separated the first five
horses, and the fifth horse carried the racing colours of Gabriel
Johnson. It was cutting it fine, very fine, but little Mose had an
excellent eye for distance; he felt the strength of the mount under
him and timed his closing rush to the fraction of a second. Those who
were yelling wildly for Athelstan, Miller Boy, and the others saw a
flash of cherry jacket on the rail, caught a glimpse of a
bullet-headed little negro hurling himself forward in the
stirrups--and the race was over. Jockey Moseby Jones had brought a
despised outsider home a winner by half a length. There was a stunned
silence as the numbers dropped into place, broken only by one
terrific whoop from Shanghai, betting commissioner.

"Well," said the associate judge, looking at his chief, "what do you
make of that? The winner had a lot left, didn't he? Think the old
nigger has been cheating with him?"

The presiding judge rubbed his chin.

"No-o, Ed, I reckon not," said he. "It was a poor race, run in slow
time. And we've got to figure that the change of jockeys would make a
difference; this Jones is a better boy than Duval is used to. I
reckon it's all right--and I'm glad the old nigger finally won a
race."

"The Cricket would have walked home if she'd got away good," said the
associate judge.

"Have to look into that business," said the other. "Well, I'm glad
the old darky finally put one over!"

Many people seemed glad of it, even Mr. Pitkin, who slapped Gabe on
the back as he led the winner from the ring.

"Didn't see the race--I was down getting another drink--but they tell
me the General just lucked in on the last jump. Everything dead in
front of him, eh?"

"Yes, suh," answered Gabe, passing the halter to one of the black
stable hands. "It did look like he win lucky, that's a fac'!"

"Well, don't go to celebrating and overlook that fourth race!"
ordered Pitkin. "No gin now! You bring Sergeant Smith over to the
paddock yourself."

"Yes, suh, boss."

"And if anybody asks you about him, he's only in there for a tryout."

"Jus' fo' a tryout, yes, suh."

To such as were simple enough to expect a crooked man to return
straight answers to foolish questions, Pitkin stated (1) that he was
not betting a plugged nickel on his colt, (2) that he hardly figured
to have a chance with such horses as Calloway and Hartshorn, (3) that
he might possibly be third if he got the best of the breaks, and (4)
that he had lost his r