. Should the horse win, it must
be offered for sale at that figure, the owner being given the right
to protect his property in a bidding contest.

In case the animal changes hands, the original owner receives five
hundred dollars, and no more. If the horse has been bid up to one
thousand dollars, the racing association shares the run-up with the
owner of the horse which finished second. It will readily be seen
that this system discourages the practice of entering a
two-thousand-dollar horse in a five-hundred-dollar selling race, but
it also permits a disgruntled owner to revenge himself upon a rival.
Some of the bitterest feuds in turf history have grown out of
"selling-race wars."

Little Mose brought Elisha back into the ring, saluted the judges,
and, dismounting, began to unsaddle. Old Man Curry came wandering
down the track from the paddock gate where he had watched the race.
He was chewing a straw reflectively, and the tails of his rusty black
frock coat flapped in the breeze like the garment of a scarecrow.
Mose, with the saddle, bridle, blanket, and weight pad in his arms,
disappeared under the judges' stand where the clerk of the scales
weighed him together with his tackle.

The associate judge came out on the steps of the pagoda with a
programme in his hand. Mose bounced into view, handed his tackle to
Shanghai, Curry's hostler, and started for the jockeys' room, singing
to himself out of sheer lightness of heart. He knew what he would do
with that twenty-two-dollar ticket. There was a crap game every night
at the O'Connor stable.

"All right, judge!" called the clerk of the scales. "Shoot!"

The associate judge cleared his throat, nodded to Old Man Curry,
fingered his programme, and began to speak in a dull, slurring
monotone, droning out the formula as prescribed for such occasions:

"Elisha--winner'v this race--entered to be sold--four hundred
dollars---- Any bids?"

"Five hundred!"

Old Man Curry, leaning against the top rail of the fence, started
slightly and turned his eyes in the direction of the sound. The
Sharpshooter flashed his gold teeth at him in a cheerful smile. Old
Man Curry shrugged his shoulders and rolled the straw from one corner
of his mouth to the other. The associate judge looked at him, asking
a question with his eyebrows. There was a stir in the crowd about the
stand. A bidding contest is always an added attraction.

"Friend, you don't want this hoss," expostulated Old Man C