railroad
yards and watched the thoroughbreds come down the chute into the
corral. One by one he checked them off: Elisha, the pride of the
stable; Elijah, Isaiah, Ezekiel, Esther, Nehemiah, Ruth, and
Jeremiah. The aged owner, straw in mouth and hands clasped behind
him, watched the unloading process narrowly giving an order now and
then and sparing no more than a nod for his young friend. This sort
of welcome did not discourage the Kid. He was accustomed to the old
man's spells of silence, as well as his garrulous interludes.

"They look all right, old-timer," said the Kid, making conversation
for its own sake. "Yes, sir, they look good. The trip didn't bother
'em much. Elisha, now, I'd say he was ready to step out and bust a
track record as soon as he gets the cinders out of his ears.
Shouldn't wonder if he----"

The aimless chatter died away into amazed silence. Shanghai, the
hostler, appeared at the head of the chute leading a large,
coal-black horse.

"Well, for Heaven's sake!" muttered the Kid, moving nearer the fence,
his eyes glued on the black stranger. "Where did you pick up that
fellow?... One white forefoot. H-m-m!... Say, you don't mean to tell
me this is Fairfax?"

Old Man Curry nodded.

"Fairfax!" ejaculated the Bald-faced Kid disgustedly. "Well, how in
the name of all that is good, great, and wise did you get that
crowbait wished on you?"

Old Man Curry threw away his straw and reached for his packet of fine
cut, a sure sign that he was about to unburden himself.

"He wa'n't wished on me, Frank. Jimmy Miles was stuck with a feed
bill, and at the last minute, just as I was loadin' my hosses,
he----"

"He stuck you with _that_," finished the Kid, pointing at the black
horse.

"Well, I dunno's I'd say _stuck_," remarked Old Man Curry, looking
critically at Fairfax. "Jimmy sold him to me for next to nothing."

"And you can bet he didn't misrepresent the goods any!" said the Kid.
"That's exactly what Fairfax is--next to nothing. He's so near
nothing that a lot of folks can't tell the difference. If you said to
me: 'This is a black horse named Fairfax and that over there is
nothing,' I couldn't tell which was which. Old-timer, you're in bad."

"Mebbe I am." Old Man Curry's tone was apologetic and conciliating in
the extreme. "Mebbe I am. You ought to know 'bout hosses, Frank. You
most gener'ly do."

"Cut out the sarcasm, because here's one I _do_ know.... You made a
sucker of me on Jeremiah,