Old Man Curry Part 38

"Yes, suh," answered Gabe, pa.s.sing the halter to one of the black stable hands. "It did look like he win lucky, that's a fac'!"

"Well, don't go to celebrating and overlook that fourth race!"

ordered Pitkin. "No gin now! You bring Sergeant Smith over to the paddock yourself."

"Yes, suh, boss."

"And if anybody asks you about him, he's only in there for a tryout."

"Jus' fo' a tryout, yes, suh."

To such as were simple enough to expect a crooked man to return straight answers to foolish questions, Pitkin stated (1) that he was not betting a plugged nickel on his colt, (2) that he hardly figured to have a chance with such horses as Calloway and Hartshorn, (3) that he might possibly be third if he got the best of the breaks, and (4) that he had lost his regular jockey and was forced to give the mount to a bad little boy about whom he knew nothing.

The real truth he uncovered to Jockey Shea, a freckled young savage who had taken up the burden where Mulligan laid it down.

"Listen, kid, and don't make any mistakes with this colt. I'm down on him hook, line, and sinker to win and place, so give him a nice ride and I'll declare you in with a piece of the dough. Eh? Never you mind; it'll be _enough_. Now, then, this is a mile race, and Calloway will go out in front--he always does. Lay in behind him and stay there till you get to the head of the stretch, then shake up the colt and come on with him. He can stand a long, hard drive under whip and spur, so give it to him good and plenty from the quarter pole home.

Don't try to draw a close finish--win just as far as you can with him, because Hartshorn will be coming from behind."

This was the race as programmed; this was the Pitkin annual clean-up as planned. Imagine, then, Pitkin's sheer, dumb amazement at the spectacle of Shea, going to the bat at the rise of the barrier in order to keep his mount within striking distance of the tail end of the procession! Imagine his wrath as the colt continued to lag in last place, losing ground in spite of the savage punishment administered by Shea. Imagine his sensations when he thought of the Pitkin bank roll, scattered in all the pool rooms between Seattle and San Francisco, tossed to the winds, burned up, gone forever, bet on a colt that would not or could not make a respectable fight for it!

Let us drop the curtain over the rest of the race--Hartshorn won it in a neck-and-neck drive with Calloway just as Shea was flogging the bay colt past the sixteenth pole--and we will lift the curtain again at the point where the judges summoned Pitkin into the stand to ask him for an explanation of Sergeant Smith's pitiful showing.

"Now, sir," said the presiding judge; "we've been pretty lenient with you, Mr. Pitkin. We've overlooked a lot of things that we didn't like--a lot of things. I figured this colt to have a fair chance to win to-day, or be in the money at least. He ran like a cow. How do you account for that?"

"Why, judges," stammered Pitkin, "I--I don't account for it. I _can't_ account for it. The colt's been working good, and--and----"

"And you thought he had a chance, did you?"

"Why sure, judges, and I----"

"Well, then, why did you tell your friends that the colt was only in for a tryout? How about that?"

"I--I didn't want 'em spoiling the price, I mean, judges; I didn't think it was anybody's business."

"Oh, so you bet on him, did you? Let's see the tickets."

And of course Mr. Pitkin had no tickets to show. He offered to produce copies of telegrams, but the judges had him exactly where they had been wanting to get him and they gave him a very unhappy ten minutes. At the end of this period the presiding judge cleared his throat and p.r.o.nounced sentence. "Your entries are refused from now on, and you are warned off this track. Take your horses somewhere else, sir, and don't ever bring 'em back here. That's all."

To Pitkin it seemed enough.

He walked down the steps in a daze and wandered away in the general direction of his stable. He was still in a daze when he reached his destination, and the first thing he saw was old Gabe, his coat on and a satchel in his hand.

"Oh, you've heard about it already, have you?" asked Pitkin dully.

"Heard whut?" And Gabe did not touch the brim of his hat.

"We've got the gate--been warned off: entries refused."

"Glory!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the aged trainer. "Time they was gittin' onto you!"

"What's that?" shouted Pitkin. "Why, you black hound, I'll----"

"Yo' won't do nuthin'!" said Gabe stoutly. "Pitkin, yo' an' me is _through_; yo' an' me is _done_! Yo' made me all the trouble yo' eveh goin' make. Nex' time they ketches yo' cheatin' on a race track I hopes they shoot yo' head off!"

Old Gabe walked away toward the Curry barn, and all Pitkin could do was stare after him. Then he sat down on a bale of hay and took stock of his misfortunes.

"I reckon everything's all right, Gabe," said Old Man Curry, who was counting money in his tackle-room. "It was sort o' risky. When a man can't tell his own hoss when he sees him, anything is liable to happen to him on a bush track. I've just cut this bank roll in two, Gabe, and here's your bit. Shanghai's a good bettin' commissioner, eh?"

Old Gabe's eyes bulged as he contemplated the size of his fortune.

"All this, suh--mine?"

"All yours--an' you better not miss that six o'clock train. Never can tell what'll happen, you know, Gabe. Pitkin will keep General Duval, I reckon?"

Gabe grinned from ear to ear.

"I fo'got to tell him so," he chuckled, "but he got both them hosses now. Mist' Curry, whut yo' reckon Sol'mun would say 'bout us?"

"'The Lord will not suffer the soul of the righteous to famish,'"

quoted the horseman, "'but he casteth away the substance of the wicked.'"

"A-a-men!" said old Gabe. "An' a fine job o' castin' away been done this evenin'! Mist' Curry, I'm quit hoss racin' now, but yo' the whites' man I met in all my time."

"Go 'way with you!" laughed Curry.

It was one of the black stable hands who recalled Pitkin to a sense of his responsibilities. The roustabout approached, leading a bay colt.

"Boss, is Gabe done quit us?"

"Huh?" grunted Pitkin, emerging from a deep-brown study. "Yes, he's gone, confound him!"

"Well, he lef thisyer Gen'al Duval hoss behin' him. The Gen'al's cooled out now; whut you want me to do with him?"

"Put him in his stall," mumbled Pitkin. "To-morrow I'll see if I can get rid of him."

It is a very stupid race horse which does not know its own stall. The stable hand released his hold on the halter and slapped the colt's flank.

"G'long with yo'!" said he.

Then, and not until then, did Henry M. Pitkin begin to estimate his misfortune correctly, for the bay colt which had won the maiden race in the name of General Duval and carried the racing colours of Gabriel Johnson to their first and only victory marched straight into Sergeant Smith's stall and thrust his muzzle into Sergeant Smith's feed box!