Kid. "If you want to catch Weaver and
Murphy dead to rights, I can tell how to go about it."

"So do, Frank," said Old Man Curry. "So do. My ear is open to your
cry."

"In the first place," said the Kid, lighting a cigarette, "I don't
suppose you know that Weaver has been stealing weight off his horses
ever since this meeting opened."

"With Parker, the clerk of the scales?" ejaculated the old man. "I've
heard that couldn't be done."

The Bald-faced Kid chuckled.

"A smart owner can do anything," said he, "and Weaver's smart. At
these other tracks, stealing weight off a horse is the king of indoor
sports, and they mostly work it through a stand-in with the clerk of
the scales; but you're right about this fellow Parker. He's on the
level, and they can't get at him. A jock has got to weigh in and
weigh out on the dot when Parker is on the job. He won't let 'em get
by with the difference of an ounce."

"Then how----" began Old Man Curry.

"There you go, busting through the barrier! Weaver is pulling the
wool over Parker's eyes. Now here's what I saw yesterday: Weaver
had Exmoor in the third race, supposed to be carrying one hundred
and ten pounds. Jock Murphy ain't much bigger'n a rabbit--tack and
all, he won't weigh ninety-five. That would make, say, fifteen pounds
of lead in the weight pad. Murphy got on the scales and was checked
out of the jock's room at one hundred and ten, all square enough,
but when Weaver saddled Exmoor he left the weight pad off him
entirely--slipped it to that big nigger swipe of his--Chicken Liver
Pete, they call him."

"I know him," said Old Man Curry.

"Everybody knows him," said the Kid. "Well, Chicken Liver put the
weight pad under the blanket that he was carrying to throw over the
horse after the race. Exmoor won yesterday, but he didn't carry an
ounce of lead."

"But how did Murphy make the weight after he finished?" demanded the
old man.

"Easiest thing in the world!" said the Kid. "While Murphy was
unsaddling the horse, Chicken Liver was right at his elbow, and both
of 'em had their backs to the judges. It looked natural enough for
the nigger to be there--waiting to blanket the horse the minute the
saddle came off of him. All Murphy had to do was grab under the
blanket with one hand while he jerked the saddle off the horse with
the other--and there he was, ready to weigh one hundred and ten. I'll
bet those two fellows have rehearsed that switch a thousand times.
They pul