Then we could send word to the judge
that Curry was stimulating the horse and----"

"And create a lovely precedent," sneered Engle. "Use your head a
little more; that's what it's for. A man that hops his horses as
often as you do can't afford to start any investigations along that
line. If you must throw something at Curry, throw a brick, not a
boomerang.... And somehow I don't believe it's hop. Fairfax was
probably a good horse all the time, but Jimmy Miles didn't know it;
and, as for training, Jimmy couldn't train a goat for a butting
contest, let alone a thoroughbred for a race! Curry is a wise
horseman--I'll give the old scoundrel that much--and he's got this
bird edged up. Take it from me, he's a cracking good selling plater.
I'd like to have him in my barn."

O'Connor laughed unpleasantly. He resented Engle's easy and arrogant
assumption of mental superiority, and was thankful for a chance to
remind The Sharpshooter of one skirmish in which all the honours had
gone to Old Man Curry.

"G'wan, run him up like you did Elisha," said O'Connor. "Grab him out
of a selling race. My memory ain't what it used to be, Al, but seems
to me you took one of Curry's horses away from him and framed him up
for a killing. Did I dream it, or did the skate run last? Go on and
grab another horse away from the old boy!"

"Will you ever quit beefing about the money you lost on that race?"
snapped Engle.

"Will I ever forget who got me into it?" countered O'Connor. "And if
you'll take a tip from me--which you won't because you think you're
smarter than I am--you'll let Old Man Curry's horses alone. It ain't
in the cards that you or me can monkey with those Bible horses
without getting hurt. Grab this Fairfax, or whatever they call him
now, but count me out."

"No-o," said The Sharpshooter, his lips pursed and his brow wrinkled.
"I don't want to grab him. I'd rather get him some other way."

"Buy him, then."

Engle shook his head.

"Curry wouldn't sell--not to me, anyway. He might to some one else. I
saw Jimmy Miles this afternoon, and he was crying about what a
wonderful horse he'd sold for nothing. I wonder where I could get
hold of Jimmy?"

The following evening the Bald-faced Kid called upon his aged friend
and interrupted a heart-to-heart session in Old Man Curry's
tackle-room.

"Hello, old-timer! Hello, Jimmy! Am I butting in here?"

Jimmy Miles, a thin, sandy-haired man with pale-blue eyes and a
retreating chin, ans