Strange to say, it was Jockey Moseby Jones who minded. He minded very much, in plain English, waylaying Old Man Curry as he made the rounds of the stalls that night, lantern in hand. "This yer Squawkin' Henry, boss, he's a no-good hound. He's no good a-a-atall. They ketched him at Butte last year ringin' in hawss dice on 'e crap game 'mong friends an' 'ey jus' nachelly sunk his floatin' ribs an' kicked him out on his haid. Thass all they done to him, Mist' Curry. Betteh watch him clost, else he'll steal 'em gol' fillin's outen yo' teeth!" "You know him, do you, Mose?" asked Old Man Curry. "Do I knows him!" ejaculated the little negro. "I knows him well 'nough to wish yo' hadn't 'vited him to do his floppin' in yo' tack-room!" "Ah-hah!" said Old Man Curry reflectively. "Mose, I reckon you never heard what Job said?" Jockey Moseby Jones heaved a deep sigh. "Heah it comes again!" he murmured. "No, boss; he said such a many things I kain't seem to keep track of 'em all. Whut he say now?" "Something about the wise being taken in their own craftiness; I've forgotten the exact words." "Umph! Sho'lly yo' don't call Squawkin' Henry _wise_?" "No-o, but he may have wise friends. Somehow I've sort of been expecting this visitor, Mose. You heard him tell about how bad off his mother is. It seems a shame not to accommodate him, when all he wants is a place to sleep--and some information on the side." "Info'mation, boss?" "Well, I can't exactly swear to it, Mose, but I think the children of Israel have sent this Henry person among us to spy out the land. That's a trick they learned a long time ago, after they got out of Egypt. Joshua taught it to 'em. Ever since then they don't take any more chances than they can help. They always want to know what the other fellow is doing--and it's a pretty good system at that. Being as things are the way they are, a spy in camp, etcetry, mebbe what hoss talk is done had better be done by me. You _sabe_, Mose?" "Humph!" sniffed the little jockey. "I got you long ago, boss, lo-ong ago!" Al Engle, sometimes known as the Sharpshooter, horse owner and recognised head of a small but busy band of turf pirates, was leaving his stable at seven-thirty on a Wednesday evening, intending to proceed by automobile to the brightly lighted district. Sleek, blond, youthful in appearance, without betraying wrinkle or line, Engle's innocent exterior had been his chief dependence in his touting days. He seemed, on the surface, to be everything which he was not. As he stepped forth from the shadow of the stable awning a hand plucked at his sleeve. "It's me--Henry," said a voice. "I've got a message for Goldmark--couldn't catch him on the phone." "Shoot it!" said Engle. "Tell him that Elisha has gone dead lame--can't hardly rest his foot on the ground." "That'll do for Sweeney!" said the Sharpshooter. "Elisha worked fine this morning. I clocked him myself."