When Thieves Fall Off

LD MAN CURRY said the hand of of Providence was in it, which was as accurate a guess as he ever made in connection with a horse race. It goes to show that a man may be well posted on all the prophets of Israel, and still not know a great deal about the sport of kings. Steeplechasing particularly. Providence might stand some sort of an outside chance in a dash over the flat, with everybody trying; hut over the sticks? Ne-ver! The jumping riders settle things before the race, thus eliminating Providence and the mischance of jogging to the post with the wrong ticket in the bootleg. It is only when the riders fail to name the caucus nominee that complications arise. And Old Man Curry, bless his simple, honest heart, thought it was Providence!

Speaking from a professional angle, Old Man Curry had about as much business on a race track as a tender squab at a Third Avenue banquet—and almost as much of a chance. In the first place, a man who can recite the Old Testament backward, and who reads the Psalms of David and the Song of Solomon instead of the form charts and the sporting pages is quite apt to find himself outgeneraled by the unregenerate in the matter of placing race horses one-two-three at the wire. To make it worse, Old Man Curry didn't have a horse in his barn worth talking about with a straight face.

If an honest man hopes to win two-hundred-dollar purses along the alkali circuit, there is only one way in the world for him to do it—and that is to get away flying, and fly ill front all the way—so far in front that the wizened little tobacco-chewing burglars on the other horses cannot catch him and bump him over the fence. But what is a man to do who can neither outrun nor outguess his competitors?

Old Man Curry had four horses—Elijah, Nehemiah, King David, and Isaiah—"the Bible class," as the touts called the Curry Stable.

Elijah was a chunky, short—coupled, thick-necked brute of a sorrel gelding, with two bad legs and a chronic weariness which met him at the head of the stretch.

Nehemiah was a gaunt, hungry-looking, aggravating sort of an equine hermit. He could run fast enough to suit anybody, the only trouble being that he insisted on running alone. If he happened to get away from the post with the others, he sulked and quit; it was only when he had been left flat-footed that Nehemiah came to life, and ran like a —two hundred yards behind the others. He was absolutely no good, being too thin for soap fat.

King David was a stately chestnut, a confirmed stall walker, a malingerer from his yellow heart.

Isaiah—well, Isaiah was the star of the stable! He was a tall, big—boned, coal-black rascal about the size of a dromedary, as suspicious as a hawk, and as savage as a wasp. He was probably the most erratic beast that ever drove an official starter to drink; and Sid, the negro jockey who rode all the prophets in Old Man Curry's stable, never knew when the barrier went up whether Isaiah was going up the track, down the track, or over the side fence. The black scoundrel had been known to do all three—in one race. Once in a great while it pleased Isaiah to behave himself and run second or third in some selling event, but his appearances "in the money" were rare.

There wasn't a breadwinner in the stable, nor anything which looked like one; and quite naturally Old Man Curry was a rank outsider—the last man on the track to know when anything was going on or coming off—a nice, respectable, soft-spoken old gentleman with white whiskers, who ran his bad horses to win, and gave every one else credit for "trying." No one paid any attention to Old Man Curry; and because he was harmless, from an owner's point of view, no one took the trouble to explain matters to him.

If the judges at a small Western bush track had not seen fit to order Isaiah on the "schooling list" after two atrocious performances at the barrier, Old Man Curry would have had no occasion to refer to the hand of Providence. Horses which shy at the barrier and refuse to break when the webbing flies up are put on the schooling list, and it is part of the duties of the assistant starter to train these wild creatures until they learn how to comport themselves at the post. It was after Isaiah broke sidewise, knocking two real horses into the fence, that the judges sent for Old Man Curry, and broke the news to him that Isaiah's entry would be refused until the animal had been schooled at the barrier. Old Man Curry was innocent enough to attempt an explanation, but how could he be expected to know that the judges had ten dollars apiece on one of the horses which Isaiah put out of the race?

