"And still you haven't said anything," interrupted the Kid. "You want something; what is it?" "I want you not to queer the play. Hopwood won't bet much; like as not he won't bet anything without putting it up to you first. It's my last chance to pick up a piece of change----" "Last chance on Last Chance," mused the Kid, "and that's a hunch, but I wouldn't play it with counterfeit Confederate money." "But if he comes to you, you won't knock it, will you?" "I'll tell him that as an owner he ought to use his own judgment. If he wants to bet, I'll see that he gets the top price." "You _are_ a good guy!" said Little Calamity. "I think Last Chance will be a better horse to-morrow--somehow." The Bald-faced Kid shot a keen glance at the jockey. "What do you mean, a better horse? A powder on his tongue, maybe?" Calamity shook his head. "I never hopped a horse; I wouldn't know how to go about it. If I got to fooling with them speed powders I might give him too much and have him climbing a tree on the way to the post.... Cheese it! Here comes the boss!" Hopwood entered, shaking the water from the brim of his hat, his lower lip sagging and an angry light in his eye. "Well," asked the Kid from the doorway, "what did Curry say?" "Umph!" grunted the fat man, disgustedly. "He read me a chapter out of Proverbs. It was all about the difference between a wise man and a fool. Confound it! He needn't have rubbed it in!" It was the last race of the day and from their sheltered pagoda the judges looked out upon the river of mud which had been the home stretch. Forty-eight hours of rain had turned it into a grand canal. The presiding judge scowled as he examined the opening odds. "Nonwinners, eh? Same old bunch of hounds. Grayling, 2 to 1; Ivy Leaf, 4 to 1; Montezuma, 10 to 1; Bluestone, 10 to 1; Alibi, 15 to 1; Stuffy Eaton, 25 to 1--and here's Last Chance again! I wonder where Hopwood got that horse? Remember him, two years ago at Butte? I thought he was pulling a junk wagon by now. Last Chance, 50 to 1. Jockey Gillis; hm-m-m. There's a sweet combination for you! A horse that can't untrack himself, a jockey that never rode a winner, and a half-witted grocer! Why couldn't the chump stick to the little villainies that he knows about--sanding the sugar and watering the kerosene? I declare, sir, if I had half an excuse I'd refuse the entry of that horse and warn Hopwood away from here! It would be an act of Christian charity to do it." The Bald-faced Kid, faithful to the bitter end, assisted in the paddock as usual. Last Chance, his tail braided in a hard knot and minus the ribbons in his mane, submitted to the saddling process with unusual docility. His customary attitude of protest seemed to be swallowed up in a gloomy acquiescence to fate. It was as if he said: "You can do this to me again if you want to, but I assure you now that it is useless, quite useless." Calamity leaned down from the saddle and whispered in the Kid's ear: