Old Man Curry Part 36

"Sell him," was the prompt reply.

"Oho! Then it ain't the hoss you want so much as the money, eh?"

"Mist' Curry, that colt'd fetch enough to sen' me home _right_. I got two sons in Baltimo', an' they been wantin' me to quit the racin'

business, but I couldn't quit it broke. No, suh, I couldn't, so I jus' been hangin' on tooth an' toenail like the sayin' is, hopin' I'd git a stake somehow."

"And you don't much care _how_ you quit, so long's you quit; is that it?"

"Well, suh, I don't want no trouble if I kin he'p it, but if I has to fight my way loose from Pitkin I'll do it."

There was another long silence while Gabe waited.

"I reckon Solomon would have his hands full straightenin' out this tangle," said Old Man Curry at last. "You can't break into the stall an' take that hoss away from Pitkin, because he'd have you arrested.

And then, of course, he's got him registered in his name an' runnin'

in his colours--that's another thing we've got to take into consideration. I reckon we better set quiet a few days an' study.

You'll know whenever this Sergeant hoss is entered in a race, won't you?"

"Yes, suh; I'm boun' to know ahead o' time, suh."

"All right. Go on back to work an' don't quarrel with Pitkin. Don't let him know that you've found out anything, an' keep me posted on Sergeant Smith. Might be a good thing if we knew when Pitkin is goin'

to bet on him. He's been cheatin' with that hoss lately."

"He's always cheatin', suh. Yo'--yo' think they's a way to--to----"

"There's always a way, Gabe," answered Old Man Curry. "The main thing is to find it."

"That's my hoss by right," said the negro, with a trace of stubbornness in his tone.

"An' the world is your oyster," responded Curry, "but you can't go bustin' into it with dynamite. You got to open an oyster, careful.

Now go on back to your barn and do as I tell you. Understand?"

"Yes, suh, an' thank yo' kin'ly, suh."

Pitkin's bandaged head brought him little sympathy--in fact, the general opinion seemed to be that Mulligan had not hit him quite hard enough to do the community any good. Certainly the scantling did not improve his temper, and Pitkin made life a burden to old Gabe and the two black stable hands. Gabe swallowed the abuse with a patient smile, but the two roustabouts muttered to themselves and eyed their employer with malevolence. They had also been missing pay days.

One evening Pitkin stuck his head out of the door of the tackle-room and called for his trainer.

"Gabe! Oh, Gabe! Now where is that good-for-nothing old n.i.g.g.e.r?"

"Comin', suh, comin'," answered Gabe, shuffling along the line of stalls. "Yo' want to see me, boss?"

"Shut the door behind you," growled Pitkin. "I was thinking it was about time we cut this Sergeant Smith colt loose."

"Yes, suh," answered Gabe. "He's ready to go, boss."

"How good is he?" demanded Pitkin.

"Well, suh," replied Gabe, "he's a heap better'n whut he's been showin' lately, that's a fact."

"Can he beat horses like Calloway and Hartshorn?"

"He kin if he gits a chance."

"How do you mean, a chance?"

"Well, suh, if he gits a good, hones' ride, fo' one thing. He been messed all oveh the race track las' few times out."

"But with a good ride you think he can win?"

"Humph!" sniffed Gabe. "He leave 'em like they standin' still!"

"I want to slip him into the fourth race next Sat.u.r.day," said Pitkin, "and he'll have Calloway and Hartshorn to beat. There ought to be a nice price on him--4 or 5 to 1, anyway, on account of what he's been showing lately."

"Yo' goin' bet on him, suh?"

"Straight and place," said Pitkin, "but I won't bet a nickel here at the track. They'll be asking you about the colt and trying to get a line on him. You tell 'em that I'm starting him a little bit out of his cla.s.s just to see if he's game--any lie will do. And if they ask you about the stable money, we're not playing him this time."

"Yes, suh."

"You're absolutely sure he's ready?"

"Ready? Why, boss, ain't yo' been watchin' the way that colt is workin'? Yo' kin bet 'em till they quits takin' it an' not be scared."

"That's all I want to know, Gabe, and mind what I told you about keeping that big mouth of yours shut. If I hear of any talk----"

"I ain't neveh talked yit, has I?"

"Well, don't pick this time to start; that's all."

That night the lights burned late in two tackle-rooms. In one of them Old Man Curry was bringing the judgment of Solomon down to date and fitting it to turf conditions; in the other Henry M. Pitkin was preparing code telegrams to certain business a.s.sociates in Seattle, Portland, b.u.t.te, and San Francisco, for this was in the unregenerate days when pool rooms operated more or less openly in the West. Mr.

Pitkin was getting ready for the annual clean-up.

The next morning he was on hand early enough to see General Duval return from an exercise gallop, and there was a small black boy on the colt's back.

"Come here, Gabe," said Pitkin. "Ain't that Curry's n.i.g.g.e.r jockey?"

"Yes, suh; that's Jockey Moseby Jones, suh."

"What's he doing around this stable?"

"He kind o' gittin' acquainted with the Gen'al, suh."

"Acquainted? What for?"

"Well, suh, they's a maiden race nex' Satu'day, an' I was thinkin'

mebbe the Gen'al could win it if he gits a good ride. Jockey Jones didn't have no otheh engagement, suh, so I done hired him fo' the 'casion."

"Oh, you did, did you? Now listen to me, Gabe: I don't want anybody from the Curry stable hanging around this place. Chances are this little n.i.g.g.e.r will be trying to pick up an earful to carry back to his boss, the psalm-singing old hypocrite! If Curry should find out we're leveling with Sergeant Smith next Sat.u.r.day, he might go into the ring and hurt the price. I can't stop you putting the little n.i.g.g.e.r on your own horse, but if he tries to make my barn a hangout, I'll warm his jacket for him, understand? You can tell him so."