The next morning Clem Newby, the assistant starter, looked down from his perch near the five-eighths pole upon the usual bunch of two-year-olds and one immense black horse with a negro upon his back. Isaiah looked all of ten feet high among the colts and fillies, and Clem Newby, who had a date with the girl who waited on the table at the Bonton Restaurant, sighed as he beheld the negro's futile attempts to control his mount. A few feet away from the starter's platform, Old Man Curry sat on the top rail of the fence, chewing a straw and meditating silently.

"Here's that crazy son of a gun that busted up the start for us the other day," said Clem Newby to Butch Flynn. Butch, with a blacksnake whip, was aiding Newby from the track.

"I see him," said Butch. Then he went on to give his unbiased opinion of Isaiah, his breeding, his antecedents, and a few other things which occurred to him as he warmed into his work!

"Mr. Starter," said Old Man Curry gently, "I wisht you wouldn't cuss that hoss of mine. He ain't ust to stich language, an' it ain't fitten he should be. Isaiah's right gentle when he's used kindly."

"S-a-a-y!" demanded Newby angrily. "Who's doing this? If I was the judge at this track, I'll promise you you wouldn't start that black hound around here no more! He acted to me like he was full of hop the other day."

Old Man Curry took the straw out of his mouth, but he changed his mind, and preserved silence.

"Now, then," bawled Newby, "bring that filly up on the outside. Easy, there! Come on with that chestnut! Whatche think this is—a quadrille? You, dinge, where you tryin' to go with that black camel? Stand still with him. Stand still, I tell you! No, no! You can't break that way! Butch, bring up that chestnut. Steady! Now! You're off!"

B-z—zip! went the barrier, and away went the two-year-olds like frightened snipe. Isaiah seemed to squat in his tracks for the fraction of a second; then he whirled with a tremendous snort, like the blast of an auto horn, and ran the wrong way of the track, narrowly missing Butch Flynn in the maneuver.

"Yes," said Newby, with a sneer, "he is a right gentle horse, ain't he? As gentle as a wild cat! Keep a—stickin' around here with him, and he'll kill some of us yet."

"Mister," said Old Man Curry earnestly, "I wisht you wouldn't abuse Isaiah like that. What's the use to cuss him? He's a good hoss, but he can't seem to get the hang of that rubber-rope dingus. He ain't used to it. It gets him fretted up and scares him. Once he finds out it won't hurt him none he'll be all right. Back where he comes from they start hosses with a flag. He don't know no other way."

"Well," said Butch Flynn, as he labored with the heavy spring of the starting machine, "far be it from me to set my stack in at the wrong time; but you better take this Isaiah back where they start races with flags, because if anything happens to me, my heirs'll sue you for damages. If I hadn't been right there with that Jim Corbett side-step, Isaiah would have gone over me like a steam roller. You don't keep him hopped all the time, do you?"

"That hoss don't know what a drug is!" said Old Man Curry. "He's only nervous and scairt. He'll get ust to it in time. He's a smart hoss, that Isaiah. Try him again."

Newby tried him again. The two-year-olds broke as before, and just as the barrier rose, Butch Flynn, who believed in experimenting upon refractory horsefiesh, curled the lash of his blacksnake whip around Isaiah's hams. The big fellow wheeled at right angles, and soared over the side fence, pitching Sid twenty feet into an alfalfa patch. It was not such a low fence, either, but Isaiah cleared it like a bird on the wing, and, after separating himself from Sidney, he ran away, switching his tail and snorting angrily.

"Goshamighty!" ejaculated Old Man Curry. "Look what you did by hittin' him with that whip!" He clambered down from the fence, and started toward the negro, mumbling as he went: "He ain't ust to bein' hit with a whip, Isaiah ain't. It made him mad. 'Tain't no way to treat a high-keyed hoss. Did he hurt you any, Sid?"

The negro rose, and looked about him, grinning foolishly.

"Naw, suh," he said, rubbing his shoulder. "Naw, suh, he didn' hu't me none, an' he didn' do me no good, nuther. Shook me up some. I'd ought to have stayed with him, Mist' Curry, an' I cert'n'y would, only he was li'l' bit too sudden faw me. I didn't know whut he was aimin' to do twell he done gone done it. Yes, suh, he's a mighty sudden hawss, that Isaiah. Too quick a thinker faw me—yes, suh."

