in't I? Know him? Man alive, I had the skate in my
barn for nearly a month! I ought to know him. Why, there's no
question about it. He's so lame he can hardly touch his foot to the
ground. If he starts, he's a million to one to win; a hundred to one
he won't even finish. Certainly I'm sure! You can go broke on it.
Don't talk to me! Haven't I seen strained tendons before? Next to a
broken leg, it's the worst thing that can happen to a race horse."

While Engle was closeted with Goldmark, Old Man Curry was
entertaining another nocturnal visitor. It was the Bald-faced Kid,
breathless, his brow beaded with perspiration.

"Just got the tip that Elisha has gone lame," said the Kid. "I was in
the crap game over at Devlin's barn when Squeaking Henry came in with
the news. I ran all the way over here."

"Oho, so it was Henry, eh?" Old Man Curry rumbled behind his
whiskers--his nearest approach to a laugh. "Henry, eh? Well, now,
it's this way 'bout Henry. He's better than a newspaper because it
don't cost a cent to subscribe to him. He's got the loosest jaw and
the longest tongue in the world."

"But on the level," said the Kid earnestly, "is Elisha lame?"

"Come and see for yourself," said Old Man Curry, taking his lantern
from the peg. After an interval they returned to the tack-room, the
Bald-faced Kid shaking his head commiseratingly.

"That would have been rotten luck if it had happened to a dog!" said
he. "And the Handicap coming on and all."

"There'll be a better opening price than 3 to 1 now, I reckon," said
Old Man Curry grimly.

"Opening price!" ejaculated the Kid, startled. "Say, what are you
talking about? You don't mean to tell me you're thinking of starting
him with his leg in this shape, old-timer?"

"'M--well, no, not in this shape, exackly."

"But Lordy, man, the Handicap is on Saturday and here it is Wednesday
night already. You can't fix up a leg like that in two days. You're
going some if you get it straightened out in two weeks. Of course,
you can shoot the leg full of cocaine and he'll run on it a little
ways, but asking him to go a mile and a half--confound it, old-timer!
That's murdering a game horse. You're liable to have a hopeless
cripple on your hands when it's over. I tell you, if Elisha was
mine----"

"You'd own a real race hoss, son," said Old Man Curry. "Now run
along, Frank, and don't try to teach your grandad to suck aigs. I was
doctoring hosses before you come to this country at a