Old Man Curry Part 32

"The thing to do," said Old Man Curry with his kindly smile, "is to find out the eagle's distance."

Little Mose was dreaming that he had piloted the winner of the Burns Handicap and was being carried to the jockey's room in a floral horseshoe which rocked in a very violent manner. The motion became so p.r.o.nounced that Mose opened his eyes, and found Old Man Curry shaking him.

"Get up, you lazy little rascal! Got a job for you this mornin'. Turn out!"

The jockey sat up, yawning and knuckling his eyes.

"Solomon must have had at least one little black boy," said the old man. "'Love not sleep lest thou come to poverty.' Hurry up, Mose!"

"Yes, suh," mumbled the drowsy youngster. "Reckon Sol'mun neveh had to gallop a string an' ride 'em too. I sutny earns whut I gits when I git it."

Dawn was breaking when Jockey Moseby Jones emerged from the tack room to find Old Man Curry and Pharaoh waiting for him. As they were walking to the track the owner gave his orders.

"One trouble with this hoss," said he, "is that the boy who has been ridin' him wasn't strong enough in the arms to keep his head up."

"That ol' hawss has got a head whut weighs a thousan' pounds!"

murmured Mose sulkily. "'Spect he'll 'bout yank both arms outen me!"

"You're pretty stout for a boy your size," said the old man, "an' you may be able to hold this big, hard-stridin' hoss together an' shake something out of him. Send him two miles, Mose, keep his head up if you can, an' ride him every jump of the way."

"But, boss, they ain't no two-mile races in thisyer part o' the country!"

"Keep on, an' you'll talk yourself into a raw-hidin' yet, little black boy. I ain't askin' you to tell me 'bout the races on the jungle tracks. All you got to think about is can you handle as much hoss as this over a distance of ground. If you can, an' he's got the stayin' qualities I think he has, you an' me an' Pharaoh may go on a long journey--down into Egypt after corn. Git up on him, Mose, an'

let's see what you both can do."

The hammer-head loafed away at a comfortable stride and his first mile showed nothing, but his second circuit of the track was a revelation which caused Old Man Curry to address remarks to his stop watch. It took every ounce of Mose's strength to fight Pharaoh to a standstill: the big brute was just beginning to enjoy the exercise and wanted to keep on going.

"Well, think you can handle him?"

"Boss," panted little Mose, "I kin do--everything to thisyer hoss--but stop him. He sutny--do love to run--once he git goin'. All the way--down the stretch--he was asayin' to me: 'Come on, jock!

Lemme go round again!' Yes, suh, he was beggin' me faw 'notheh mile!"

"Ah-hah," said Old Man Curry. "That's the way it looked to me. Well, to-morrow we'll let him do that extra mile, but we'll get up earlier.

By an' by when he's ready, we'll let him run four miles an' see how he finishes an' what the watch says."

Little Mose rolled his eyes thoughtfully.

"Seem like I ain't heard tell of but _one_ fo'mile race," he hinted.

"'Tain't run in Egypt neitheh. They runs it down round 'Frisco. The Thawntum Stakes is whut they calls it. Boss, you reckon Pharaoh kin pick up any corn in California?"

Old Man Curry's eyes twinkled, but his voice was stern.

"If I was a little black boy," said he, "an' I was wantin' my boss to take me on a trip down into Egypt, I wouldn't call it California. If I knew anything 'bout a four-mile stake race, I'd try to mislay the name of it. If I had been ridin' a big, hammer-headed hoss, I don't think I'd mention him except in my prayers. If I was goin' after corn, I don't believe I'd say so."

Mose listened, nodding from time to time.

"Boss," said he earnestly, "I sutny always did want to see whut thisyer Egypt looks like. Outside of that, I neveh heard nothin', I don't know nothin', an' I can't tell nothin'. Beginnin' now, a clam has got me beat in a talkin' match!"

Old Man Curry smiled and combed his long, white beard.

"That is the very best way," said he, "to earn a trip down into Egypt. 'A talebearer revealeth secrets, but he that is of a faithful spirit concealeth the matter.'"

"Tha.s.s me all oveh!" chuckled Mose. "I bet I got the faithfulest an'

the concealin'est spirit whut is!"

Port Costa is a small town on the Carquinez Straits, that narrow ribbon of wind-swept water between San Pablo and Suisun Bays. The early empire builders, striving to reach the Pacific by rail, found it necessary to cross the Carquinez Straits, and to that end built a huge ferryboat capable of swallowing up long overland trains. It was then that Port Costa came into being: a huddle of hastily constructed frame saloons along the water front and very little else. All day and all night the big ferryboat plied between Benicia and Port Costa, transferring rolling stock. While the trains were being made up on the Port Costa side pa.s.sengers in need of liquid sustenance paid visits to the saloons. They got exactly what the transient may expect in any country.

Henry Ashbaugh sat at a table in Martin Dugan's place and eyed the bartender truculently. He had purchased nothing, for the most excellent of reasons, but he had patronised the free lunch extensively.

"You don't need to look at me like that," said Henry when the silence became unbearable. "I'm waiting for a friend and when he comes he'll buy."

At this critical juncture the swinging doors opened to admit the friend, a tall, elderly man with a patriarchal white beard, clad in a battered black slouch hat and a venerable frock coat. Ashbaugh jumped up with a yell.

"Well, you old son of a gun! It's good for sore eyes to see you! How long has it been, eh?"

"Quite some years," answered Old Man Curry, allowing himself to be guided to the bar. "And how's the world been usin' you, Henry?"

"It's been using me rough, awful rough," replied Ashbaugh. "I ain't even got the price of a drink."

Curry laid a silver coin upon the bar.

"Have one with me," said he.

"Don't mind if I do," said Ashbaugh, and poured out a stiff libation of water-front whisky. Old Man Curry took water, and the wise bartender, after one look at the stranger, drew it from a faucet.

"How!" said Henry, tilting the poison into his system.

"My regards!" said Old Man Curry, sipping his water slowly.

"Same old bird!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Ashbaugh, clapping Curry on the back.

"Solomon on the brain! Speaking of birds, though, did you ever see one that could fly with only one wing?"

"I never did," was the grave response. "Have another?"

"If you force me," said Ashbaugh, pouring out a second heavy dose.

Old Man Curry took more water. Ashbaugh gulped once and pa.s.sed the back of his hand over his lips.

"We have talked of birds," said he, wheedlingly. "Leave us now talk of centipedes."

"No," said Curry quietly. "No, I reckon not, Henry. There's something else to talk about. You got my telegram?"

"This afternoon," said Ashbaugh with a lingering glance at the bottle. "That's why I'm here."

"You've still got your place out on the Martinez road?" asked Old Man Curry.

"I can't get rid of it," was the answer.

"I'd like to take a hoss down there and put him up for a few weeks, Henry."