he Bald-faced Kid grunted absently. He was deep in a thick,
leather-backed, looseleaf volume of past performances, technically
known as a form book, generally mentioned as "the dope sheets"--the
library of the turf follower, the last resort and final court of
appeal. The Kid's lower lip had a studious droop and the pages
rustled under his nervous fingers. An unlighted cigarette was behind
his ear.

"What you looking for, son?"

"I'm trying to make Gaspargoo win his race to-day. He's in there with
a feather on his back, and there'll be a price on him. He's been
working good, too. He quits on a dry track, but in the mud he's
liable to go farther. His old feet won't get so hot." Curry peered
over the Kid's shoulder at the crowded columns of figures and
footnotes, unintelligible to any but the initiated, and supposedly a
complete record of the racing activities of every horse in training.

"Hm-m-m. Some folks say Solomon didn't write Ecclesiastes. Some say
he did--after he got rid of his wives."

The Bald-faced Kid laughed.

"You and your Solomon! Well, get it off your chest! What does he say
now?"

"I think it must have been Solomon, because here's something that
sounds just like him: 'Of making many books there is no end; and much
study is a weariness of the flesh.' It would weary a mule's flesh to
study them dope books, Frank. There's so many things enter into the
running of hosses which ought to be printed in 'em and ain't. For
instance, take that race right in front of you." The old man put his
finger upon the page. "I remember it well. Here's Engle's mare,
Sunflower, the favourite and comes fourth. Ab Mears wins it with the
black hoss, Anthracite. Six to one. What does the book say 'bout
Sunflower's race?"

The Kid read the explanatory footnote.

"'Sunflower, away badly, and messed about the first part of the
journey; had no chance to catch the leaders, but closed strong under
the whip.'"

"Uh-huh," said Old Man Curry. "Good as far as it goes, but that's
all. Might as well tell a lie as part of the truth. Why not come
right out with it and say that Engle was betting on Anthracite that
day and the boy on Sunflower rode the mare to orders? That's what
happened. Engle and Mears and O'Connor and Weaver and some of the
rest of 'em run these races the night before over in O'Connor's barn.
They get together and then decide on a caucus nominee. Why not put
that in the book?"

"Speaking of Mears," said the Bald-