gine, let me explain that Laurel race track (from
the township of the same name) is where horse fanciers from the District
of Columbia go to abandon their Capitol and capital on weekends.

We were briefing our jockey--a scrawny youth with a pair of oversized
ears--on the use of Pat's lightening rod. Being short on gray matter as
well as on stature, he wasn't getting it at all.

"You mean," he said for the third or thirty-third time, "you don't want
I should _hit_ the nag with this bat?"

"Heavens, no!" gasped Pat, blanching. "It's much too delicate for that."

"Don't fool yourself, mister. Horses can stand a lot of leather."

"Not the horse, stupid," I said. "The bat. This is the only riding crop
of its kind in the world. We don't want it damaged. All you have to do
is _carry_ it. We'll do the rest."

"How about setting the dial, Don?" asked Joyce.

"Pat will do that just before the horses move onto the track. Now let's
get going. It's weigh-in time."

We moved to the scales with our rider. He stepped aboard the platform,
complete with silks and saddle, and the spinner leaped to a staggering
102, whereupon the officials started gravely handing him little leather
sacks.

"What's this?" I whispered to Sandy. "Prizes for malnutrition? He must
have won all the blackjacks east of the Mississippi."

"The handicap," she whispered back. "Lead weights at one pound each."

"If he starts to lose," I ruminated, "they'd make wonderful
ammunition--"

"One hundred and twenty-four," announced the chief weigher-inner. "Next
entry!"

We returned to Tapwater. The jockey fastened the weights to his gear,
saddled up and mounted. From the track came the traditional bugle call.
Sandy nodded to Pat.

"All right, Pat. Now!"

Pending twisted the knob on his lightening rod and handed the stick to
the jockey. The little horseman gasped, rose three inches in his
stirrups, and almost let go of the baton.

"H-hey!" he exclaimed. "I feel funny. I feel--"

"Never mind that," I told him. "Just you hold on to that rod until the
race is over. And when you come back, give it to Pat immediately.
Understand?"

"Yes. But I feel so--so lightheaded--"

"That's because you're featherbrained," I advised him. "Now, get going.
Giddyap, Dobbin!"

I patted Tapwater's flank, and so help me Newton, I think that one
gentle tap pushed the colt half way to the starting gate! He pattered
across the turf with a curious bouncing gait as if he were r