Jockey Moseby Jones, gorgeous as a tropical butterfly in the cherry jacket with green sleeves and the red, white and blue cap, pranced into General Duval's paddock stall and listened intently as old Gabe bent over him. "Yo' ain't fo'got whut we tole yo' last night, son?" asked Gabe in anxious tones. "Ain't fo'got nuthin'," was the sober answer. "'Cause eve'ything 'pend on how it _look_." "Uh huh," replied little Mose. "I make it _look_ all right." "This hoss, he might take a notion to run off an' leave 'em soon as the barrier go up," cautioned Gabe. "Keep him folded up in yo' lap to the las' minute." "An' then set him down," supplemented Mose. "Yo' jus' be watchin' me, thass all!" "Lot of folks'll be watchin' yo'," warned Gabe. "Them judges, they goin' be watchin' yo'. Remembeh, it got to look _right_!" As Jockey Jones passed out of the paddock he clucked to his mount and glanced over toward the fence where Old Man Curry was still sitting. "Hawss," whispered little Mose, "did yo' see that? The ole man winked at us!" There must have been some truth in the rumour concerning Laredo, for he rushed to the front when the barrier rose, with Miller Boy and Athelstan in hot pursuit. As for The Cricket, she was all but left at the post, and her owner remarked to himself that he'd teach 'em when to make _his_ mare a false favourite. The three people most interested in the cherry jacket with the green sleeves watched it go bobbing along the rail several lengths behind the leaders, and were relieved to find it there instead of out in front. Had the judges been watching the bay colt they could not have helped noticing that his mouth was wide open, due to a powerful pull on the reins, and they might have drawn certain conclusions from this, but they were watching The Cricket instead and mentally putting a rod in pickle for the owner of the favourite. Laredo led around the turn and into the stretch with Miller Boy and Athelstan crowding him hard, but the pace was beginning to tell on the front runners, and the rear guard was closing in on them, headed by the cherry jacket. "It's anybody's race," remarked the presiding judge as he squinted up the stretch. "Lord, what a lot of beetles!" "Yes, they're rotten," said the associate judge. "Laredo's quitting already. Now, then, you hounds, come on! Whose turn is it to-day?" The maidens came floundering down to the wire spread out like a cavalry charge and covering half the track. At the sixteenth pole a bold man would have hesitated to pick the winner; indeed, it looked to be anybody's race, with the sole exception of The Cricket, sulking far in the rear. It was Gabe Johnson who saw that the wraps were still about Mose's wrists, but it was Old Man Curry who chuckled to himself as the horses passed the paddock gate, and it was Shanghai, Curry's negro hostler, who began to count tickets on General Duval.