, no time; 'ey jus' be tickled
to death to put me an' 'Lisha oveh 'e fence if we git clost 'nough to
it. Yes, indeed; I 'low to give 'is hawss all 'e room whut is on a
race track!"

Old Man Curry led Elisha toward his barn, the little negro trailing
behind, addressing the horse in terms of endearment. "You ol' wolf,
on'iest way to beat you to-morreh is to saw all yo' laigs off. You as
full of run as a hydrant, 'at's whut you are, ain't you, 'Lisha?"

Two horsemen were standing in the door of a feed room as the queer
procession passed. They interrupted a low-toned conversation to
exchange significant glances. "Speak of the devil," said one, "and
there he goes now. Been working that horse for the last race
to-morrow."

"It won't get him anything," said the other. "You can forget that
he's entered."

The first speaker was short and stout, with no personal beauty to be
marred by the knife scar which ran from the lobe of his left ear to
the point of his chin, a broad, red welt in the blackish stubble of
his beard. This was Martin O'Connor, owner of the Sunrise racing
stable, sometimes know as Grouchy O'Connor.

His companion was a smooth-faced, dapper, gold-toothed blond,
apparently not more than twenty-five years of age. Innocence circled
his sleek towhead like a halo; good cheer radiated from him in
ceaseless waves. His glance was direct and compelling and his smile
invited confidences; he seemed almost too young and entirely too
artless for his surroundings. The average observer would have pitied
him for a lamb among wolves, and the pity would have been misplaced,
for Al Engle was older than he looked by several sinful semesters
and infinitely wiser than he had any honest right to be. His frank,
boyish countenance was at once a cloak and an asset; it had beguiled
many a man to his financial hurt. He was shrewd, intelligent,
unscrupulous, and acquisitive; the dangerous head of a small clique
of horse owners which was doing its bad best to remove the element of
chance from the sport of kings. In his touting days he had been given
the name of the Sharpshooter and in his prosperity it clung to him.

"Forget that he's entered, eh?" repeated O'Connor. "Elisha--Elisha--I
don't seem to place that horse."

"His name used to be Silver Star," said the Sharpshooter.

"That dog?" said O'Connor, disgustedly. "Let's see; wasn't he at
Butte last season?"

"Yes. Cricket Caley owned him."

"The little old jock that died last