He walked down the steps in a daze and wandered away in the general direction of his stable. He was still in a daze when he reached his destination, and the first thing he saw was old Gabe, his coat on and a satchel in his hand. "Oh, you've heard about it already, have you?" asked Pitkin dully. "Heard whut?" And Gabe did not touch the brim of his hat. "We've got the gate--been warned off: entries refused." "Glory!" ejaculated the aged trainer. "Time they was gittin' onto you!" "What's that?" shouted Pitkin. "Why, you black hound, I'll----" "Yo' won't do nuthin'!" said Gabe stoutly. "Pitkin, yo' an' me is _through_; yo' an' me is _done_! Yo' made me all the trouble yo' eveh goin' make. Nex' time they ketches yo' cheatin' on a race track I hopes they shoot yo' head off!" Old Gabe walked away toward the Curry barn, and all Pitkin could do was stare after him. Then he sat down on a bale of hay and took stock of his misfortunes. "I reckon everything's all right, Gabe," said Old Man Curry, who was counting money in his tackle-room. "It was sort o' risky. When a man can't tell his own hoss when he sees him, anything is liable to happen to him on a bush track. I've just cut this bank roll in two, Gabe, and here's your bit. Shanghai's a good bettin' commissioner, eh?" Old Gabe's eyes bulged as he contemplated the size of his fortune. "All this, suh--mine?" "All yours--an' you better not miss that six o'clock train. Never can tell what'll happen, you know, Gabe. Pitkin will keep General Duval, I reckon?" Gabe grinned from ear to ear. "I fo'got to tell him so," he chuckled, "but he got both them hosses now. Mist' Curry, whut yo' reckon Sol'mun would say 'bout us?" "'The Lord will not suffer the soul of the righteous to famish,'" quoted the horseman, "'but he casteth away the substance of the wicked.'" "A-a-men!" said old Gabe. "An' a fine job o' castin' away been done this evenin'! Mist' Curry, I'm quit hoss racin' now, but yo' the whites' man I met in all my time." "Go 'way with you!" laughed Curry. It was one of the black stable hands who recalled Pitkin to a sense of his responsibilities. The roustabout approached, leading a bay colt. "Boss, is Gabe done quit us?" "Huh?" grunted Pitkin, emerging from a deep-brown study. "Yes, he's gone, confound him!" "Well, he lef thisyer Gen'al Duval hoss behin' him. The Gen'al's cooled out now; whut you want me to do with him?" "Put him in his stall," mumbled Pitkin. "To-morrow I'll see if I can get rid of him." It is a very stupid race horse which does not know its own stall. The stable hand released his hold on the halter and slapped the colt's flank. "G'long with yo'!" said he.