hand-made rawhide
bridle, _sans_ throat-latch and brow-band and supporting a long, cruel,
solid silver Spanish bit, with silver chain chin-strap and heavily
embossed. In this gear he arrayed Panchito, and then mounted him.
Allesandro mounted the flea-bitten mule, the old Saratoga trunk was
turned over to Pablo, and with a fervent "_Adios_, Don Miguel. Go with
God!" from the old majordomo, Don Mike and his little companion rode
south through the city toward the international boundary.

They crossed at Tecarte next day and in the somnolent little border
town Don Mike made sundry purchases and proceeded south on the road
toward Ensenada.

Meanwhile, John Parker, his wife and daughter and Danny Leighton had
motored to San Diego and taken rooms at a hotel there. Each day they
attended the races at Tia Juana, and as often as they appeared there
they looked long and anxiously for Don Miguel Jose Federico Noriaga
Farrel. But in vain.

Three days before Thanksgiving the entries for the Thanksgiving
handicap were announced, and when Danny Leighton read them in the
morning paper he at once sought his employer.

"That fellow Farrel has spoiled everything," he complained furiously.
"He's entered Panchito in the Thanksgiving Handicap at a mile and a
sixteenth, for a ten thousand dollar purse. There he is!"

Parker read the list and sighed. "Well, Panchito is his horse, Danny.
He has a right to enter him if he pleases--hello! Katie! Kay! Here's
news for you. Listen!"

He read aloud:

DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO PANZA, JR.

ARRIVE AT TIA JUANA--THEY ENTER PANCHITO IN THE THANKSGIVING HANDICAP

_By the Rail Bird_

Considerable interest having developed among the followers of the sport
of kings at Tia Juana race-track anent the entry of Panchito in the
Thanksgiving Handicap, and the dope books yielding nothing, your
correspondent hied him to the office of the secretary of the Lower
California Jockey Club; whereupon he was regaled with the following
extraordinary tale:

Two days ago a Mexican rode into Tia Juana from the south. He was
riding Panchito and his outfit was the last word in Mexican
magnificence. His saddle had cost him not a _real_ less than five
hundred dollars gold; his silver spurs could have been pawned in any
Tia Juana loan office for twenty-five dollars and many a longing glance
was cast on a magnificent bridle that would have cost any bricklayer a
month's pay. Panchito, a splendid big chestnut