faced Kid, "he thinks he'll win
to-day with Whitethorn."

"Well," said the old man, "I'll tell you, Frank; it's this way 'bout
Whitethorn; he'll win if he can beat Obadiah. The colt's ready and
this weather suits him down to the ground. He surely does love to
run in the slop. Only bad thing 'bout it, Engle and Weaver are both
in that race, and since I trimmed that gang of pirates with Elisha
they've had it in for me. Their jockeys act like somebody's told 'em
there's an open season on my hosses. They bump that little nigger of
mine every chance they get. Pretty near put him into the fence twice
last week."

"Why don't you holler to the judges?"

"They haven't done any real damage, son. And here's another angle:
these judges won't give a nigger any the best of it on a claim of
foul agin a white boy. My Mose is the only darky rider here, and the
other boys want to drive him out. Between Engle and his gang after
me, and the jockeys after Mose, we got our hands full."

"I'll bet. Going to gamble any on Obadiah to-day?"

"If I like the price. None of the bookmakers here will ever die of
enlargement of the heart. If Obadiah is shorter than three to one,
he'll run for the purse alone. The hoss that beats him on a sloppy
track will know that he's been going some."

It happened just beyond the half-mile pole, in a sudden flurry of
wind and rain. The spectators, huddling under the grand-stand roof,
saw the horses dimly as through a heavy mist. The colours were
indistinguishable at the distance, drenched and sodden.

"Hello!" said the presiding judge, who had been wiping his field
glasses. "One of 'em went down! What happened?"

"Don't know," replied the associate judge. "I was watching that thing
in front--Whitethorn.... Yes, and that horse is hurt, Major.... The
boy is all right, though. He's on his feet."

"It's Old Man Curry's horse," said the other. "Obadiah--and I sort of
figured him the contender in this race, too.... The boy has got
him.... Looks like a broken leg to me.... Too bad.... Better send an
officer over there."

Before the judges knew that anything had happened a shabby, bearded
old man in a rusty black frock coat dodged across the track from the
paddock gate and splashed hurriedly through the infield. Old Man
Curry never used binoculars; he had the eyes of an eagle.

"Been looking for it to happen every day!" he muttered. "And a right
likely colt, too. The skunks! The miserable little skunks!"

W