o us again to-day. Look like it
gittin' to be a _habit_ on thisyere track!"

Thus, querulously, Jockey Moseby Jones, otherwise Little Mose, as he
trudged dejectedly across the infield beside his employer, Old Man
Curry, owner of Elisha, Elijah, Ezekiel, Isaiah, and other horses
bearing the names of major and minor prophets. Mose was still in his
silks--there were reasons, principally Irish, why the little negro
found it more comfortable to dress in the Curry tack room--and the
patriarch of the Jungle Circuit wore the inevitable rusty frock coat
and battered slouch hat. Side by side they made a queer picture: the
small, bullet-headed negro in gay stable colours, and the tall,
bearded scarecrow, the frayed skirts of his coat flapping at his
knees as he walked. Ahead of them was Shanghai, the hostler, leading
a steaming thoroughbred which had managed to finish outside the money
in a race that his owner had expected him to win: expected it to the
extent of several hundred dollars. "Yes, suh, it gittin' to be a
habit!" complained Little Mose. "Been so long since I rode into 'at
ring I fo'get what it feels like to win a race!"

"It's a habit we're goin' to break one of these days, Mose. What
happened!"

"Huh! Ast me whut didn't happen! Ol' 'Lijah, he got off good, an'
first dash--_wham_! he gits bumped by 'at ches'nut hawss o' Dyer's. I
taken him back some an' talk to him, an' jus' when I'm sendin' him
again--_pow_! Jock Merritt busts ol' 'Lijah 'cross 'e nose 'ith his
whip. In 'e stretch I tries to come th'oo on inside, an' two of 'em
Irish jocks pulls oveh to 'e rail and puts us in a pocket. 'Niggeh,'
they say to me, 'take 'at oat hound home 'e long way; you sutny neveh
git him th'oo!' They was right, boss! 'Lijah, he come fourth, sewed
up like a eagle in a cage!"

"H'm-m. And the judges didn't pay any attention when you claimed a
foul?"

Little Mose gurgled wrathfully. "Huh! I done claim _three_ fouls!
Judges, they say they didn't see no foul a-a-a-tall! Didn't see us
git bumped; didn't see Jock Merritt hit 'Lijah; didn't see us
pocketed. 'Course they didn't; they wasn't _lookin'_ faw no foul! On
'is track we not on'y got to beat hawsses; we got to beat jocks an'
judges too. How we goin' lay up any bacon agin such odds as that?"

"It can't last, Mose," was the calm reply. "'There shall be no reward
to the evil man; the candle of the wicked shall be put out.'"

"It burnin' mighty bright jus' now, boss. Sol'mun, he