"But that was this morning," argued Squeaking Henry. "He must have bowed a tendon or something. His left foreleg is in awful shape." "Are you sure it's Elisha?" demanded Engle. "Come and see for yourself. You know the horse. Owned him for a few weeks, didn't you? Curry is working on his leg now. You can peek in at the door of the stall and see for yourself. He won't even know you're there." Together they crossed the dark space under the trees, heading for a thin ribbon of light which streamed from beneath the awning of Curry's barn. Somewhere, close at hand, a piping voice was lifted in song: _"On 'e dummy, on 'e dummy line;_ _Rise an' shine an' pay my fine;_ _Rise an' shi-i-ine an' pay my fi-i-ine,_ _Ridin' on 'e dummy, on 'e dummy, dummy line."_ "What's that?" ejaculated Engle, pausing. "Aw, that's only Curry's little nigger, Mose. He's always singing or whistling or something!" "I hope he chokes!" said Engle, advancing cautiously. The stall door was almost closed, but by applying his eye to the crack Engle could see the interior. Old Man Curry was kneeling in the straw, dipping bandages in a bucket of hot water. The horse was watching him, ears pricked nervously. "If this ain't tough luck, I don't know what is!" Old Man Curry was talking to himself, his voice querulous and complaining. "Tough luck--yes, sir! Tough for you, 'Lisha, and tough for me. Job knew something when he said that man born of woman is of few days and full of trouble. Yes, indeed! Here I had you right on edge, and ready to--whoa, boy! Stand still, there! I ain't goin' to hurt ye, 'Lisha. What's the matter with ye, anyway? _Stand still!_" The horse backed away on three legs, snorting with indignation. Engle had seen enough. He withdrew swiftly, nor did he pause to chuckle until he was fifty yards from Curry's barn. "Well," said Squeaking Henry, "it was him, wasn't it?" "Sure it was him, and he's got a pretty badly strained tendon, too. At first I thought the old fox might be trying to palm off one of his other cripples on you, but that was Elisha all right enough. Yes, he's through for about a month or so." "That's what I figure," said Henry. "The old man, though, he's got his heart set on starting Elisha in the Handicap next Saturday. He thinks maybe he can dope him up so's he won't feel the soreness." "In a mile and a half race?" said Engle. "I hope he tries it! He'll just about ruin that skate for life if he does. Five-eighths, yes, but a mile and a half? No chance!" "You'll tell Goldmark?" "Yes, I'll tell him. So long." Engle swung away through the dark and Squeaking Henry watched him until he was swallowed up in the gloom. "That being the case," said he, "and Elisha on the bum, I guess I'll take a night off. This Sherlock Holmes stuff is wearing on the nerves." Al Engle delivered the message, giving it a strong backing of personal opinion.