"Well, you see," he explained, "since you're unknown and have no record I've had to enter you in a claiming race. That means anybody who's running another horse in the same race can put in a claim for you before the race, for the price I set on you, and become your owner." "What's the price you set on me?" Watson hemmed and hawed. "Three thousand dollars," he admitted. Incubus cocked an eye at him. "You selling me down the river for a mess of pottage, Watson?" "No, no," he assured her, "I can't help it--this is some goddam silly racing rule. You have no reputation so I've got to enter you in a maiden claimer." Incubus raised an eyebrow. "A maiden claimer?" "A maiden horse," he explained austerely, "is one which has never won a race." "Oh-h-h-h," she said. "Sorry." "Now, if the worst comes to the worst and you do get claimed we can figure out ways and means of getting you back. Can't we, Inky?" Incubus laughed richly. "Clout him in the crupper!" she chortled. "Oh, man!" * * * * * The day dawned when Incubus was to make her debut at Belmont. The odds on her were a hundred to one. Laughing softly to himself, Watson put five hundred dollars on her nose. "You crazy, fella?" the seller said to him. "The horse to bet on is Godlove's Pamplemousse. He's a natural to win." "Incubus is my own horse," Watson explained patiently. "Oh, I guess it's like my kid. He plays the pianner and stinks but I gotta clap for him all the same." "Why didn't you give her some hip reducing exercises," Godlove sneered as the jockey led Incubus out into the paddock. "She'll never get through the starting gate with that spread." "Take it easy," Watson told her, as she reared. "Now, listen," he said to the jockey, a sullen young apprentice--all he could get--"she responds to direction very well. Talk to her. She practically understands." "Oh, sure," the jockey jeered. "Is snookums gonna win the race for daddykins?" "Ess," replied Incubus. The jockey stared at her and at Watson. Watson laughed, a trifle too hard. "I'm a great ventriloquist," he explained. "Can't break myself of the habit." "Well, you better begin now," the jockey said, "because I'm temperamental and when I'm emotionally disturbed the horse senses it." "The horses," the announcer declaimed through the loudspeaker, "are at the post.... They're off!... All of them, that is, except Incubus. She can't get through the starting gate. She's stuck." "Yah, wear a girdle!" the crowd called derisively.