In the very top row of the grand stand Grouchy Martin O'Connor waited for Al Engle. Just as the horses reached the post, the Sharpshooter slipped in, breathless and fumbling at the catch of his binocular case. "He was 6 to 5 when I came through the betting ring," said Engle. "Well, any old price is a good price. He'll roll home." "He better. He owes me something," growled O'Connor. "This is where he pays you." "I hope so." "I saw Old Man Curry out in the paddock," and Engle smiled at the recollection. "What do you think the old coot said to me?" "What do I care what an old nut says?" "Nobody cares, of course, but this was kind of funny. After the horses started for the post he came up to me, solemn as a judge, and says he: 'Remember, I told you this was a trick horse.' Just like that. They ought to have a look at his head. He's got an attic for rent, sure." "Must have. But what does he mean by that trick-horse stuff? He pulled it on you a couple of times when you ran Elisha up on him." "Darned if I know. I guess that's just his way of kidding.... Hello! They're off!" "Yes, and that thing of Curry's got away flying." "He'll quit about the time he hits the head of the stretch," said Engle. "He gets his mail there.... Merritt has got Elisha in on the rail, taking it easy, as I told him to. Believe me, that baby is some stretch runner!" "It cost me enough to find it out!" said O'Connor shortly. Engle peered through his binoculars. "Unless he breaks a leg, or something"--here O'Connor hastily knocked wood--"we'll clean up," said Engle, critically. "Elisha is fighting for his head--wants to run. I don't care where he is, turning for home. He'll run over that bunch in the last quarter." "Yes, but look at that Elijah go!" muttered O'Connor. "Let him go!" said Engle, with a trace of irritation. "He'll come back; he always does. Bet you fifty he's last!" "Got you!" snapped O'Connor. "You may not know any more about this one than you did about Elisha last month!" The dots of colour skimmed around the upper turn, one of them so far ahead that it seemed lonely. This was Elijah, burning his early speed, jack-rabbiting ten lengths in front of his field, but beginning to notice his exertions and feel the swift pace. "'Lijah," remarked little Mose, looking back over his shoulder, "if eveh you finds a race track whut's got a short home stretch in it, you'll be 'notheh Roseben. Sutny will. On'iest trouble 'ith you, 'Lijah, 'em stretches built too _long_ faw you. Put 'e judges' stand up heah whah we is now, an' yo' neveh lose a race!... Uh, huh! Heah come 'Lisha now; 'em otheh jocks lettin' him th'ough on 'e rail.... Come on, honey blossom! We's waitin' faw you. Come on!" Said the presiding judge: "That thing in front is quitting to nothing ... and here comes Elisha through on the rail.... Yes, he's a real race horse to-day. Better see Engle about this. Have to teach him that he can't run his horses in and out at this track!"