"He'll think you into the morgue one of these days if you keep on fooling with him," said Newby, as he climbed back to his perch.

"Well, Sid," said Old Man Curry, "go catch him up, and take him back to the barn. His feelin's are hurt, and he's all fretted up an' excited from bein' hit with that whip. He'll have to be cooled out. Take him back to the barn."

Sid departed, rubbing his shoulder and chuckling.

Butch Flynn was staring at Isaiah's hoof-marks upon the track.

"Here's where he took off," said Butch, "and over yonder is where he lit. And he'd have cleared that fence if it had been twice that high. Sufferin' Salvator, what a jump!"

"You did Isaiah a wrong to hit him with that whip," said Old Man Curry patiently. "Whippin' a hoss ain't no way"

"Say," interrupted Butch suddenly, "has this horse ever been over the jumps?"

Old Man Curry shook his head.

"How far can he run?" demanded Butch.

"Well," said Old Man Curry, "his daddy was a four-mile champion. Isaiah can go one mile, two miles, three miles-makes no difference to him. All these races round here are too short for him."

"Old man," said Butch earnestly, "lemme tell you something: Make a jumper out of this horse. If he'll take hurdles the way he took that fence he'll win you a nice pot of money. You could take him to some track where they've got a steeplechase course, and clean up with him."

"Yes," said Newby maliciously, "and they start jumping races with a flag, too!"

Old Man Curry removed his slouch hat and mopped his forehead.

"Goshamighty!" he said, half to himself. "I never thought of that!"

He ambled away toward the stables with his head bent at a reflective angle. Newby looked after him with a short laugh.

"What's on you, Butch?" he asked. "Are you framing up to get some jumping jock killed, or what?"

"Ho!" said Butch. "One of them crooks more or less wouldn't matter much! But, on the level, bo, did you see the way that big brute sailed over this fence? Looked to me like he went ten feet in the air. Why, that bird must have wings!"

"He better have," said Clem grimly, "an' use 'em to fly away from here. Get those kids back, and let's get through some time to-day."

Several months later the alkali circuit season ended; Butch Flynn and Clem Newby, no longer track officials, found themselves wintering in California, and attempting to pick up a living "from the ground." Clem, with a few dollars in his pocket, was giving a poor imitation of a gentleman of leisure and independent means. Butch, being financially straightened—"embarrassed" is no word to convey the proper impression of Butch's exceeding ruin—was "hustling" as best he could.

Hustling upon a race track is a many-sided occupation including everything in the world but real work.

Part of the time Butch assisted a "clocker" who worked for a book-maker, and in this way came to have some sort of a line on most of the early-morning work—outs. With the knowledge thus secured, Butch set up as a tout on a small scale, operating with one nervous eye on Sig Buetler, of the Pinkerton Patrol.

One afternoon Flynn and Newby met on the promenade in front of the grand stand.

"Who do you think is here?" asked Butch. "Nobody but that old joker and that Isaiah bird. And that ain't all. He took my advice, and made a jumper out of his horse."

"Him?" said Newby scornfully. "How come he to get on a real race track with those lizards of his?"

"He didn't get stable room," said Butch. "He's got 'em bedded down outside somewhere. From what he tells me, he's laying to put Isaiah over on 'em at a price."

Newby chuckled.

"Daffy as a cuckoo bird," he said. "I suppose the old boy doesn't know that some of the best jumpers in the country are out here this season? Molestar, Arabi, Prince Wang, and that bunch. A swell chance old Isaiah will have in that kind of company!"

"Wel-l-l," said Butch judiciously, "a jumpin' race ain't ever a cinch for anybody not even the best jumper that ever lived. Too many things can happen. And, then, the riders are always doing business—framing up among themselves. You never know what those burglars are going to do, or which horse they are going to shoo in. I'd hate to bet a jumping race—with counterfeit money."

