hitethorn, the winner of the race, was back in the ring and
unsaddled before the old man reached the half-mile pole. Jockey Moseby
Jones, plastered with mud from his bullet head to his boots, shaken
and bruised but otherwise unhurt, clung to Obadiah's bridle.

"Now, honey, you jus' stan' still!" he was saying. "Jus' stan' still
an' we git yo' laig fixed up in no time; no time a-a-a-tall."

The colt stood with drooping head, drumming on the ground with the
crippled foreleg; from time to time the unfortunate animal shivered
as with a violent chill. Old Man Curry knelt in the mud, but rose
almost immediately; one glance at the broken leg was enough. He
looked at the little negro.

"How did it happen, Mose?"

"Jockey Murphy done it, boss. He was on 'at thing of Weaver's."

"A-purpose?"

"Sutny he done it a-purpose. He cut in on us an' knocked us agin the
rail. Come from 'way outside to do it."

Old Man Curry began to take the saddle off the colt. A tall man in a
rubber coat, gum boots, and a uniform cap arrived on the scene,
panting after his run from the grand stand. He looked at Obadiah's
leg, sucked in his breath with a whistling sound more expressive than
words, and faced Old Man Curry.

"Want the 'vet' to see him?" asked the newcomer.

"No use in him suffering that long," said the old man dully. "He's
ruined. Might as well get it over with."

Jockey Moseby Jones wailed aloud.

"Oh, don' let 'em shoot Obadiah, boss!" he pleaded. "I'll take keer
o' him; I'll set up nights 'ith him. Can't you splint it? Ain't there
nothin' we kin do fo' him?"

"Only one thing, Mose," said Old Man Curry. "It's a kindness, I
reckon." He passed the bridle to the uniformed stranger. "Don't be
too long about it," said he.

The colt, gentle and obedient to the last, hobbled off the track
toward a sheltering grove of trees near the upper turn. Custom
decrees that the closing scene of a turf tragedy shall not be enacted
within sight of the grand stand. Two very young stableboys followed
at a distance.

"Run away, kids," said the tall man, fumbling at his hip pocket. "You
don't want to see this."

Old Man Curry strode along the track, his shoulders squared, his face
stern and his eyes blazing with the cold rage which sometimes
overtakes a patient man. Little Mose trailed at his heels, whimpering
and casting scared glances behind. After a time they heard the
muffled report of a pistol.

"He's out of his misery, sonny," said th