ack instead. His first care was to
locate the negro known as Chicken Liver; this done, he watched the
start of the race. Nine horses were lined up at the barrier, and at
least six of the jockeys were manoeuvring for a flying start. The
official starter, a thick-set man with a long twisted nose, bellowed
loudly from time to time.

"No! No! You can't break that way!... You, Murphy! I'll fine you in a
minute!... Get back there, Grogan! What did I tell you, Murphy?...
Bring that horse up slow! _Bring him up!_ No! No! You can't break
that way!"

Isaiah stood perfectly still in the middle of the track; on either
side of him the nervous animals charged at the barrier or whirled
away from it in sudden, wild dashes. The starter's voice grew husky
and his temper hot, but at last the horses were all headed in the
right direction, if only for the fraction of a second. Jockey Murphy,
scenting a start, had Fieldmouse in motion even as the elastic
webbing shot into the air; she was in her racing stride as the
starter's voice blared out:

"You're off! Go on! _Go on!_"

The mare, always a quick breaker, rushed into the lead, Murphy taking
her on an easy slant to the inner rail. Isaiah, swinging a bit wide
on the first turn, settled down to work, and at the half-mile pole
was leading the pursuit, taking the dust which Fieldmouse kicked up
five lengths in front.

Chicken Liver, watching Murphy skim the rail into the home stretch,
shuffled his feet in an ecstasy of exultation.

"Come home, baby!" he shouted. "Come 'long home! You de bes' li'l
ole hawss--_uh!_"

Something small and hard jammed violently into the pit of Chicken
Liver's stomach, and his song of victory ended in an amazed grunt.
Old Man Curry was glaring at him and pressing the muzzle of a
forty-five-calibre revolver against the exact spot where the third
button of Chicken Liver's vest would have been had he owned such a
garment.

"Drop that weight pad, nigger, or I'll blow you inside out! _Drop
it!_"

Chicken Liver leaped backward with a howl of terror. The next instant
he was well on his way to the Weaver barn, supplication floating over
his shoulder.

"Don't shoot, misteh! Fo' de Lawd's sake, don't shoot!"

Old Man Curry picked up the weight pad and started for the gate. He
arrived in time to see the smile on Murphy's face as he swung under
the wire, three lengths in front of Isaiah, the other horses trailing
far in the rear. Murphy was still smiling broadl