The bugle blared, the jockeys were flung into the saddles and the parade began. The race was at seven-eighths, and as the horses passed the grand stand on the way to the post Jockey Merritt heard his name called. Major Pettigrew was standing on the platform in front of the pagoda, bawling through a megaphone. "Boy, bring that black hoss over here!" Merritt reined Eliphaz across the track, touched the visor of his cap with his whip, and looked up inquiringly. "Son," said Major Pettigrew, "you're on the favourite, so don't make any mistakes with him. I want to see you ride from start to finish--and I'm goin' to be watchin' you. That's all." "I'll do my best, judge," was Merritt's answer. "You see that the hoss does his best," warned the major. "Proceed with him, son." The Handicap was a great race, but we are concerned with but one horse--Eliphaz, late Fairfax. When the barrier rose Jockey Merritt booted the spurs home and tried to hurl the big black into the lead. He might as well have tried to get early speed out of a porpoise. Eliphaz grunted loudly and in exactly five lumbering jumps was in last place; the other horses went on and left the favourite snorting in the dust. Jockey Merritt raked the black sides with his spurs and slashed cruelly with his whip--the favourite would not, could not get out of a slow, awkward gallop. "Blankety blank it!" exclaimed Major Pettigrew to the associate judge. "What did I tell you, eh? Sure as a gun, Engle laid him up, and the books made him favourite and took in a ton of money! Look at him, will you? Ain't that pitiful?" "He runs like a cow," said the major's assistant. "Merritt is certainly riding him, though. He's whipping at every jump." It was a long way around the track, and probably only one man was really sorry for Eliphaz. Old Man Curry, at the paddock gate, shook his head as the black horse floundered down the stretch, last by fifty yards, the blunt spurs tearing at his sides and the rawhide raising welts on his shoulders. The winning numbers had dropped into position before Eliphaz came under the wire. Major Pettigrew took one look at the horse and called to the official messenger. "Find Engle and tell him I want to see him!" "Well, old-timer, here we are again with our hat in our hand!" It was the Bald-faced Kid, at the door of Old Man Curry's tackle-room. "This time you've put one over for fair! Major Pettigrew has just passed out his decision to the newspaper boys." "Ah, hah!" said the old man, looking up from the Book of Proverbs. "His decision, eh? Was he--kind of severelike?" "Oh, no--o! Not what you'd call severe. I suppose he could have ordered Engle boiled in oil or hung by the neck or something like that, but the major let him down light. All he did was to rule him off the turf for life!" "Gracious Peter! You don't tell me!"