y when he brought
Fieldmouse back into the chalked circle, a privileged space reserved
for winners.

"Judges!" piped the jockey shrilly, touching the visor of his cap
with his whip. Receiving the customary nod, Murphy slid to the ground
and attacked the cinch. It was then that Chicken Liver should have
stepped forward with his blanket--then that the deft transfer should
have taken place, but Chicken Liver, where was he? Murphy's anxious
eyes travelled around the wide circle of owners and hostlers, and his
smile faded into a nervous grin.

Now, after each race a few thousand impatient people must wait for
the official announcement--the one, two, three, without which no
tickets can be cashed--and the official announcement must wait upon
the weighing of the riders. For this reason no time is wasted in the
ceremony.

"Hurry up, son," said the presiding judge. "We're waiting on you."

Murphy fumbled with the strap, playing desperately for time. As he
tugged, his eyes were searching for the missing negro. He caught one
glimpse of Weaver's face, yellow where it was not white; he, too, was
raking the horizon for Chicken Liver.

"What's the matter with you, Murphy?" demanded the judge. "Do you
want help with that tack?"

"No, sir," faltered the jockey. "Th-this thing sticks somehow. I'll
git it in a minute. I----"

Old Man Curry marched through the ring and up the steps to the
platform of the judges' stand, and when Weaver saw what he carried in
his hand he became a very sick man indeed--and looked it. Al Engle
backed away into the crowd and Martin O'Connor followed him, mumbling
incoherently.

"Maybe this is what Murphy is waiting for, judges," said Old Man
Curry with marked cheerfulness. "Maybe he don't want to git on the
scales without it."

"Eh?" said the presiding judge. "What is that?"

"Looks like a weight pad to me," said Old Man Curry, "with quite a
mess of lead in it. Yes, it _is_ a weight pad."

"Where did you get it?"

"Well," said the old man, "I'll tell you 'bout that: Weaver's nigger
had it smuggled under a blanket, but he dropped it and I picked it
up. Maybe Weaver thought the nigger was a better weight packer than
the mare. I don't know. Maybe----"

"Young man," commanded the presiding judge, "that'll do you. Take
your tackle and get on the scales. Lively now!"

Murphy cast one despairing glance about him and slouched to his
undoing. The judge, weight pad in hand, followed him into the
weigh