Something small and hard jammed violently into the pit of Chicken Liver's stomach, and his song of victory ended in an amazed grunt. Old Man Curry was glaring at him and pressing the muzzle of a forty-five-calibre revolver against the exact spot where the third button of Chicken Liver's vest would have been had he owned such a garment. "Drop that weight pad, nigger, or I'll blow you inside out! _Drop it!_" Chicken Liver leaped backward with a howl of terror. The next instant he was well on his way to the Weaver barn, supplication floating over his shoulder. "Don't shoot, misteh! Fo' de Lawd's sake, don't shoot!" Old Man Curry picked up the weight pad and started for the gate. He arrived in time to see the smile on Murphy's face as he swung under the wire, three lengths in front of Isaiah, the other horses trailing far in the rear. Murphy was still smiling broadly when he brought Fieldmouse back into the chalked circle, a privileged space reserved for winners. "Judges!" piped the jockey shrilly, touching the visor of his cap with his whip. Receiving the customary nod, Murphy slid to the ground and attacked the cinch. It was then that Chicken Liver should have stepped forward with his blanket--then that the deft transfer should have taken place, but Chicken Liver, where was he? Murphy's anxious eyes travelled around the wide circle of owners and hostlers, and his smile faded into a nervous grin. Now, after each race a few thousand impatient people must wait for the official announcement--the one, two, three, without which no tickets can be cashed--and the official announcement must wait upon the weighing of the riders. For this reason no time is wasted in the ceremony. "Hurry up, son," said the presiding judge. "We're waiting on you." Murphy fumbled with the strap, playing desperately for time. As he tugged, his eyes were searching for the missing negro. He caught one glimpse of Weaver's face, yellow where it was not white; he, too, was raking the horizon for Chicken Liver. "What's the matter with you, Murphy?" demanded the judge. "Do you want help with that tack?" "No, sir," faltered the jockey. "Th-this thing sticks somehow. I'll git it in a minute. I----" Old Man Curry marched through the ring and up the steps to the platform of the judges' stand, and when Weaver saw what he carried in his hand he became a very sick man indeed--and looked it. Al Engle backed away into the crowd and Martin O'Connor followed him, mumbling incoherently. "Maybe this is what Murphy is waiting for, judges," said Old Man Curry with marked cheerfulness. "Maybe he don't want to git on the scales without it." "Eh?" said the presiding judge. "What is that?" "Looks like a weight pad to me," said Old Man Curry, "with quite a mess of lead in it. Yes, it _is_ a weight pad." "Where did you get it?"