"

"I ain't neveh talked yit, has I?"

"Well, don't pick this time to start; that's all."

That night the lights burned late in two tackle-rooms. In one of them
Old Man Curry was bringing the judgment of Solomon down to date and
fitting it to turf conditions; in the other Henry M. Pitkin was
preparing code telegrams to certain business associates in Seattle,
Portland, Butte, and San Francisco, for this was in the unregenerate
days when pool rooms operated more or less openly in the West. Mr.
Pitkin was getting ready for the annual clean-up.

The next morning he was on hand early enough to see General Duval
return from an exercise gallop, and there was a small black boy on
the colt's back.

"Come here, Gabe," said Pitkin. "Ain't that Curry's nigger jockey?"

"Yes, suh; that's Jockey Moseby Jones, suh."

"What's he doing around this stable?"

"He kind o' gittin' acquainted with the Gen'al, suh."

"Acquainted? What for?"

"Well, suh, they's a maiden race nex' Satu'day, an' I was thinkin'
mebbe the Gen'al could win it if he gits a good ride. Jockey Jones
didn't have no otheh engagement, suh, so I done hired him fo' the
'casion."

"Oh, you did, did you? Now listen to me, Gabe: I don't want anybody
from the Curry stable hanging around this place. Chances are this
little nigger will be trying to pick up an earful to carry back to
his boss, the psalm-singing old hypocrite! If Curry should find out
we're leveling with Sergeant Smith next Saturday, he might go into
the ring and hurt the price. I can't stop you putting the little
nigger on your own horse, but if he tries to make my barn a hangout,
I'll warm his jacket for him, understand? You can tell him so."

"Yes, suh," answered Gabe meekly. "Mist' Curry an' yo' bad friends,
boss?"

"We ain't any kind of friends," snapped Pitkin, "and that goes for
every blackbird that eats out of his hand!"

"I thought he was a kin' o' pious ole gentleman," said Gabe.

"He's got a lot of people fooled, Curry has," replied Pitkin with
unnecessary profanity, "but I've had his number right along. He's a
crook, but he gets away with it on account of that long-tailed
coat--the sanctimonious old scoundrel! Don't you have anything to do
with him, Gabe."

"_Me?_" said Gabe professing mild astonishment. "Humph! I reckon
_not_!"

"Always stick with your friends," said Pitkin, "and remember which
side your bread is buttered on."

"That's whut I'm aimin' to do, suh. Yo' know, boss