Old Man Curry Part 16

"That was what's left of him," was the response. "Maybe we'd better not cheer until the judges give us the 'official' on those numbers.

I've got a hunch they may want to see Jock Gillis in the stand." And to himself: "The fool! He handed it to him again right under their noses! Does he think the judges are c.o.c.keyed too?"

"Here's our chance to get rid of the grocer," said the presiding judge to his a.s.sociate. "Did you notice the way that horse acted?

The boy's got a battery on him, sure as guns!"

One hundred yards from the wire Last Chance checked to a walk and as Jockey Gillis turned the horse he tossed a small, dark object over the inside fence. It fell in a puddle of water and disappeared from sight. When the winner staggered stiffly into the ring, Gillis flicked the visor of his cap with his whip.

"Judges?" he piped.

The presiding judge answered the salute with a nod, but later when the rider was leaving the weighing room, he halted him with a curt command.

"Bring that tack up here, boy!"

The investigation, while brief, was thorough. The judges examined the saddle carefully for copper st.i.tching, looked at the b.u.t.t end of the whip, ran their hands over Calamity's thin loins and last of all felt in his bootlegs for wires connected with the spurs. All this time Jockey Gillis might have been posing as a statue of outraged innocence.

"Nothing on him," said the presiding judge shortly. "Hang up the official."

Jockey Gillis bowed and saluted.

"Judges, can I go now?" said he.

"Yes," said the presiding judge, "and don't come back. You're warned off, understand?"

"Judges," whined Jockey Gillis, "I ain't done a thing wrong. That old horse, he----"

"Git!" said the presiding judge. "Now where is that man Hopwood? If he bet much money on this race----"

The Bald-faced Kid was waiting at the paddock gate. He greeted Little Calamity with blistering sarcasm.

"You're a sweet little boy, ain't you? A _nice_ little boy! Here I stall for you for weeks and you didn't even tell me that the old skate was going to have the Thomas A. Edison tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs with him to-day!"

"Honest," said the jockey, "I didn't think there was enough 'lectricity in the world to make it a cinch. I took a long chance myself, that's all. I had to do it."

"And got caught with the battery on you, too. Didn't you know any better'n to slip him the juice right in front of the wire? Think those judges are blind?"

"Well," said Little Calamity, "I don't know how good their eyes are, at that. Jock Hennessey, he's been riding with a hand buzzer every time the stable checks are down. This morning he loaned it to me."

"Oh, it was a hand buzzer, eh?"

"Sure. I chucked it over the fence when I was turning him around after the race."

"Fine work. What did the judges say to you?"

"They warned me away from the track. I should worry. There's other tracks. Only thing is, they've got Hopwood in the stand now, and he'll be fool enough to tell 'em this was the first time he bet on the horse. Somehow, I'd hate to see the old bird get into trouble....

Say, by the way, how much did he bet?"

The Bald-faced Kid began to laugh. He laughed until he had to lean on the rail for support.

"Don't worry," said he, at last. "The judges won't be too hard on him. He hunted all over the ring until he found some 75 to 1 and then he bet the wad--two great big iron dobey dollars--all at once, mind you!"

"Two dollars!" gasped Little Calamity. "_Two dollars?_"

"It serves you right for not letting me know about the buzzer! I'd have made him bet more. As it stands, your cut will be seventy-five--if he splits with you, and I think he will. That's a lot of money--when you haven't got it."

"Bah! Chicken feed!" This with an almost lordly scorn. "It's a good thing those judges didn't take off my boots. Then they _would_ have found something!" He fumbled for a moment and produced eight pasteboards. "I had sixteen dollars saved up and one of the boys bet it for me--every nickel of it on the nose. Seventy-five dollars! I'm over eight hundred winner to the race!"

"Holy mackerel!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the Kid. "What are you going to do with all that money?"

"I'm goin' to buy a diamond pin and a gold watch and a ring with a red stone in it and a suit of clothes and an overcoat and a derby hat and a pair of silk socks and a porterhouse steak four inches thick and a----"

"E--nough!" said the Kid. "Sufficient! If there's anything left over, you better erect a monument to the guy that discovered electricity!"

This happened long ago. Hopwood's grocery store still does a flouris.h.i.+ng business. Over the cash register hangs a crayon portrait of a large yellow horse with four white stockings and a blaze. The original of the portrait hauls the Hopwood delivery wagon. Irritated teamsters sometimes ask Mr. Hopwood's delivery man why he does not drive where he is looking.

SANGUINARY JEREMIAH

It was not yet dawn, but Old Man Curry was abroad; more than that, he was fully dressed. It was a tradition of the Jungle Circuit that he had never been seen in any other condition. The owner of the "Bible horses," in s.h.i.+rt sleeves and bareheaded, would have created a sensation among his competing brethren, some of whom pretended to believe that the patriarch slept in his clothes. Others, not so positive on this point, averred that Old Man Curry slept with one eye open and one ear c.o.c.ked toward the O'Connor barn, where his enemies met to plot against him.

Summer and winter, heat and cold, there was never a change in the old man's raiment. The rusty frock coat--black where it was not green, grey along the seams, and ravelled at the skirts--the broad-brimmed and battered slouch hat, and the frayed string tie had seen fat years and lean years on all the tracks of the Jungle Circuit, and no man could say when these things had been new or their wearer had been young. Old Man Curry was a fixture, as familiar a sight as the fence about the track, and his shabby attire was as much a part of his quaint personality as his habit of quoting the wise men of the Old Testament and borrowing the names of the prophets for his horses.

The first faint golden glow appeared in the east; the adjoining stables loomed dark in the half light; here and there lanterns moved, and close at hand rose the wail of a sleepy exercise boy, roused from slumber by a liberal application of rawhide. From the direction of the track came the m.u.f.fled beat of hoofs, swelling to a crescendo, and diminis.h.i.+ng to a thin tattoo as the thoroughbreds rounded the upper turn.

Old Man Curry squared his shoulders, turned his face toward the east, and saluted the dawn in characteristic fas.h.i.+on.

"'A time to get and a time to lose; a time to keep and a time to cast away,'" he quoted. "Solomon was framin' up a system for hossmen, I reckon. 'A time to get and a time to lose.' Only thing is, Solomon himself couldn't figure which was which with some of these rascals!

_Oh, Mose!_"

"Yessuh, boss! Comin'!"

Jockey Moseby Jones emerged from the tackle-room, rubbing his eyes with one hand and tugging at his sweater with the other. Later in the day he would be a b.u.t.terfly of fas.h.i.+on and an offence to the eye in loud checks and conflicting colours; now he was only a very sleepy little darky in a dingy red sweater and disreputable trousers.

"Seem like to me I ain't had no sleep a-a-a-tall," complained Mose, swallowing a tremendous yawn. "This yer night work sutny got me goin'

south for fair."

Shanghai, the hostler, appeared leading Elisha, the star of the Curry barn.

"Send him the full distance, Mose," said the aged owner, "and set him down hard for the half-mile pole home."

"_Hard_, boss?"

"As hard as he can go."

"But, boss----" There was a note of strong protest in the jockey's voice.

"You heard me," said Old Man Curry, already striding in the direction of the track. "Extend him and let's see what he's got."