bet it would!" was the emphatic response of Old Man Curry.

"I think I can get Walsh for you."

"No-o." Old Man Curry dropped his hand on the negro's shoulder. "No.
Mose has been ridin' for me quite some time now. He suits me first
rate."

"You're the doctor," grinned Johnson. "Do as you think best, of
course. I'm only telling you how it is."

"Thankee. I reckon I'll play the string out the way I started. Luck
might change."

"Yes, it'll run bad for a while and then turn right round and get
worse. So long!" Johnson hurried on toward the stables, laughing
loudly at his ancient jest, and Old Man Curry looked after him with a
meditative squint in his eyes.

"'As the crackling of thorns under a pot,'" he quoted soberly. "A man
that laughs all the time ain't likely to mean it, Mose, but I don't
know's I would say that Johnson is exackly a fool. No, he's a pretty
wise man, of his breed. He owns a controllin' interest in this track
(under cover, of course), he's got a couple of books in the ring, and
the judges are with him. I reckon from what he said 'bout Walsh that
he's in with the jockey syndicate. No wonder he wins races! Sure, he
could get Walsh for me, or any other crook-legged little burglar
that would send word to Johnson what I was doing! Mose, yonder goes
the man we've got to beat!"

"Him too, boss?" Little Mose rolled his eyes. "Hawsses, judges,
jocks, an' Johnson! Sutny is a tough card to beat!"

"'A just man falleth seven times and riseth up again,'" repeated the
old man, "'but the wicked shall fall into mischief.' That's the rest
of the verse, Mose."

"Boss," said the little negro earnestly, "I don' wish nobody no hard
luck, but if somebody got to fall, I hope one of them Irish jocks
will fall in front an' git jumped on by ten hawsses!"

"Don't make any mistake about it, Curry is wise. He may look like a
Methodist preacher gone to seed, but the old scoundrel knows what's
going on. He ain't a fool, take it from me!"

The speaker was Smiley Johnson, who was addressing a small but
extremely select gathering of turf highwaymen who had met in his
tackle-room to discuss matters of importance. They were all men who
would willingly accept two tens for a five or betray a friend for
gain: Smiley Johnson, Billy Porter, Curly McManus, and Slats Wilson.
All owned horses and ran them in and out of the money, as they
pleased, and not one of them would have trusted the others as far as
a bull may be thrown by th