Exactly twenty-four hours later the Bald-faced Kid, peering across the track to the back stretch, saw Old Man Curry lead a black horse to the quarter pole, exchange a few words with Mose, adjust the bit, and stand aside. "What's that one, Kid?" The question was asked by Shine McManus, a professional clocker employed by a bookmaker to time the various workouts and make a report on them at noon. "That's Jeremiah," said the Kid. "The old man hasn't worked him much lately." "Good reason why," said Shine. "I wouldn't work a horse either if he bled every time he got out of a walk! There he goes!" Jeremiah went to the half pole like the wind, slacked somewhat on the upper turn, and floundered heavily into the stretch. "Bleeding, ain't he?" asked Shine. "He acts like it--yes, you can see it now." As Jeremiah neared the paddock he stopped to a choppy gallop, and the railbirds saw that blood was streaming from both nostrils and trickling from his mouth. "Ain't that sickening? You wouldn't think that Old Man Curry would abuse a horse like that!" The Bald-faced Kid went valiantly to the defence of his aged friend. He would criticise Old Man Curry if he saw fit, but no one else had that privilege. "Aw, where do you get that abusing-a-horse stuff! It don't really _hurt_ a horse any more'n it would hurt you to have a good nosebleed. It just chokes him up so't he can't get his breath, and he quits, that's all." "Yes, but it looks bad, and it's a shame to start a horse in that condition." The argument waxed long and loud, and in the end the Kid was vanquished, borne down by superior numbers. The popular verdict was that Old Man Curry ought to be ashamed of himself for owning and starting a confirmed bleeder like Jeremiah. On get-away day the speculative soul whose financial operations show a loss makes a determined effort to plunge a red-ink balance into a black one. On get-away day the honest owner has doubts and the dishonest owner has fears. On get-away day the bookmaker wears deep creases in his brow, for few horses are "laid up" with him, and he wonders which dead one will come to life. On get-away day the tout redoubles his activities, hoping to be far away before his victims awake to a sense of injury. On get-away day the program boy bawls his loudest and the hot-dog purveyor pushes his fragrant wares with the utmost energy. On get-away day the judges are more than usually alert, scenting outward indications of a "job." On get-away day the betting ring boils and seethes and bubbles; the prices are short and arguments are long; strange stories are current and disquieting rumours hang in the very air. "Now, if ever!" is the motto. "Shoot 'em in the back and run!" is the spirit of the day, reduced to words.