led it off so slick that if I hadn't been watching for it I
could have been looking right at 'em and never noticed it. And the
judges didn't have the chance that I did, because they couldn't see
anything but their backs. Murphy pranced in, hopped on the scales,
got the O. K., and that was all there was to it. Pretty little
scheme, ain't it? And so darned simple!"

Old Man Curry combed his beard with both hands--with him a sign of
deep thought.

"Frank," said he at length, "where does this Chicken Liver nigger go
while the race is being run?"

"Across the track to the infield. That was where he went yesterday. I
was watching him."

"The infield.... Hm-m-m.... Thank you, Frank."

"You could tip it off to the judges," suggested the Kid, "and they'd
have Chicken Liver searched. Like as not they'd rule Weaver off for
life and set Murphy down----"

"There's a better way than searching that nigger," said Old Man
Curry.

"You'll have to show me!"

"Son," said the aged owner, "according to Solomon--and, oh, what a
racing judge he would have made!--'he that hath knowledge spareth
his words.' I'm sparing mine for the present, but that won't keep me
from doing a heap of thinking.... Engle, Weaver, and Murphy.... Maybe
I can bust two of these cords at once--and fray the other one a
little."

Four men sat under the lantern in Martin O'Connor's tack-room on a
Wednesday night. They spoke in low tones, for they were engaged in
running the fourth race on Thursday's programme.

"I've let it be known in a few places where it'll do the most good
that the mare can't pack a hundred and fifteen pounds and win at a
mile." This was Weaver speaking, a small, wiry man with a drooping
moustache. "You know how talk gets around on a race track--tell the
right man and you might as well rent the front page of the morning
paper. As a matter of fact, Fieldmouse _can't_ pack that weight and
win."

"That's the way the form students will dope it out," said Al Engle,
otherwise the Sharpshooter, the smiling, youthful, gold-toothed blond
who directed the campaigns and dictated the policy of the turf
pirates. "That much weight will stop most of 'em, but let her in
there under ninety pounds and Fieldmouse is a cinch. That little
sleight-of-hand stunt between Murphy and your nigger is working fine.
They not only put it over on the judges, but none of the other
owners are wise. I'd try it myself some day if I wasn't afraid
somebody would fumble an