"Right-o!" assented Newby. "Those jumping jocks are pretty tough propositions; but, then, look at the chances they take. Man ought to be allowed to steal something if he risks his neck to do it. Which of 'em is going to ride for the old sport?"

"Not any," said Butch. "He's went and made a steeplchase jock out of the coon."

"Good night!" said Newby, with explosive emphasis. "Why, McGuire and Duffy and the rest of those mick riders will murder him the first time around the field!"

"That being the case," said Butch, "it's up to us to send flowers about Sunday week. Isaiah is entered for a week from Thursday. He ain't got a thing to beat except Prince Wang and Arabi—the two best jumpers that ever came West. And the joke of it is," concluded Butch, "the old man tells me he's going to take the woolen string off the roll and set in the checks on Isaiah—to beat Prince Wang and Arabi. What do you know about that?"

"A fool and his money gathers no moss," laughed Newby.

"Even so," said Butch cheerfully, "that won't keep me from ribbing up some suckers to bet a few piasters on Isaiah—to come third."

"If the coon lives that long," said Newby.

"Of course," said Butch. "We got to take chances on him getting broke in two."

The grand stand overflowed on Thursday afternoon, the steeplechase being responsible for the added attendance. The balance of the day's card was given up to cheap selling races for cheap horses, and Charlie Comford, "outside man" for one of the big book-makers, and turf philosopher in what spare time he found, stared hard at the human swarm in the stand, and extracted the pith of the situation in a few brisk sentences.

"Look at 'em up there," said Charlie. "And there won't be any Rosebens runnin' here to-day, either. They've all come out to see some poor devil of a jumpin' jock break his neck. Same proposition as a parachute leap. I've seen a million of 'em, but I always walk a mile to see another one, because' I'm figuring that this may be the time when the umbrella won't open. We ain't half as civilized as we think we are."

A steeplechase breaks up the monotony of the daily racing card and fattens the daily attendance, but the bookmakers and the professional gamblers have small use for a jumping contest. There is never any real certainty of knowing how the riders are betting, and in a long race "over the sticks" almost any sort of a miracle may pass unquestioned by the judges.

There was once a man who figured out fifty ways in which the best horse in a race might be beaten; and it was a flat race he was using as the basis of calculations. In a steeplechase there are five hundred ways. In a flat race, when there is to be a "shoo in," it is the owners who lay their heads together and make the arrangements. In a steeplechase, the riders often assume this responsibility; therefore, when the jumpers are on their way to the post the hardened gamblers sit in the stand, with no interest save in the spectacle, and the bookmakers handle what they call "the sucker money"—tens, twenties, and other small change. And the only bookmakers who will take a great deal of any kind of money on a jumping race are the ones who think they know how the riders are going to bet.

Down near the paddock, in the jockeys' room, Mr. Sidney Albert Johnson, slightly heavier than in the days of the alkali circuit, sat in a far corner, and eyed the other jumping riders with furtive distrust. He knew some of them by reputation, and was therefore not reassured to any great extent. There was "Durable" Duffy, so called because it was said of him that in a long and shady career he had broken all the bones in his body save the ones in his crooked spine. There was "Molly" McGuire, another steeplechase rider of great reputation, not exactly unknown as a welterweight prize fighter; and "Corkscrew" Kelly, just out of the hospital after his last fall, walking with a slight limp, but cursing fluently. They were a tough crowd, and Mr. Sidney Albert Johnson did not like their looks or the glances which they shot in his direction. Some of them spoke to him as he took his place in line at the weighing machine.

"Little dark meat to-day," said Duffy, with a meaning smile.

"About the third jump for his," said McGuire.

"Lemme tell you something, Mistah Johnson," said Corkscrew Kelly: "If you come anywhere near me I'll spill you. I'm from a State where we don't like your kind of people."

Sidney Albert, saddle and weight pads on his arm, weighed in silently, and faded away to his corner again, his eyes big with foreboding.

