never rode a winner, and a
half-witted grocer! Why couldn't the chump stick to the little
villainies that he knows about--sanding the sugar and watering the
kerosene? I declare, sir, if I had half an excuse I'd refuse the
entry of that horse and warn Hopwood away from here! It would be an
act of Christian charity to do it."

The Bald-faced Kid, faithful to the bitter end, assisted in the
paddock as usual. Last Chance, his tail braided in a hard knot and
minus the ribbons in his mane, submitted to the saddling process with
unusual docility. His customary attitude of protest seemed to be
swallowed up in a gloomy acquiescence to fate. It was as if he said:
"You can do this to me again if you want to, but I assure you now
that it is useless, quite useless."

Calamity leaned down from the saddle and whispered in the Kid's ear:

"You can get 50 and 60 to 1 on him! The boss said he'd make a bet.
Don't let him overlook it!"

When the bugle sounded, Hopwood grasped the bridle and led the horse
through the chute to the track. The rain beat hard upon his hunched
shoulders and his feet plowed heavily through the puddles. Repeated
failure had robbed him of the pride of ownership and all confidence
in horseflesh. He was, as the Bald-faced Kid said to himself, "a sad
looking mess." Hopwood spoke but once, wasting no words.

"Make good if you're going to," said he tersely, "because win or lose
I'm _through_!"

"Yes, boss, and don't forget what I told you. To-day's the day to bet
on him. Go to it!"

Last Chance splashed away down the track and Hopwood turned on his
heel with a growl.

"Come along!" said he to the Kid. "I might as well be all the
different kinds of fool while I'm about it!"

"Where to now?" asked the Kid innocently.

"To the betting ring," was the grim response. "I said I'd bet on him
this time and I will! Come along!"

From his perch on the inside rail the official starter eyed the
nonwinners with undisguised malevolence. Some of them were cantering
steadily toward the barrier, some were walking and one, a black
brute, seemed almost unmanageable, advancing in a series of wild
plunges and sudden sidesteps.

"Ah, hah," said the starter, with suitable profanity. "Old Alibi has
got his hop in him again! I'll recommend the judges to refuse his
entry." Then, to his assistant: "Jake, take hold of that crazy black
thing and lead him up here. Don't let go of his head for a second or
he'll be all over the place!