“No, no, sir; not that. Sure, if all the boys were like him the bookies would go out of business, I’m thinkin’.” “Bookies?” repeated the bishop. “Will you kindly elucidate what you mean by bookies?” “Sure, the bookmakers.” “Bookmakers--publishers, do I understand you to mean?” inquired the bishop, failing to see the connection between publishers and the race course. “No, no, father; the layers what takes your long green, your dough, your yellow backs--the ones ye make your bet with, ye know.” “Oh!” said the bishop. “This little jock, Nowell, as I was sayin’,” continued Halloran, “is pounds better than any rider in the country.” Once more the bishop failed to comprehend. “Pounds? Do you mean in the nature of dollars and cents? Do I understand that his services are so much more valuable than those of any other rider?” The ill-concealed pride of a father was manifest. Unable to hide his merriment longer at the dense ignorance displayed by his interrogator, the race-track _habitué_ gave vent to a series of chuckles, ending with spasmodic gasps which threatened to choke him. Finally he said: “When we say that a horse is so many pounds better than another, we mean that he can pick up so much more weight than another one carries and win out. It’s made by lead carried in the saddle pad. Now, this Darby to-day----” “Go on, I think I understand,” said the bishop, faintly. “About the Derby----” “Now, in this here Darby--it’s a mile and a half race--all the horses are three-year-olds, and they carry the same weights.” “Ah, yes, I see, I see. Then Nowell should win?”--tentatively. Halloran meditated, frowning deeply. “Ye seem to take uncommon interest in this jock, sir----” he began. “You are quite right, Mr. Halloran,” said the bishop. “I--I knew him well some years ago. It was before he became a jockey. His--his mother and father I was well acquainted with.” “Well, annywan that has been a friend av that lad is all right. I’m goin’ to put ye wise to somethin’. It’s only track gossip, but I believe there’s truth in it. It’s this”--he paused a moment before continuing, impressively: “Nowell will win if he gets through alive. It’s a mighty rough passage he’ll have this day. If he finishes with his neck safe, he’ll have the saints to thank at the end.” The bishop’s face blanched. He could not understand. “Is there a plot against his life? Can such a thing be allowed?” he demanded.