"This ain't no good place faw me," he repeated over and over to himself. "No, suh! All shanty Irish. Lawd, you got to watch out faw li'l' Sid today. Look like he's got into ba-a—ad company."

Out in the paddock, Old Man Curry led Isaiah into his stall, and stood quietly patting the big black horse on the neck. Butch Flynn, unobtrusive as a shadow, drifted to the old man's side.

"How about you?" said the tout. "Think you've got a chance?"

"This hoss," said Old Man Curry, "has always got a chance. He's a right nice hoss, Isaiah."

"Yes—but look what he's got to beat," argued Flynn. "Arabi's six to five in the ring, and Prince Wang is three to one. They kind of stick out in this company. Isaiah's twenty, eight, and two. Think you can come third with him?"

Somewhere a gong clanged, and the paddock announcer bawled:

"Saddling bell! Saddle up!"

"Can he be third?" persisted Butch.

"He can be first if he wants to," said Old Man Curry, with calm conviction. ~

"Daffy as a cuckoo bird!" said Butch to himself, as he moved over to inspect Prince Wang. "Now, if I only knew which one they're going to bet on today"

Once more the gong clanged, and a flood of bright color burst from the door of the jockeys' room. Sidney Albert Johnson, conspicuous in canary yellow and peacock blue, was last in the line, his serious countenance in strong contrast with his gaudy attire. He seemed gloomy and preoccupied, and there was an appealing look in his eyes as he rolled them upon his employer.

"Sid," said Old Man Curry, as he gave the "tack" its final inspection, "I might spoil some of them Egyptians in the bettin' ring to-day. They're layin' too long a price against this hoss. Do the best you can with him."

"Yes, suh," said Sidney Albert, without enthusiasm. "I'll be tryin', Mist' Curry." Then, after a short silence: "But these Irish jumpin' jocks, they— they seem to took a notion agin' me."

He climbed into the saddle, set his boots in the stirrups, and looked about him.

"Yes, suh," he repeated gloomily, "they sort of took a distaste to me."

A bugle blared, and there was a sudden stir in the paddock; the horses began to move. Old Man Curry stood looking after Isaiah for several seconds. Then, straw in mouth, he walked slowly toward the betting ring.

There were seven horses in the race—Prince Wang, Arabi, Blue Peter, Doctor Boggs, Gondolier, Ugly Joe, and Isaiah. Arabi, because of a sensational performance the last time out, was the favorite, backed from eight to five to even money. Prince Wang, easily outclassing all the others in the race, was the strong second choice at three to one; and Blue Peter, Doctor Boggs, Gondolier, Ugly Joe, and Isaiah were quoted at tempting odds, the prices being amply Justitia by information, belief, and past endeavor. There was no "form" on Isaiah, but the information secured by the bookmakers' assistants did not disconcert those suave individuals.

"Isaiah? Isaiah?" said Phil Hennessey, the ring plutocrat, who set the pace in the matter of opening prices. "First time over the jumps. Oh, well, make him fifteen to one till we see how he shapes up. Like's not he ought to be fifty."

At fifteen to one there was no demand for Isaiah, so the price lengthened to twenty, and later a gentle old man with white whiskers wandered through the betting ring, sowing a crop of crumpled five—dollar notes at odds of one hundred to five. No one paid the slightest attention to him; few remembered having seen him before. When he had accumulated a fat packet of pasteboards the old man went down by the fence, and unshipped a battered field glass.

By this time the seven jumpers had reached the starting point, opposite the grand stand, in the infield, the steeple-chase course stretching in a large figure eight before them. The starter, with a red flag, was stationed some distance in front of the horses; and the assistant starters, armed with whips, were herding the nervous animals into something like a straight line. Arabi and Prince Wang, being seasoned campaigners, and knowing what was expected of them, stood perfectly still, refusing to waste their strength in wild plunges and ineffectual dashes down the course. The hoarse voice of the starter came faintly to the crowded grand stand—a rumbling, complaining monologue:

"No, no! I won't let you go that way! Dugan, you want me to fine you? Don't talk back to me? I ain't blind! Get that black horse into line. Walk 'em up, now. That's it! All together! Come on!"

