m figuring these syndicate books," said the Kid. "He'll open
around 3 to 1 and stay there whether there's a dollar bet on him or
not. False odds? Certainly, but they're taking no chances on you.
They figure you won't be trying at that price. And another thing:
This same Squeaking Henry, this marked-card gambler, has gone to work
for Goldmark. Three dollars a day for what he can find out. Is this
information worth anything to you?"

"It might be, son," said Old Man Curry. "It might be. I'll let you
know later on."

"On the level," said the Kid, "you don't figure that Elisha has got a
chance to win that race--not with Regulator and Black Bill and Miss
Amber in it? They're no Salvators, I admit, still they're the best we
ever see in this part of the country. Black Bill is a demon over a
distance, old-timer. He won that two-mile race last winter at Santa
Anita. Elisha has never gone more than a mile and an eighth, and this
is a mile and a half. Honest, now, you don't think he can beat horses
like Black Bill and Regulator, do you?"

"Son," said Old Man Curry, "I never think anything about a race until
the night before. That's time enough."

"But suppose they make him a short price? You wouldn't cut him loose
and let him make a showing that would spoil him as a betting
proposition?"

"Well, maybe he won't be a short price," said the old man. "You can't
tell a thing about it. It's this way with bookmakers: Once in a while
they change their minds, and that's where an honest hossman gets a
crack at 'em. Yes, they get to fooling with their little pieces of
chalk. I don't reckon Elisha will be less'n 20 to 1. There goes the
gong at the boarding house. Might as well eat with me and nurse that
seven dollars all you can."

The Bald-faced Kid rose with alacrity and bowed low, his hand upon
his heart.

"You are the ideal host," said he, "and I am the ideal hostee! I
could eat a horse and chase the driver. Lead the way, old-timer!"

The money which Squeaking Henry won by reason of the marked cards did
him very little good, remaining in his possession barely long enough
to cause his vest pocket to sag a trifle. He lost it in a friendly
game with the friends who were clever enough to plan the raid on the
Bald-faced Kid's bank roll, using Henry as a tool, much as the
coastwise Chinaman uses a cormorant in his fishing operations.
Stripped of his opulence, Squeaking Henry found himself flat on the
market again.

Henry was a tout