“Lissen, Joe,” said Hardshell, lowering his voice. “Long is planning a big killing, and it’s up to me and the Sword and you to stop him. The Sword is good for once, if that nigh left leg don’t overheat. He can beat any hoss in that race, ’ceptin’ Attorney Jackson, and I reckon they ain’t plannin’ to have no favorite win.” Joe nodded again and reserved speech, waiting for the proposition. “I ain’t asking no man to do anything dishonest, Joe,” the old man went on--“it’s agin my religion and my conscience too--but something’s _got_ to be done.” Hardshell waited expectantly and hummed “When temptation sore assails me,” hoping that Joe would indicate his attitude or show receptivity, but the assistant starter nodded and smoked in silence. “’Tain’t as if I was trying to bribe anyone,” Hardshell explained painfully. “I don’t want no one to do anything that is agin his conscience.” “What do you want me to do?” Joe asked, breaking his silence. “All I ask is that you help the Sword get off straight, and me and you and the Sword’ll spile the crookedest plan ever hatched.” “Ain’t any law against my helping a bad actor get off right,” said Joe. Hardshell said no more. He gripped Joe’s hand hard, and, after buying him a cigar, strolled away, humming “Come, Holy Spirit, Heavenly Love, with all thy quickening powers.” There was an air of uneasiness hanging over the betting ring at the Fair Grounds track as the horses hand-galloped to the starting post in the fourth race. The air was surcharged with expectancy. Judges, always alert and watching for signs of dishonesty, stared at the horses and received frequent bulletins from the betting ring. Bookmakers, fearful of a sudden attack by betting commissioners backing a certain horse, held their chalk and erasers ready for rapid use. Bettors, hearing vague whispers of “something doing,” asked each other excitedly what was being played. Yet everything in the betting ring, paddock, and stand seemed tranquil. The betting was light. Attorney Jackson was favorite at seven to five, Patsy Frewen the second choice, at two to one, the others at odds of from four to twenty, with Mildred Rogers ranging from fifteen to twenty to one and only a few scattered bets registered on her. Yet from a score of cities all over America came frantic telegrams to gamblers, bookies, and owners, asking for track odds and inquiring the meaning of the terrific plunging on Mildred Rogers. Big Jim Long, using the efficient organization of the company, was betting the remaining funds of the concern. More than fifty thousand was bet in Chicago, thirty thousand in Louisville, twenty thousand in Cincinnati, then twelve thousand or more in other cities in which the Long Investment Company had offices. There was a last minute plunge on Mildred Rogers at St. Louis by gamblers who had heard the news from outside, and the odds dropped quickly from fifteen to four to one.