uted as "good things." The tenth was
Jeremiah and the most reckless hustler at the track refused to
consider the black horse as a contender for anything but sanguinary
honours.

"Him? Nix! Didn't you hear about him? Why, he bled this morning in
his workout! No chance!"

Of course there were those who did not believe this, so they asked
Jeremiah's owner and Old Man Curry stamped up and down the paddock
stall and complained querulously. They asked him if Jeremiah had a
chance and he replied that Elisha was a good hoss, a crackin' good
hoss, but they wouldn't let him bet his money. They asked him if
Jeremiah was likely to bleed and he told them that a bookmaker who
wouldn't take a bet when it was shoved under his nose ought to be run
off the track. They asked him what the other owners were doing and
were informed that he had a tarnation good mind to make a holler to
the judges. Word of this condition of affairs soon reached Mr. Marx.

"The old nut is ravin' all over the place about how he couldn't get a
bet down on Elisha. Says if he wasn't allowed to bet on the best
horse in his barn he certainly ain't goin' to bet on the worst one.
Oh, yes, and he's talkin' about makin' a holler to the judges!"

"Fat chance!" chuckled Marx, and Jeremiah went to 25 to 1.

Clear and high above the hum of the betting ring rose the notes of a
bugle. The last field of the season was being called to the track and
instead of the usual staccato summons the bugler blew "Taps."

"There she goes, boys!" bellowed the bookmakers. "That's good-by for
a whole year, you know! Bet 'em fast! They're on the way to the post!
Only a few minutes more!"

The final attack closed in around the stands. Men who had solemnly
promised themselves not to make another bet caught the fever and
hurled themselves into the jam, bent on exchanging coin of the realm
for pasteboard tickets and hope of sudden prosperity. It was the last
race of the season, wasn't it, and good-bye to the bangtails for
another year!

During this mad attack Abie squirmed through the mob and plucked at
Marx's sleeve. It was his third report.

"The old bird is settin' out there in the corner of the stall all by
himself, chewin' a straw. Says he's so disgusted he don't care if he
sees the race or not. I started to kid him about bein' such a crab
and, honest, I was afraid he'd bite me!"

Mr. Marx grinned and chalked up 40 to 1 on Jeremiah. "Now let him
bleed!" said he.

The distance of