"Well, suh," replied Gabe, "he's a heap better'n whut he's been showin' lately, that's a fact." "Can he beat horses like Calloway and Hartshorn?" "He kin if he gits a chance." "How do you mean, a chance?" "Well, suh, if he gits a good, hones' ride, fo' one thing. He been messed all oveh the race track las' few times out." "But with a good ride you think he can win?" "Humph!" sniffed Gabe. "He leave 'em like they standin' still!" "I want to slip him into the fourth race next Saturday," said Pitkin, "and he'll have Calloway and Hartshorn to beat. There ought to be a nice price on him--4 or 5 to 1, anyway, on account of what he's been showing lately." "Yo' goin' bet on him, suh?" "Straight and place," said Pitkin, "but I won't bet a nickel here at the track. They'll be asking you about the colt and trying to get a line on him. You tell 'em that I'm starting him a little bit out of his class just to see if he's game--any lie will do. And if they ask you about the stable money, we're not playing him this time." "Yes, suh." "You're absolutely sure he's ready?" "Ready? Why, boss, ain't yo' been watchin' the way that colt is workin'? Yo' kin bet 'em till they quits takin' it an' not be scared." "That's all I want to know, Gabe, and mind what I told you about keeping that big mouth of yours shut. If I hear of any talk----" "I ain't neveh talked yit, has I?" "Well, don't pick this time to start; that's all." That night the lights burned late in two tackle-rooms. In one of them Old Man Curry was bringing the judgment of Solomon down to date and fitting it to turf conditions; in the other Henry M. Pitkin was preparing code telegrams to certain business associates in Seattle, Portland, Butte, and San Francisco, for this was in the unregenerate days when pool rooms operated more or less openly in the West. Mr. Pitkin was getting ready for the annual clean-up. The next morning he was on hand early enough to see General Duval return from an exercise gallop, and there was a small black boy on the colt's back. "Come here, Gabe," said Pitkin. "Ain't that Curry's nigger jockey?" "Yes, suh; that's Jockey Moseby Jones, suh." "What's he doing around this stable?" "He kind o' gittin' acquainted with the Gen'al, suh." "Acquainted? What for?" "Well, suh, they's a maiden race nex' Satu'day, an' I was thinkin' mebbe the Gen'al could win it if he gits a good ride. Jockey Jones didn't have no otheh engagement, suh, so I done hired him fo' the 'casion."