money there is will be split by Black Bill, Miss
Amber, and Regulator. If anything happens to Bill, one of the others
will win, but the rest of 'em won't get anything but a hard ride and
a lot of dust."

From his position on the block Abe Goldmark looked down on a surging
crowd. He was waiting for the official announcement on the third
race. The crowd was waiting for the posting of the odds on the
Handicap, waiting, money in hand, ready to dash at bargains. Al Engle
forced his way through the press and Goldmark bent to listen.

"The old nut is going to start him sure enough," whispered the
Sharpshooter. "No--he won't warm him up. Would you throw a gallop
into a horse with his leg full of coke? Curry is crazy, but he ain't
quite as crazy as that."

"The old boy was putting bandages on him at midnight last night,"
grinned Goldmark. "Dang it, Al, a man ought to be arrested for
starting a horse in that condition."

"The coke will die out before he's gone half a mile," said Engle.
"Might not even last that long--depends on how long they're at the
post. I saw a horse once----"

The melodious bellow of the official announcer rose above the hum of
the crowd and there was a sudden, tense shifting of the nervous
human mass. A dozen bookmakers turned leisurely to their slates, a
dozen pieces of chalk were poised aggravatingly--and a hoarse grunt
of disappointment rose from the watchers. Black Bill the favourite,
yes, but bet fives to win threes? Hardly. Wait a minute; don't go
after it now. Maybe it'll go up. Regulator, 8 to 5--Holy Moses! Wh