h Elisha at 7
to 5. The Jungle speculators went to the Curry horse with a rush that
almost swept the block men off their stands, and inside of three
minutes Elisha was at even money with every prospect of going to
odds-on, and the grey visitor was ascending in price. The sturdy big
stretch-runner from the Curry barn had not been defeated at the
meeting; he was the known quantity and could be depended upon to run
his usual honest race.

The Ghost's owner also attracted considerable attention in the
paddock. He was a large man, rather pompous in appearance, hairless
save for a fringe above this ears, and answered to the name of "Con"
Parker, the Con standing for concrete. He had been in the cement
business before taking to the turf, and there were those who hinted
that he still carried a massive sample of the old line above his
shoulders. When cross-examined about the grey horse, he blunted every
sharp inquiry with polite evasions, but he looked wiser than any
human could possibly be, and the impression prevailed that he knew
more than he would tell. Perhaps this was true.

The saddling bell rang, and the jockeys trooped into the paddock,
followed by the roustabouts with the tackle. Old Man Curry, waiting
quietly in the far corner of Elisha's stall, saw the Bald-faced Kid
wriggling his way through the crowd. He came straight to the old man.

"Elisha's 4 to 5 now," he announced breathlessly, "and they're still
playing him hard. The other one is 5 to 2. Looks like a false price
on the Ghost, and I know that Parker is going to set in a chunk on
him at post time. What do you think about it?"

"You goin' to bet your own money, son?"

"I've got to do it--make or break right here."

"How strong are you?"

"Just about two hundred bones."

"Ah, hah!" Old Man Curry paused a moment for thought and sucked at
his straw. "Two hundred at 5 to 2--that'd make seven hundred,
wouldn't it? Pretty nice little pile."

The Kid's eyes widened. "Then you don't think Elisha can beat the
Ghost to-day?"

"I ain't bettin' a cent on him," said the old man. "Not a cent." And
the manner in which he said it meant more than the words.

"Then, shall I--?"

Old Man Curry glanced over at the grey horse, standing quietly in his
stall.

"Play that one, son," he whispered.

After the Kid had gone rocketing back to the betting ring, Curry
turned to Jockey Moseby Jones.

"Mose," said he, "don't lay too far out of it to-day. This grey hoss
la