the final event was three-quarters of a mile and the
crowd in the betting ring continued to swarm about the stands until
the clang of the gong warned them that the race was on. Then there
was a wild rush for the lawn; even the fat Mr. Marx climbed down from
his perch and waddled out into the sunshine, blinking as he turned
his small eyes toward the back stretch.

Now little Mose had been watching the starter carefully and had
thrown his mount at the barrier just as it rose in the air, but there
were other jockeys in the race who had done the same thing, and
Jeremiah's was not the only early speed that sizzled down to the
half-mile pole. At least four of the "good things" were away to a
running start--Fireball, Sky Pilot, Harry Root, and Resolution.
Jeremiah trailed the quartet, content to kick clods at the second
division. On the upper turn Fireball and Harry Root found the pace
too warm for them and dropped back. Jeremiah found himself in third
place, coasting along easily under a strong pull. The presiding judge
turned his binoculars upon the black horse and favoured him with a
searching scrutiny.

"Ah, hah!" said he, wagging his head. "I thought as much. Jeremiah
may have bled this morning, but he ain't bleeding _now_ and that
little nigger is almost breaking his jaw to keep him from running
over the two in front!... Old Man Curry again! Oh, but he's a cute
rascal!"

"I'd rather see him get away with it than some of these other owners,
at that," said the associate judge.

"So would I ... I kind of like the old coot.... Now what on earth do
you suppose he's done to that horse since this morning?"

A few thousand spectators were asking variations of the same
question, but one spectator asked no questions at all. The Bald-faced
Kid was reduced by stuttering degrees to dumb amazement. He had
ignored Old Man Curry's kindly suggestion and had persuaded all and
sundry to plunge heavily on Fireball.

It really was not much of a contest. Sky Pilot, on the rail, swung
wide turning into the stretch and carried Resolution with him. Like a
flash Little Mose shot the black horse through the opening and
straightened away for the wire, an open length away for the wire, an
open length in the lead.

"Come git him, jocks!" shrilled Mose. "Come git ol' Jeremiah to-day!"

The most that can be said for the other jockeys is that they tried,
but Little Mose hugged the rail and Jeremiah came booming down the
home stretch alone, f