used his willow
switch. Jim, we're sent to the cleaner's--"

It was a Mexican race-track, but the audience was American and it is
the habit of Americans to cheer a winner, regardless of how they have
bet their money. A great sigh went up from the big holiday crowd.
Then, "Panchito! Come on, you Panchito! Come on, Agrippa! Ride him,
boy, ride him!" A long, hoarse howl that carried with it the hint of
sobs.

At the paddock the gallant King Agrippa gave of the last and the best
that was in him and closed the gap in a dozen furious jumps until, as
the field swept past the grand-stand, Panchito and King Agrippa were
for a few seconds on such even terms that a sudden hush fell on the
race-mad crowd. Would this be a dead heat? Would this unknown
Panchito, fresh from the cattle ranges, divide first money with the
favorite?

The silence was broken by a terrible cry from Pablo Artelan.

"Allesandro! I cut your throat!"

Whether Allesandro heard the warning or whether he had decided that
affairs had assumed a dangerous pass, matters not. He rose a trifle in
his saddle, leaned far out on Panchito's withers and delivered himself
of a tribal yell. It was a cry meant for Panchito, and evidently
Panchito understood, for he responded with the only answer a gallant
race-horse has for such occasions. A hundred feet from the wire King
Agrippa's wide-flung nostrils were at Panchito's saddle girth; under
the stimulus of a rain of blows he closed the gap again, only to drop
back and finish with daylight showing between his head and Panchito's
flowing tail.

Father Dominic stood gazing down the track. He was trembling
violently. Brother Anthony turned lack-luster eyes toward Farrel.

"You win, Brother Anthony," Don Mike said quietly.

"How good is God," murmured Brother Anthony. "He has granted me a joy
altogether beyond my deserts. And the joy is sufficient. The money
will buy a few shingles for our roof." He slumped down in his seat and
wiped away great tears.

Pablo waited not for congratulations or exultations, but scrambled down
through the grand-stand to the railing, climbed over it and dropped
down into the track, along which he jogged until he met Allesandro
galloping slowly back with Panchito. "Little treasure of the world,"
he cried to the boy, "I am happy that I do not have to cut your
throat," and he lifted Allesandro out of the saddle and pressed him to
his heart. That was the faint strain of Catal