A thousand-voiced grunt burst from the grand stand as the seven big horses leaped into a lumbering gallop. Old Man Curry, leaning heavily upon the fence, took a fresh grip upon his straw, and sighed his relief. It was as fair a start as an honest owner could wish to see.

When the red flag fell Ugly Joe sprang to the front, and rushed recklessly at the first barrier. Jockey Hennessey cursed savagely, and sawed at the bit; he might as well have argued with a thunderbolt. Duffy, on Arabi, was directly behind the crazy animal, and, scenting calamity, pulled sharply to the right, with a shrill yell of warning. McGuire, on Prince Wang, also sheered violently, and the Prince carromed into Isaiah, knocking the big black horse out of his stride. Isaiah promptly shuffled out of the pack, and dropped to the rear, thrashing his tail angrily.

"Them Irishmen cert'n'y don't waste no time," thought Sidney Albert bitterly, wherein he wronged Duffy and McGuire. The bumping of Isaiah had been an accident, and a fortunate one, it turned out to be, else Sidney Albert and Isaiah would have been involved in the smash which followed. The whole thing happened so quickly that even the judges were not sure as to the sequence of events.

Ugly Joe, attempting the almost impossible feat of taking the first obstacle without slackening speed, sailed over the barrier like a red streak, but could not hold his footing, and crashed heavily to the turf. Hennessey turned a complete somersault, and came to grass in a sitting posture, more surprised than hurt. Doctor Boggs, next inside, shied, took off short, and, jumping sidewise, collided with Blue Peter in midair. Both horses went down, and Corkscrew Kelly and Dugan joined Hennessey on the ground.

Dugan's collar bone was broken—not a new experience for Dugan—but Kelly, rolling rapidly to the edge of the track, escaped without a scratch, and was able immediately to sit up and express an unexpurgated opinion of Hennessey's qualifications as a steeplechase rider.

Prince Wang and Arabi went over the jump neck and neck; Gondolier blundered after them. Last of all came Isaiah, feelings outraged, temper ruffled, jerking his head from side to side, and snorting his protest. Sidney Albert spoke reassuringly to him, and the black horse cleared the jump handily, and went on down the course, fifty yards behind Gondolier.

Ugly Joe, the wicked cause of all the trouble, scrambled to his feet, and set out after the others, the empty stirrups banging at his sides. Doctor Boggs rose stiffly, shivering as he hobbled away on three legs. Blue Peter never moved after he struck the ground. Thus, in a single breath, the spectators had been given their glimpse of turf tragedy—a crippled rider groaning in the dirt; three horses out of the race, two of them for all time; and far down the course went Arabi and Prince Wang, neck and neck.

After a few heart palpitations, a few ejaculations, a few sympathetic groans from the females present, the spectators turned their eyes to the survivors. There were_other jumps on the course, other risks to be taken, other chances for a spill. Comford's philosophy wasn't so far wrong, after all. Few in the grand stand heard or understood the distant pop of the pistol which ended the career of Doctor Boggs.

Ugly Joe, having furnished tragedy, now essayed comedy. The grand stand roared as he galloped past Isaiah and ranged alongside Gondolier. In effect, Ugly Joe seemed to say:

"What's a rider more or less? Bet you I can outrun you to the next jump."

"Slim" Sweeney, on Gondolier, cursed heartily, and aimed a cut at Ugly Joe with his whip. The riderless brute dodged it, and pressed closer. At the second jump he swerved into Gondolier, and both horses fell, Sweeney's nose plowing a furrow in the turf. That put another horse out of the running, and Isaiah, seeing this accident from afar, had to be coaxed over the second barrier.

"Come on, big hoss!" urged Sidney Albert pleadingly. "jump cautious, and we got third money cinched."

Away out in front, Arabi and Prince Wang, first and second money at their mercy, were running close together, eating up the course in long, easy strides.

Old Man Curry heard a voice in his ear.

"All you got to do," said Butch, "is to keep going, and I win a show bet."

