As a matter of fact, Last Chance was nervous. He knew that a trip to the paddock was usually followed by a beating with a rawhide whip and a prodding with blunt spurs, hence the skittishness of his behaviour and the fire in his eye. Given a decent opportunity he would have jumped the fence and gone home to his stall. When the bell rang Little Calamity came out of the jockeys' room, radiant as a butterfly in his new silks; he had the audacity to wink when he saw the Kid looking at him. "What do we do now?" demanded Hopwood, all in a flutter. "This is new to me, you know." "Well," said the Kid, "I'd say it would be a right pious idea to get this fiery steed saddled up, unless Calamity here is figuring on riding him bareback, which I don't think the judges would stand for." Later it was the Kid who gave Calamity his riding orders. "All right, boy," said he. "Nothing in here to beat but a lot of lizards. Never look back and make every post a winning one. He can tow-rope this field and drag 'em to death!" "_Pzzt!_" whispered the jockey. "Not so strong with it, not so strong!" While the horses were on their way to the post the Bald-faced Kid escorted Hopwood to a position in front of the grand stand. "You want to be handy in case he wins," said the Kid. "You'll have to go down in the ring if he does. It's a selling race and they might try to run him up on you." "In the ring, eh?" said Hopwood, straightening his collar and plucking at his tie. "Do I look all right?" But the Kid was coughing so hard that he could not answer the question. "I can't see very far with these glasses," said Hopwood, "and you'll have to tell me about it. Where is he now?" "At the post," said the Kid. "The starter won't fool away much time with those ... there they go now! Good start." Hopwood pawed at the Kid's arm. "I can't see a thing! Where is he? How's he doing?" "He broke flying and he's right up in front." "That's good! That's fine!... And now? Where is he now?" "Still up in front and winging, just winging. It's an exercise gallop for him. How much did you bet?" Hopwood took off his glasses and fumbled at them with his handkerchief. "Where is he now?" "Second, turning for home. He ought to win all by himself. They're choking to death behind him." "And I didn't bet a cent!" wailed the owner. "But I said he was a good horse, remember?" "Sure you did, and he ... oh, tough luck! Well, if that ain't a dirty shame!" "What is it?" chattered Hopwood. "What happened?" "They bumped him into the fence, I think.... Yes, he's dropping back. And it looked like a cinch for him, too!... I'm afraid he won't get anything this time.... Too bad! Well, that's racing luck for you. It's to be expected in this game. Sometimes you win and sometimes you lose. Good thing you didn't bet." "I--I suppose so," gulped the unhappy owner. "Well, next time, eh?" "That's the proper spirit! Keep after 'em!"