only in
for a tryout? How about that?"

"I--I didn't want 'em spoiling the price, I mean, judges; I didn't
think it was anybody's business."

"Oh, so you bet on him, did you? Let's see the tickets."

And of course Mr. Pitkin had no tickets to show. He offered to
produce copies of telegrams, but the judges had him exactly where
they had been wanting to get him and they gave him a very unhappy ten
minutes. At the end of this period the presiding judge cleared his
throat and pronounced sentence. "Your entries are refused from now
on, and you are warned off this track. Take your horses somewhere
else, sir, and don't ever bring 'em back here. That's all."

To Pitkin it seemed enough.

He walked down the steps in a daze and wandered away in the general
direction of his stable. He was still in a daze when he reached his
destination, and the first thing he saw was old Gabe, his coat on and
a satchel in his hand.

"Oh, you've heard about it already, have you?" asked Pitkin dully.

"Heard whut?" And Gabe did not touch the brim of his hat.

"We've got the gate--been warned off: entries refused."

"Glory!" ejaculated the aged trainer. "Time they was gittin' onto
you!"

"What's that?" shouted Pitkin. "Why, you black hound, I'll----"

"Yo' won't do nuthin'!" said Gabe stoutly. "Pitkin, yo' an' me is
_through_; yo' an' me is _done_! Yo' made me all the trouble yo' eveh
goin' make. Nex' time they ketches yo' cheatin' on a race track I
hopes they shoot yo' head off!"

Old Gabe walked away toward the Curry barn, and all Pitkin could do
was stare after him. Then he sat down on a bale of hay and took stock
of his misfortunes.

"I reckon everything's all right, Gabe," said Old Man Curry, who was
counting money in his tackle-room. "It was sort o' risky. When a man
can't tell his own hoss when he sees him, anything is liable to
happen to him on a bush track. I've just cut this bank roll in two,
Gabe, and here's your bit. Shanghai's a good bettin' commissioner,
eh?"

Old Gabe's eyes bulged as he contemplated the size of his fortune.

"All this, suh--mine?"

"All yours--an' you better not miss that six o'clock train. Never can
tell what'll happen, you know, Gabe. Pitkin will keep General Duval,
I reckon?"

Gabe grinned from ear to ear.

"I fo'got to tell him so," he chuckled, "but he got both them hosses
now. Mist' Curry, whut yo' reckon Sol'mun would say 'bout us?"

"'The Lord will not suffer the soul of the righteou