on exhibition at that
time. Nearly every owner will answer a civil question about his
horse; once in a great while one of them may answer truthfully. In
this particular race we are concerned with but two owners, one of
whom told the truth.

Weaver, rat-eyed and furtive, answered all questions freely--almost
too freely.

"Ye-es, she's a right nice little mare, but they've weighted her out
of it to-day. She can't pack a hundred and fifteen and win.... That
much lead will stop a stake horse. Better stay off her to-day. Some
other time."

Old Man Curry, grave and polite, also answered questions.

"Isaiah? Oh, yes. Well, now, sir, I'll tell you 'bout this hoss of
mine. I figure he's got a stavin' good chance to come second--a
stavin' good chance.... No, he won't be first."

Just before the bugle blew, Mose received his riding orders.

"If that mare of Weaver's gets away in front, don't you start chasing
her. No use in running Isaiah's head off trying to ketch her. I want
you to finish second, understand? Isaiah can beat all these other
hosses. Don't pay no 'tention to the mare. Let her go."

Little Mose nodded.

"'At Fieldmouse is sutny a goin' fool when 'ey bet stable money on
huh," said he. "Let 'at ole mare go, eh?"

"Exackly," said the old man, "but be sure you beat the rest of 'em."

"Fieldmouse an' Murphy," said Mose. "Huh-uh! 'At's a bad combination
fo' us, boss, a ba-ad combination. 'Membeh Obadiah?"

The Bald-faced Kid strolled into Isaiah's stall.

"Chicken Liver's got it," he whispered. "I saw Weaver pass it to
him."

"That's what I've been waiting for, Frank," said Old Man Curry.
"Here, Shanghai! You lead him out on the track. I've got business
with the children of Israel."

The Fieldmouse money was beginning to pour into the ring, and the
block men were busy with their erasers. Each time the mare's price
went down, Isaiah's price went up a little. Old Man Curry drew out a
tattered roll of currency and went from booth to booth, betting on
his horse at four to one.

"Think you've got a chance to-day, old man?" It was the Sharpshooter,
smiling like a cherub.

"Well, now," said Curry, "I'll tell you 'bout me; I'm always trying,
so I've always got a chance. Looks like the weight ought to stop the
mare."

"That's so," said Engle. "Betting much?"

"Quite considerable for me, yes. Isaiah ain't a trick hoss, but
he----"

"Oh, you go to the devil!" said Engle.

But Old Man Curry crossed the tr