lly were in a compartment at the end of the string of stalls. The
one next to it, back toward the grandstand, was unoccupied, and
adjoining that was a hay room. Gyp stopped opposite the open door of the
compartment in which the bales of hay and straw were piled. He paused a
moment and turned as if to go back.

"Hold on there!" the Ramblin' Kid called to him. "What you tryin' to do?
Starve me to death?"

"D' last thing I'd want to do, Bo!" Gyp laughed good-naturedly. "Did I
miss you this mornin'? Here, come inside where I can set this bloomin'
junk down on a bale of hay for a minute an' I'll fix you up!"

The Ramblin' Kid followed Gyp into the stall.

The tout stooped over, with his back to the other, and slipped a capsule
containing a white powder into a coffee cup which he filled quickly with
the black liquid from the tin pot he carried. He handed the cup to the
Ramblin' Kid. The latter took it and sat down on a bale of hay lying
opposite. The coffee was just hot enough to melt, instantly, the capsule
and not too warm to drink at once. The Ramblin' Kid was thirsty as well
as hungry. Lifting the cup to his lips, while Gyp, fumbling for a
sandwich, watched him furtively, he drained it without stopping.

"That's--what was in that?'" he asked, eying the tout keenly. "It tastes
like--!"

"Just good old Mocha an' Java!" Gyp interrupted lightly. "Maybe it's a
little strong. Here, take another one!" reaching for the cup.

The Ramblin' Kid started to hand the cup to Gyp to be refilled--a queer
numbness swept over him--the cup fell from his hand--he swayed--tensed
his body in an effort to get up--mumbled thickly:

"What th'--what th'--?"

The tout backed away toward the door, crouching like a cat ready to
spring, his beady eyes half-frightened, watching the poison deaden the
faculties of the other. He leaped through the door, glanced up and down
the stable street--deserted at that hour except for a few drowsy
attendants lounging in front of their stalls--jerked the door shut,
hooked the open padlock through the iron fastenings, snapped its jaws
together and muttered, as he hurried away:

"I guess that guy won't ride the Gold Dust maverick in any two-mile
sweepstakes to-day!"

As the door slammed shut the Ramblin' Kid pitched forward, unconscious,
on the bale of hay.

CHAPTER XVI

THE SWEEPSTAKES

The Clagstone "Six" was parked, Friday afternoon, in its usual place
near the east end of the grandstand and