r. He was also putting this confidence into words and telling
the horse what was expected of him.

"See all them folks, 'Lisha? They come out yere to see you win
anotheh stake an' trim that white hoss from Seattle. Grey Ghost,
thass whut they calls him. When you hooks up with him down in front
of that gran' stan', he'll think he's a ghost whut's mislaid his
graveyard, yes, indeedy! They tells me he got lots of that ol' early
speed; they tells me he kin go down to the half-mile pole in nothin',
flat. Let him _do_ it; 'tain't early speed whut wins a mile race;
it's _late_ speed. Ain't no money hung up on that ol' half-mile pole!
Let that white fool run his head off; he'll come back to you. Lawdy,
all them front runners comes back to the reg'lar hosses. Run the same
like you allus do, an' eat 'em up in the stretch, 'Lisha! Grey
Ghost--pooh! I neveh seen _his_ name on no lamp-post! I bet befo' you
git th'ough with him he'll wish he'd saved some that ol' early speed
to finish on. You ask me, 'Lisha, I'd say we's spendin' this yere
first money right _now_!"

It was the closing day of the meeting, always in itself an excuse for
a crowd, but the management had generously provided an added
attraction in the shape of a stake event. Now a Jungle Circuit stake
race does not mean great wealth as a general thing, but this was one
of the few rich plums provided for the horsemen. First money would
mean not less than $2,000, which accounted for the presence of the
Grey Ghost. The horse had been shipped from Seattle, where he had
been running with and winning from a higher grade of thoroughbreds
than the Jungle Circuit boasted, and there were many who professed to
believe that the Ghost's victory would be a hollow one. There were
others who pinned their faith on the slow-beginning Elisha, for he
was, as his owner often remarked, "an honest hoss that always did his
level best." Eight other horses were entered, but the general opinion
seemed to be that there were only two contenders. The others, they
said, would run for Sweeney--and third money.

Old Man Curry elbowed his way through the paddock crowd, calmly
nibbling at his straw. He was besieged by men anxious for his opinion
as to the outcome of the race; they plucked at the skirts of his
rusty black coat; they caught him by the arms. Serene and untroubled,
he had but one answer for all.

"Yes, he's ready, and we're tryin'."

In the betting ring Grey Ghost opened at even money wit