say that?"

Old Man Curry nodded, and Little Mose sniffed sceptically. "Uh huh.
Sol'mun he neveh got jipped out of seven races in a row!"

"Seven, eh!" The old man counted on his fingers. "Why, so it is,
Mose! This is the seventh time they've licked us, for a fact!" Old
Man Curry began to chuckle, and the jockey eyed him curiously.

"You sutny enjoy it mo'n I do, boss," said he.

"That's because you don't read Solomon," replied the owner. "Listen:
'A just man falleth seven times and riseth up again.' Mose, we're due
to rise up and smite these Philistines."

"Huh! Why not smite some 'em Irish boys first? You reckon 'em crooked
judges kin see us when we risin' up?"

"We'll have to fix it so's they can't overlook us, Mose."

"Ought to git 'em some eyeglasses then," was the sulky response.

"Seven and one--that's eight, Mose. We've got Solomon's word for it."

Jockey Moseby Jones shook his head doubtfully. "Mebbe so, boss, mebbe
so, but thisyere Sol'mun's been dead a lo-o-ng time now. He neveh got
up agin a syndicate bettin' ring an' crooked judgin'. He neveh rode
no close finish 'ith Irish jocks an' had his shin barked on 'e
fence. You kin take Sol'mun's word faw it, boss, but li'l Moseby,
he's f'um Mizzoury. He'll steal a flyin' start nex' time out an' try
to stay so far in front that no Irish boy kin reach him 'ith a
lariat!"

A big, jovial-looking man, striding rapidly toward the stables,
overtook them from the rear and announced his presence by slapping
Old Man Curry resoundingly on the back. "Tough luck!" said he with a
grin. "Awful tough luck, but you can't win all the time, you know,
old-timer!"

"Why, yes," said Curry quietly; "that's a fact, Johnson. Nobody but a
hog would want to win _all_ the time. And I wish you wouldn't wallop
me on the back thataway. I most nigh swallered my tobacco."

Johnson laughed loudly. "How do you like our track?" he asked.

"Your track is all right," answered the old man, with just a shade of
emphasis placed where it would do the most good. "A visitor don't
seem to do very well here, though," he added.

"The fortunes of war!" chuckled Johnson.

"Ah, hah," said Curry. "My boy here can tell you 'bout that. He says
the other jockeys fight him all the way round the track."

"Well," said Johnson, "you know why that is, don't you? The boys
ain't stuck on his colour, and you can't blame 'em for that, Curry.
If you had a boy like Walsh, now, it would be different."

"I'll