"Aw, what's the good of chewing the fat?" interrupted the fourth man briskly. This was Ab Mears, of whom it was said that he trained his horses to look into the betting ring on their way to the post and to run in accordance with the figures they saw upon the bookmakers' slates. "Let's not have any arguments, boys. All little pals together, eh?... Now, getting down to business, as the fellow said when he was digging the well, Isaiah is a pretty shifty old selling plater when he's at himself; but you know and I know that the best day he ever saw he couldn't beat Fieldmouse at a mile with a feather on her back. She'll walk home alone. The most Isaiah can do is to come second----" "He'll be lucky if he does that well," interrupted Engle. "The mare will be in front of him all the way.... Same old stuff; wait for the closing betting. Weaver, you keep on hollering your head off about the weight; it'll scare the outsiders and they won't play her. Then, at the last minute, cut loose and load up the books with all they'll take." "Just the same," muttered O'Connor, "I'd feel a lot more comfortable if Curry wasn't in the race. That old boy is poison, that's what he is. The last couple of times----" "Oh, shut up!" rasped Engle. "Elisha was the horse he trimmed us with--Elisha! Get that through your head. This is Isaiah. There's as much difference in horses as there is in prophets. What you need is one of those portable Japanese foot warmers." The paddock is the place to go for information, particularly after the saddling bell rings. The owners are usually on exhibition at that time. Nearly every owner will answer a civil question about his horse; once in a great while one of them may answer truthfully. In this particular race we are concerned with but two owners, one of whom told the truth. Weaver, rat-eyed and furtive, answered all questions freely--almost too freely. "Ye-es, she's a right nice little mare, but they've weighted her out of it to-day. She can't pack a hundred and fifteen and win.... That much lead will stop a stake horse. Better stay off her to-day. Some other time." Old Man Curry, grave and polite, also answered questions. "Isaiah? Oh, yes. Well, now, sir, I'll tell you 'bout this hoss of mine. I figure he's got a stavin' good chance to come second--a stavin' good chance.... No, he won't be first." Just before the bugle blew, Mose received his riding orders. "If that mare of Weaver's gets away in front, don't you start chasing her. No use in running Isaiah's head off trying to ketch her. I want you to finish second, understand? Isaiah can beat all these other hosses. Don't pay no 'tention to the mare. Let her go." Little Mose nodded. "'At Fieldmouse is sutny a goin' fool when 'ey bet stable money on huh," said he. "Let 'at ole mare go, eh?" "Exackly," said the old man, "but be sure you beat the rest of 'em."