"A smart owner can do anything," said he, "and Weaver's smart. At these other tracks, stealing weight off a horse is the king of indoor sports, and they mostly work it through a stand-in with the clerk of the scales; but you're right about this fellow Parker. He's on the level, and they can't get at him. A jock has got to weigh in and weigh out on the dot when Parker is on the job. He won't let 'em get by with the difference of an ounce." "Then how----" began Old Man Curry. "There you go, busting through the barrier! Weaver is pulling the wool over Parker's eyes. Now here's what I saw yesterday: Weaver had Exmoor in the third race, supposed to be carrying one hundred and ten pounds. Jock Murphy ain't much bigger'n a rabbit--tack and all, he won't weigh ninety-five. That would make, say, fifteen pounds of lead in the weight pad. Murphy got on the scales and was checked out of the jock's room at one hundred and ten, all square enough, but when Weaver saddled Exmoor he left the weight pad off him entirely--slipped it to that big nigger swipe of his--Chicken Liver Pete, they call him." "I know him," said Old Man Curry. "Everybody knows him," said the Kid. "Well, Chicken Liver put the weight pad under the blanket that he was carrying to throw over the horse after the race. Exmoor won yesterday, but he didn't carry an ounce of lead." "But how did Murphy make the weight after he finished?" demanded the old man. "Easiest thing in the world!" said the Kid. "While Murphy was unsaddling the horse, Chicken Liver was right at his elbow, and both of 'em had their backs to the judges. It looked natural enough for the nigger to be there--waiting to blanket the horse the minute the saddle came off of him. All Murphy had to do was grab under the blanket with one hand while he jerked the saddle off the horse with the other--and there he was, ready to weigh one hundred and ten. I'll bet those two fellows have rehearsed that switch a thousand times. They pulled it off so slick that if I hadn't been watching for it I could have been looking right at 'em and never noticed it. And the judges didn't have the chance that I did, because they couldn't see anything but their backs. Murphy pranced in, hopped on the scales, got the O. K., and that was all there was to it. Pretty little scheme, ain't it? And so darned simple!" Old Man Curry combed his beard with both hands--with him a sign of deep thought. "Frank," said he at length, "where does this Chicken Liver nigger go while the race is being run?" "Across the track to the infield. That was where he went yesterday. I was watching him." "The infield.... Hm-m-m.... Thank you, Frank." "You could tip it off to the judges," suggested the Kid, "and they'd have Chicken Liver searched. Like as not they'd rule Weaver off for life and set Murphy down----" "There's a better way than searching that nigger," said Old Man Curry. "You'll have to show me!"