ed the negro. "You betting much on him, boss?"

"I visited a while with the children of Israel," said Curry gravely.
"Remember now--lots of room when you turn for home."

"Yes, suh. I won't git clost 'nough to 'em scound'els faw 'em do
nothin' but say 'Heah he comes' an' 'Yondeh he goes.' Won't slam me
into no fence; I'm comin' back by ovehland route!"

Later O'Connor, who had been bidden to forget Elisha, remembered him.
Broadsword led into the stretch by four open lengths, hugging the
rail. Mose trailed the bunch around the upper turn, brought Elisha
smartly to the outside, kicked the bay horse in the ribs with his
spurs and said:

"Whut yo' doin' heah? Go 'long about yo' business!"

Jockey Grogan, already spending his fifty-dollar ticket, heard
warning yells from the rear and sat down to ride, but it was too
late. Elisha, coming with a tremendous rush, was already on even
terms with Broadsword. Three strides and daylight showed between
them. It was all over but the shouting, and there was very little of
that, for Elisha had few friends in the crowd.

"Hah!" ejaculated the presiding judge, tugging at his stubby grey
moustache. "Old Man Curry put one over on the boys, or I miss my
guess. Yes, sir, he beat the good thing and spilled the beans.
Elisha, first; Broadsword, second; that thing of Engle's, third.
Serves 'em right! Hah!"

Martin O'Connor standing on the outskirts of the betting ring,
searching a limited vocabulary for language with which to garnish his
emotions, felt a nudge at his elbow. It was the Sharpshooter.

"Go away from me! Don't talk to me!" sputtered O'Connor. "You make me
sick! I thought you said that dog couldn't run! You're a swell
prophet, you are, you--you----"

Al Engle smiled as he slipped his binoculars into the case. "I may
not be a prophet," said he, "but I'll have one in my barn to-night."

"Huh?"

"Oh, nothing, only that's too good a horse for Curry to own. I'm
going to take Elisha away from him."

"Going to run him up?"

"As far as the old man will go."

"Well, look out you don't start a selling-race war."

The Sharpshooter sneered. "Curry hasn't got nerve enough to fight
us," said he.

Now the "selling race" is an institution devised and created for the
protection of owners against owners, the theory being to prevent the
running of horses out of their proper class.

An owner, entering a selling race, must set a price upon his
horse--let us say five hundred dollars