“I’ll see the stewards and explain,” said the owner. “He’s only in for the workout, and perhaps they’ll stand for it. Sure you’re strong enough to handle the colt?” The owner had observed the cough, and Jaundice checked it with an effort. “Yes, Mister Phil, I’m all right. Just caught a cold. Get this mount for me, Mister Phil. I’ve got to plant Lord James decent.” “That old bum dead at last?” “Yes, sir. I’ve got to get a hundred and fifty to plant him, and the boys ain’t kicking in fast. Let me ride this Doc Grausman hoss and I’ll plant Lord James swell, like his family would want him.” The owner passed over a twenty-dollar banknote. What he told the track officials no one knows, but when the fourth race was called, Jaundice, carefully hiding his cough, rode forth for the first time in four years wearing the colors of his old stable. The bookmakers were laying thirty to one against Doc Grausman, and a wit in the ring said it was ten to one the colt, twenty to one the boy. What was not known was that Jaundice had taken the money that had been contributed to bury Lord James and wagered it three ways, straight, place, and show, on Doc Grausman. A new generation of jockeys faced the start, a generation that knew nothing of the skill of the boy who had ridden champions. The new boys, with the contempt that youth holds for the “has-been,” jeered at Jaundice, and hurled insulting epithets at him as they wheeled and maneuvered for the advantage of the break. Jaundice did not retort with oaths and vilifications as he would have done in other days. He was afraid he would start to cough. The barrier flashed. Jaundice had been holding Doc Grausman steady during the milling of the others. Out of the corner of the eye he had caught the betraying arm movement of the starter an instant before the barrier flashed upward, had shot Doc Grausman at the starting line just the instant it flickered past his nose, had beaten the start a length and a half while the others were taking the first jump and sent him roaring down the long straight-away for four and a half furlongs. Riding him out desperately at the end, he held the lead by half a length over the favorite. As the horses paraded back past the stands, he held his lips tightly pressed together. He staggered a little as he weighed out, and in the paddock his lips were reddened. The strain of the ride had opened the old wounds in his lungs. An hour later he ordered the undertaker to give Lord James the best funeral he could for one thousand two hundred dollars and paid over the money. There remained for his share of the victory just twenty-seven dollars.