"Never underestimate the power of a woman," I said, "when it comes to devising new and ingenious methods of perpetrating petty larceny. There's only one small fly in the ointment, so far as I can see. How do we convince some racehorse owner he should become a party to this gentle felony?" "Oh, you don't have to," smiled Sandy cheerfully. "I'm already convinced." "You? You own a horse?" "Yes. Haven't you ever heard of Tapwater?" "Oh, sure! That drip's running all the time!" Joyce tossed me a reproving glance. "This is a matter of gravity, Donald," she stated, "and you keep treating it with levity. Sandy, do you _really_ own Tapwater? He's the colt who won the Monmouth Futurity, isn't he?" "That's right. And four other starts this season. That's been our big trouble. He shows such promise that the judges have placed him under a terrific weight handicap. To run in next week's Gold Stakes, for instance, he would have to carry 124 pounds. I was hesitant to enter him because of that. But with Pat's new invention--" She turned to Pat, eyes glowing--"he could enter and win!" Pat said uncertainly, "I don't know. I don't like gambling. And it doesn't seem quite ethical, somehow--" I asked Sandy, "Suppose he ran carrying 124. What would be the probable odds?" "High," she replied, "_Very_ high. Perhaps as high as forty to one." "In that case," I decided, "it's not only ethical, it's a moral obligation. If you're opposed to gambling, Pat, what better way can you think of to put the parimutuels out of business?" "And besides," Sandy pointed out, "this would be a wonderful opportunity to display your new discovery before an audience of thousands. Well, Pat? What do you say?" Pat hesitated, caught a glimpse of Sandy's pleading eyes, and was lost. "Very well," he said. "We'll do it. Mr. Mallory, enter Tapwater in the Gold Stakes. We'll put on the most spectaceous exhibition in the history of gambilizing!" * * * * * Thus it was that approximately one week later our piratical little crew was assembled once again, this time in the paddock at Laurel. In case you're an inland aborigine, let me explain that Laurel race track (from the township of the same name) is where horse fanciers from the District of Columbia go to abandon their Capitol and capital on weekends. We were briefing our jockey--a scrawny youth with a pair of oversized ears--on the use of Pat's lightening rod. Being short on gray matter as well as on stature, he wasn't getting it at all. "You mean," he said for the third or thirty-third time, "you don't want I should _hit_ the nag with this bat?" "Heavens, no!" gasped Pat, blanching. "It's much too delicate for that." "Don't fool yourself, mister. Horses can stand a lot of leather." "Not the horse, stupid," I said. "The bat. This is the only riding crop of its kind in the world. We don't want it damaged. All you have to do is _carry_ it. We'll do the rest."