It was a small and very sleepy exercise boy whom Smiley Johnson tossed into the saddle at four o'clock on Saturday morning: a boy whose teeth were chattering, for he was cold. "Canter him the usual distance, Dutchy," said the owner. "Then set him down, but not for more than half a mile. Understand?" "Y-yes, sir," stammered the boy, rubbing his eyes with the back of one hand. "Don't let him get hot, now!" "No, sir; I won't." "All right. Take him away!" Johnson slapped Zanzibar on the shoulder, and the colt moved off in the gloom. His rider, whose other name was Herman Getz, huddled himself in the saddle and reflected on several things, including the hard life of an exercise boy, the perils of the dark, and the hot cup of coffee which he would get on his return. Wrapped in these meditations, he had travelled some distance before he became aware of a dark shape in the road ahead. Coming closer, Herman saw that it was a horse and rider, evidently waiting for him. "Howdy, Jockey Walsh!" called a voice. The shortest cut to an exercise boy's heart is to address him as Jockey. Herman's heart warmed toward this stranger, and he drew alongside, trying to make out his features in the darkness. "'Taint Walsh," said Herman, not without regret. "It's Getz." "Jockey Getz? I don' seem to place you, jock. Where you been ridin'? East?" "I ain't a jock. I'm only gallopin' 'em. Who are you?" "Jockey Jones, whut rides faw Misteh Curry. If you ain't a jock, you sutny ought to be. You don't set a hawss like no exercise boy. Thass why I mistook you faw Walsh." "What horse is that?" "This jus' one 'em Curry beetles. Whut you got, jock?" "Zanzibar." "Any good?" "Well," was the cautious reply, "he ain't done anything yet." The boys jogged on for some time in silence. "You sutny set him nice an' easy," commented Mose. "Le's breeze 'em a little an' see how you handle a hawss." Mose booted his mount in the ribs, chirruped twice, and the horse broke into a gallop. Herman immediately followed suit, and soon the riders were knee to knee, flying along the lonely road. "Shake him up, jock!" urged Little Mose. "That all you kin get out of him? Shake him up, if you knows how!" Of course Herman could not allow any one to hint that he did not know how. He went out on Zanzibar's neck and shook him up vigorously, a la Tod Sloan in his palmy days. The colt began to draw ahead. From the rear came shrill encouragement. "Thass whut I calls reg'luh race ridin', jock! Let him out if he got some lef'! Let him out!" Carried away by these kind words, Herman forgot his instructions: forgot everything but the thrill of the race. He drove his heels into Zanzibar's sides and crouched low in the saddle. The cold dawn wind cut like a knife. After a time there came a wail from the rear. "Nothin' to it, jock! You too good! Too good! Wait faw me." Herman drew rein, and soon Mose was alongside again. "Canter 'em a while now," said he. "Say, who taught you to ride like that?"