, I sort o' figgeh
the Gen'al's got a mighty good chance nex' Satu'day in that secon'
race. A mighty good chance."

Pitkin sneered. "Going to bet on him, are you?"

"No, suh; not 'less some people pay me whut they owes me."

"You'd only blow it in if you had it," replied Pitkin. "The General's
a darn bad race horse--always was and always will be."

"They ain't nothin' in that race fo' him to beat," responded Gabe.

"He's never had anything to beat yet," said Pitkin, "and he's still a
maiden, ain't he? Better let him run for the purse, Gabe. Playing a
horse like that is just throwing good money after bad."

"Mebbe yo' right, boss," answered the old negro. "Mebbe yo' right,
but I still thinks he's got a chance."

Now, in a maiden race every horse is supposed to have a chance, not a
particularly robust one, of course, but still a chance. The maidens
are the horses which have never won a race, and every jungle circuit
is well supplied with these equine misfits. They graduate, one at a
time, from their lowly state, and the owner is indeed fortunate who
wins enough to cover the cost of probation. The betting on a maiden
race is seldom heavy, but always sporadic enough to prove the truth
of the old saw about the hope which springs eternal.

Saturday's maiden race was no exception. There was a sizzling paddock
tip on The Cricket, a nervous brown mare which had twice finished
second at the meeting, the last time missing her graduation by a
nose; others had heard that Athelstan was "trying"; there was a
rumour that Laredo was about to annex his first brackets; suspicion
pointed to Miller Boy as likely to "do something," but nobody had
heard any good news of General Duval. Those who looked him up in the
form charts found his previous races sufficiently disgraceful.

The Cricket opened favourite at 8 to 5, and when her owner heard this
he grunted deep and soulfully and swore by all his gods that the
price was too short and the mare a false favourite. He had hoped for
not less than 4 to 1, in which case he would have sent the mare out
to win, carrying a few hundred dollars of ill-gotten gains as wagers,
but at 8 to 5 tickets on The Cricket had no value save as souvenirs
of a sad occasion.

Nobody bothered about General Duval; nobody questioned old Gabe as he
led a blanketed horse round and round the paddock stalls. Old Man
Curry sat on the fence, thoughtfully chewing fine-cut tobacco and
seemingly taking no interest in h