ing taken in their own craftiness; I've
forgotten the exact words."

"Umph! Sho'lly yo' don't call Squawkin' Henry _wise_?"

"No-o, but he may have wise friends. Somehow I've sort of been
expecting this visitor, Mose. You heard him tell about how bad off
his mother is. It seems a shame not to accommodate him, when all he
wants is a place to sleep--and some information on the side."

"Info'mation, boss?"

"Well, I can't exactly swear to it, Mose, but I think the children of
Israel have sent this Henry person among us to spy out the land.
That's a trick they learned a long time ago, after they got out of
Egypt. Joshua taught it to 'em. Ever since then they don't take any
more chances than they can help. They always want to know what the
other fellow is doing--and it's a pretty good system at that. Being
as things are the way they are, a spy in camp, etcetry, mebbe what
hoss talk is done had better be done by me. You _sabe_, Mose?"

"Humph!" sniffed the little jockey. "I got you long ago, boss, lo-ong
ago!"

Al Engle, sometimes known as the Sharpshooter, horse owner and
recognised head of a small but busy band of turf pirates, was leaving
his stable at seven-thirty on a Wednesday evening, intending to
proceed by automobile to the brightly lighted district. Sleek, blond,
youthful in appearance, without betraying wrinkle or line, Engle's
innocent exterior had been his chief dependence in his touting days.
He seemed, on the surface, to be everything which he was not.

As he stepped forth from the shadow of the stable awning a hand
plucked at his sleeve.

"It's me--Henry," said a voice. "I've got a message for
Goldmark--couldn't catch him on the phone."

"Shoot it!" said Engle.

"Tell him that Elisha has gone dead lame--can't hardly rest his foot
on the ground."

"That'll do for Sweeney!" said the Sharpshooter. "Elisha worked fine
this morning. I clocked him myself."

"But that was this morning," argued Squeaking Henry. "He must have
bowed a tendon or something. His left foreleg is in awful shape."

"Are you sure it's Elisha?" demanded Engle.

"Come and see for yourself. You know the horse. Owned him for a few
weeks, didn't you? Curry is working on his leg now. You can peek in
at the door of the stall and see for yourself. He won't even know
you're there."

Together they crossed the dark space under the trees, heading for a
thin ribbon of light which streamed from beneath the awning of
Curry's barn. Somewh