e Bald-faced
Kid plying his vocation. He was earnestly endeavouring to persuade a
whiskered rustic to bet more money than he owned on Cornflower at 3
to 1. Though very busy, the young man was abreast of the situation
and fully informed of events, as indeed he usually was. Retaining his
interest in the rustic by the simple expedient of thrusting a
forefinger through his buttonhole, the Kid leaned toward the old man.

"See what your little nigger did, riding that horse out yesterday
morning? You might have got 2 or 3 to 1 on him if Mose hadn't tipped
him off to every clocker at the track!"

Old Man Curry digested this remark in silence.

"I hear that Engle is sending the mare for a killing," whispered the
Kid. "Know anything about it?"

"Everything is bein' sent for a killing to-day," said Old Man Curry.
"Well, she'll have 'Lisha to beat, I reckon. And all he's runnin' for
is the purse, Frank, like you said. I did my best to bet 'em until
the price got too plumb ridiculous, but the children of Israel
wouldn't take my money."

The Bald-faced Kid glanced at the roll of bills which the old man
still held in his hand.

"Well, no wonder!" he snorted. "Don't you know that ain't any way to
do? You come in here and wave a chunk like that under their noses,
and--by golly, you ought to have your head examined!"

"I reckon you're right," said the old man apologetically. "All I ask
is please don't have me yanked up before the Lunacy Board till after
the last race, because----"

"Aw, rats! Beat it now till I land this sucker!"

"Frank," whispered the old man, "tell him to save a couple of dollars
to bet on Jeremiah!"

It was a great race. Cornflower, lightly weighted, able to set a pace
or hold one, did not show in front until the homestretch was reached.
Then the mare suddenly shot out of the ruck and flashed into the
lead. But she soon had company. Honest old Elisha had been plugging
along in the dust for the first half mile, but at that point he began
to run, and the Curry colours moved up with great celerity. Merritt,
glancing over his shoulders, shook out the last wrap on the mare just
as Elisha thundered into second place. Gathering speed with every
awkward bound, the big bay horse slowly closed the gap. At the
paddock there was no longer daylight between them, and Old Man Curry
stopped combing his beard. He knew what that meant. So did Jockey
Merritt, plying whip and spur. So did Al Engle and those who had been
gi