"How about setting the dial, Don?" asked Joyce. "Pat will do that just before the horses move onto the track. Now let's get going. It's weigh-in time." We moved to the scales with our rider. He stepped aboard the platform, complete with silks and saddle, and the spinner leaped to a staggering 102, whereupon the officials started gravely handing him little leather sacks. "What's this?" I whispered to Sandy. "Prizes for malnutrition? He must have won all the blackjacks east of the Mississippi." "The handicap," she whispered back. "Lead weights at one pound each." "If he starts to lose," I ruminated, "they'd make wonderful ammunition--" "One hundred and twenty-four," announced the chief weigher-inner. "Next entry!" We returned to Tapwater. The jockey fastened the weights to his gear, saddled up and mounted. From the track came the traditional bugle call. Sandy nodded to Pat. "All right, Pat. Now!" Pending twisted the knob on his lightening rod and handed the stick to the jockey. The little horseman gasped, rose three inches in his stirrups, and almost let go of the baton. "H-hey!" he exclaimed. "I feel funny. I feel--" "Never mind that," I told him. "Just you hold on to that rod until the race is over. And when you come back, give it to Pat immediately. Understand?" "Yes. But I feel so--so lightheaded--" "That's because you're featherbrained," I advised him. "Now, get going. Giddyap, Dobbin!" I patted Tapwater's flank, and so help me Newton, I think that one gentle tap pushed the colt half way to the starting gate! He pattered across the turf with a curious bouncing gait as if he were running on tiptoe. We hastened to our seats in the grandstand. "Did you get all the bets down?" asked Joyce. I nodded and displayed a deck of ducats. "It may not have occurred to you, my sweet," I announced gleefully, "but these pasteboards are transferrable on demand to rice and old shoes, the sweet strains of _Oh, Promise Me!_ and the scent of orange blossoms. You insisted I should have a nest egg before you would murmur, 'I do'? Well, after this race these tickets will be worth--" I cast a swift last glance at the tote board's closing odds, quoting Tapwater at 35 to 1--"approximately seventy thousand dollars!" "Donald!" gasped Joyce. "You didn't bet all your savings?" "Every cent," I told her cheerfully. "Why not?" "But if something should go wrong! If Tapwater should lose!" "He won't. See what I mean?" For even as we were talking, the bell jangled, the crowd roared, and the horses were off. Eight entries surged from the starting gate. And already one full length out in front pranced the weight-free, lightfoot Tapwater! At the quarter post our colt had stretched his lead to three lengths, and I shouted in Pending's ear, "How much does that jockey weigh, anyway?" "About six pounds," said Pat. "I turned the knob to cancel one eighteen."