The loafers all rushed to the door as the two rushed down the street, and Nick followed with a coat and a vest in his hand. He remained behind the rest, however, and seemed to have some particular business with the pocket of the vest he held in his hand. “You’re beat,” said one, as the runners reached the corner. “I guess I ain’t no good,” said Nick, as Amos came back. “Hello, there,” said Amos, all out of breath, “you’re trying to put on my vest.” “That’s so,” said Nick, with a wink. “It looks a little newer than mine.” Amos put on the garment, threw on his coat, and hastened to the rear end of the barn, where Nick plainly saw him fumbling with a box which he had taken from the vest pocket. “You’ll find a pill there, all right enough,” thought Nick, as he walked away, “but not one calculated to make a horse lose a race. In the meantime,” he added, rolling a hard, round substance in his pocket, “I’ll keep this and have it analyzed.” CHAPTER VIII. A SURPRISE. The race track is all excitement. People fight their way through the crowd to the bookmakers, and deposit their money, many of them placing it on Denver Bay. Finally the rakes and brooms are called from the track. The crowd rushes up the stairways, and the next moment a splendid bay horse comes around the head of the stretch. “Denver Bay! Denver Bay!” is the cry. Close behind him come other favorites. They go down the paddock, followed in a straggling way by the rest of the field. The jockeys and helpers crowd about their mounts, and excitement is everywhere. “Hello,” shouts Denver Bay’s jockey, as a man, wearing the horse’s colors, moves up to him. “Don’t you think you are a dude?” “I was a dude yesterday,” is the sullen reply. “No monkeying there,” shouts Amos, walking up to the horse with a sponge in his hand. “They are about ready.” The detective watches the man closely, and smiles as he sees something white glistening in his palm. There is a flash of colors and a gleam of steel down in the paddock, as the jockeys mount their horses, and the entire field moves out to the track. Denver Bay leads. He minces along with a knowing air, as though thoroughly realizing his importance. The rest of the field follows in single file, their glossy hides shining in the sun like satin. The horses take their places in a long, irregular line. Clouds of dust follow several false breaks and hang over the starting point. The signal comes, and down the stretch of track come the bright shirts of the jockeys. Denver Bay gives a sudden plunge or two, jumps off something like two lengths, and goes sailing away in the lead. There is a grand shout of voices and a shuffling of nervous feet, and shrill cries of “Denver Bay! Denver Bay!” They sweep past the stand, past the long rows of excited faces, around the turn and away. Then there is silence for a moment, but only for a moment. “Daisy falls back!” shouts one, swinging his field glass aloft.