Isaiah's owner shook his head disconsolately.

"They rammed into my hoss at the start," he complained. "Bumped him clean outen his stride. He knew that wasn't right, and it's made him mad. He's awful sensitive, Isaiah is. He won't stand to be trifled with."

"He'd never do better'n third against jumpers like those in front," said Butch. "Look at 'em out there. I'd like to know what Duffy and McGuire are talkin' about, wouldn't you? They got it all fixed up between 'em."

As the leaders swung into the great oval which marked the last circuit of the course, Duffy pulled Arabi a bit closer to Prince Wang, and opened a conversation with McGuire.

"Come on, Molly," he said, "ride that horse out! I got a good bet on him."

"You what?" demanded McGuire, with suitable profanity. "Quit your kiddin'! Why, my folks are bettin' on you!"

For the fraction of a second, the boys eyed each other; amazement and incredulity numbed all other sensations.

"Why," faltered Duffy, "I thought it was the other way; I thought—and I got fifty bucks of my own on that one."

"Thought—rats!" snarled McGuire. "Didn't we fix it up night before last? You crossed me—for the price!"

"You lie!" almost screeched Duffy. "And I got a man from Seattle bettin' a chunk! You got to ride him out."

For a few seconds neither spoke. McGuire's eyes were on the jump ahead of them. Duffy, stealing a glance at his quondam accomplice, surprised a flickering light in his eye—a light which kindled an immediate suspicion.

"You ride that horse out, or I'll break your neck!" screamed Duffy.

"I'll break your Seattle friend first," said McGuire ominously, measuring the approaching obstacle shrewdly.

The trick was most artistically done, but unless practice makes perfect of what virtue is it? From the distant grand stand it seemed that Prince Wang faltered in front of the barrier, and then blundered ever so slightly in his leap. A touch of the knee, a shift in the saddle—these were two things which the grand stand overlooked, as did the judges. MicGuire, acting his part perfectly, whirled through the air, struck upon his side, rolled over once, and stretched out at full length, limp and apparently lifeless. A coroner might have been deceived by his attitude. But Duffy was not deceived. A nasty, mocking laugh pursued him as Arabi thundered down the course alone.

"Cross me, will you?" murmured McGuire. "Go on now, and cash my ticket."

"The crook!" panted Duffy. "He makes me lose a real bet, and I've got to ride this one for his money."

Away in the rear, Sidney Albert cast a pair of wide eyes on jockey McGuire, still motionless in the grass. Men were running toward him. Out in the middle of the track several roustabouts were pursuing Prince Wang to remount and ride him home for the short end of the purse. At the fence rail, Butch Flynn was pounding Old Man Curry on the back.

"You run second!" he shouted. "All down but nine! Set 'em up again!"

Jockey Duffy, on the last half mile, with one more jump before him, and then nothing but the flat stretch to the wire—Jockey Duffy, huddled up on the favorite—steamed with impotent rage. What could he do? Nothing. That was the worst of it. Duffy's financial interest in the race was gone beyond recall. His fifty-dollar ticket wasn't worth five cents, nor were all the tickets which the man from Seattle was to buy in the pool rooms downtown. Gone—all gone! And why? Because that thief of a McGuire got his wires crossed, and put down a piking little bet on the wrong horse! Earnestly jockey Duffy consigned all the McGuires to everlasting flame.

"I'm standin' to cop five or six hundred for my bit," thought Duffy, "and that louse of a McGuire won't even wait long enough to ask me will I split with him. He goes and does a Brodie for his petty-larceny bet. Oh, why didn't I beat him to it?

"I could have done it at that first jump," reflected Duffy, "only I was afraid of being jumped on by the others. Why didn't I take a chance? Now I got to bring this one home—for McGuire."

About here jockey Duffy's face grew brick red. Over his shoulder he saw Prince Wang, still eluding pursuit, and the black horse and the black boy. If they could catch Wang, and the black should fall—and why should Duffy oblige a petty larcenist like McGuire? These considerations whirled in Duffy's brain. There in front of him was the last jump. Jockey Duffy ducked his head, and stole a look behind him. Four men were carrying McGuire from the track toward the paddock.

