Hopwood put on his glasses in time to see the finish of the race. First came four horses, well bunched; after them the stragglers. Last of all a chestnut with four white stockings and a blaze galloped heavily through the dust, snorting his indignation. Last Chance had been hopelessly last all the way in spite of a rawhide tattoo on his flanks. The Bald-faced Kid, wishing to forestall a conflict of evidence, made it his business to have the first word with the principal witness. He walked beside Little Calamity as that dispirited midget shuffled down the track from the judges' stand, saddle and tackle on his arm. Close behind them was Hopwood, leading the horse. "Pretty tough luck," said the Kid, "getting bumped in the stretch when you had the race won." Little Calamity stared from under the peak of his cap in blank, uncomprehending amazement. "Huh?" he grunted. "Bumped?... Aw, quitcha kiddin'!" "Well," said the Kid, "the boss couldn't see and I was telling him about the race. It looked to me as if they bumped him." A gleam of intelligence lighted the straying eyes; instantly the jockey took his cue. "Oh!" said he, loudly, "you mean in the _stretch_! Yeh, he had a swell chance till then--goin' nice, and all, but the bumping took the run out of him. He'll beat the same bunch like breakin' sticks the next time." Then, under his breath: "_You're a pretty good guy after all!_" "Well," was the ungracious rejoinder, "don't kid yourself that it's on your account." Since it was his practice never to accept the obvious but to search diligently for the hidden motive behind every deed, good or bad, Little Calamity gave considerable thought to the matter and at last believed that he had arrived at the only possible explanation of the Kid's conduct. "Boss," said he that evening, "did you bet any money to-day?" "Not a nickel," was the answer. "Or give anybody any money to bet for you?" "No." "Did anybody ask to be your bettin' commissioner?" "No. Why?" "Oh, nothing. I just wanted to know." Before Little Calamity went to sleep that night he reviewed the situation somewhat as follows: "My dope was wrong, but it's a cinch a hustler like the Kid ain't hangin' around the boss for his _health_.... And he didn't kick in wit' that alibi because he loves _me_ any too well.... I can't figure him at all." If he could have heard a conversation then going on in Old Man Curry's tackle-room, the figuring would have been easier. "Frank," said the old man, "I had my eye on you to-day. You ain't got designs on that fool's bank roll, have you?" The Bald-faced Kid blew a cloud of cigarette smoke into the air and watched it float to the rafters before he answered question with question. "How long have you known me, old-timer?" "Quite a while, my son." "You know that I get my living by doing the best I can?" "Yes." "Did you ever know me to steal anything from a blind man? Or even one that was near-sighted?" "No-o." "Then don't worry about this Hopwood."