"Oh, Zanzibar?" said Old Man Curry. "He's a right nice colt. He ought to be. He pretty nigh run the legs off my 'Lisha this mornin'." "Wha--_what's that_?" "Yes," continued Old Man Curry, "they had it back an' forth up that road, hot an' heavy. I expect maybe Zanzibar got a chill from sweatin' so hard." Out of the whirl of Mr. Johnson's remarks and statements of intention Curry selected one. "No," said he, "I reckon you won't beat that German kid to death. He didn't know any better. You won't lay a finger on him, because why? He's on a railroad train by now, goin' home to Cincinnati. I reckoned his mother might like to see him. And you ain't goin' to make no trouble for me, Johnson. Not a mite. You might whip a little kid, you big, bulldozin' windbag, but I reckon you won't stand up to a man, no matter how old he is!" "I--I'll have your entries refused!" "Don't go to no such trouble as that," was the soothing reply. "There won't be no more Curry entries at this track. A just man might fall down seven times again in such a nest of thieves an' robbers! Tell that to your judges, an' be damned!" And, head erect, shoulders squared, and eyes flashing, Old Man Curry started for the betting ring to collect his due. EGYPTIAN CORN "Well, you great big hammer-headed lobster, what have you got to say for yourself, eh? _Don't_ stand there and look wise when I'm talking to you! Ain't there a race in this country long enough for you to win? A mile and a half ought to give you a chance to open up and step, but what do you do? You come last, just beginning to warm up and go some! Sometimes I think I ought to sell you to a soap factory, you clumsy false alarm, you ugly old fraud, you cross between a mud turtle and a carpenter's bench, you----" At this point Slim Kern became extremely personal, speaking his mind concerning the horse Pharaoh, his morals, his habits, and his ancestors. Some of his statements would have raised blisters on a salamander, but Pharaoh listened calmly and with grave dignity. Pharaoh was not handsome. He was, as Slim had said, a hammer-headed brute of imposing proportions. But for his eyes no turfman would have looked at him twice. They were large, clear, and unusually intelligent; they redeemed his homely face. Without them he would have been called a stupid horse. An elderly gentleman sat on a bale of hay and listened to Slim's peroration. As it grew in power and potency the listener ceased to chew his straw and began to shake his head. When Slim paused for breath, searching his mind for searing adjectives, a mild voice took advantage of the silence.