"Stall, you burglar!" thought Duffy. "I'll give you something that will make you sick. Now, what's your ticket worth?"

Arabi rose lightly to the last barrier, and Jockey Duffy, also a finished actor, rose with him—too far. As Arabi's hoofs struck turf again Duffy pitched forward upon the horse's neck, clung desperately for a few seconds, and then slipped easily to the ground.

"And I guess that'll hold you for a while!" he said to himself. "Go cash your ticket now."

Sidney Albert Johnson, riding Isaiah cautiously, with a prayer for each jump, heard the deep roar from the grand stand which marked the concluding incident. Then he saw Arabi, with empty saddle, careening down the course.

"My Lawd!" breathed Sidney Albert. "Come on, you black hoss—for all the money! For all the money! Put your feet to the ground, and come on!"

For the first time in the race, Sidney Albert sat down on Isaiah, and began to ride him.

"Old man," yelled Butch Flynn, "you win! You win!"

Old Man Curry swallowed his heart when Isaiah took the last jump in safety, and through a mist which nearly blinded him he saw Sidney Albert draw his whip for a whirlwind finish. The grand stand yelled with laughter as the lone black horse crossed the line, ridden out to the last inch.

A little later Old Man Curry climbed the steps to the judges' stand. Three gentlemen, their faces set and stern, desired to question him. Later they would interview Duffy and McGuire.

"Mr. Curry," said the presiding judge, a tall Kentuckian of distinguished appearance and soldierly bearing, "we didn't like the looks of that jumping race a little bit. No, suh. So we thought we'd talk to you about it. Mr. Curry, did you—bet on your horse to-day?"

"Why, yes, judge," said Isaiah's owner slowly. "I bet quite some money on him." He put his hand into his pocket, and brought out a fistful of tickets. The judges glanced at them hastily.

"All to win, I see," said the Kentuckian; "and to beat good horses. Why?"

"judge," said Old Man Curry earnestly, "I bet to win because I thought my Isaiah horse had a right nice chance to come home in front. That's the only reason I know. He's a good hoss, judge, and"

"Certainly," said the tall judge impatiently. "But doesn't it strike you as suspicious that both the boys on the short-priced horses should fall off to let you win?"

"Yes," put in another judge, "we'd like to know what you think about that?"

"What do I think?" repeated Old Man Curry, turning his slouch hat in his hands. "Why, gentlemen, it looked to me like the hand of Providence!"

The judges quite naturally took very little stock in the hand-of-Providence theory, so they sent for and examined the bookmakers' sheets on the jumping race, and what they found there led them still deeper into darkness. Next they sought information as to Old Man Curry's record, and the record of the right nice horse, Isaiah, and there they found nothing to nourish their suspicions. Then they cross-questioned Sidney Albert Johnson, and found their efforts vain and fruitless. Last of all, an assistant judge gave McGuire and Duffy a miserable half hour, and returned to the stand shaking his head. Those scalawags, case-hardened by experience, fearing neither man nor his brief authority, stood pat; and the bookmakers' sheets furnished no clew to the mystery so far as Duffy and McGuire were concerned.

The tall judge summed up in short sentences.

"Gentlemen," said he, "we have examined the sheets from the betting ring. They show that Mr. Curry was the only man who bet on Isaiah to win. If these other owners were in cahoots with him, they would have hammered that price to death. If McGuire and Duffy had been betting on this long shot we should have found the record of it here. No question but those two rapscallions were up to something, gentlemen, but what was it? I give it up."

"I guess," said one of the assistant judges, with a grin, "the old man was about right when he said it was the hand of Providence."

"Hm-m!" said the Kentuckian thoughtfully. "Providence better not mix up in any more jumping races at this track, or somebody will get himself ruled off for life."

The one thing the judges missed was the bare-knuckle fight that evening between Duffy and McGuire. The referee said that it was a draw.