Old Man Curry Part 11

Elisha was fifth in line, walking sedately, as was his habit.

"Not so very frisky, but at that he looks better than I thought he would," was Goldmark's mental comment. "They must have shot all the c.o.ke in the world into that old skate. As soon as he begins to run the blood will pump into that sore leg and he'll quit. Black Bill looks like the money to me. He outcla.s.ses these other horses."

Goldmark pa.s.sed the eraser over his slate. Black Bill, 2 to 5.

Elisha, 60, 20, and 10.

A dozen restless, high-strung thoroughbreds and a dozen nervous, scheming jockeys can make life exceedingly interesting for an official starter, particularly if the race be an important one and a ragged start certain to draw a storm of adverse criticism. The boys on the front runners were all manoeuvring to beat the barrier and thus add to a natural advantage while the boys on the top-weighted horses were striving to secure an early start before the lead pads began to tell on their mounts. As a result the barrier was broken four times in as many minutes and the commandment against profanity was broken much oftener. The starter grew hoa.r.s.e and inarticulate; sweat streamed down his face as he hurled anathemas at horses and riders.

"Keep that Miss Amber back, Dugan! Go through that barrier again and it'll cost you fifty! ---- ---- ----!!"

"I can't do nothing with her!" whined Dugan. "She's crazy; that's what she is!"

Through all the turmoil and excitement two horses remained quietly in their positions waiting for the word. These were Black Bill and Elisha, stretch runners, to whom a few yards the worst of the start meant nothing. Out of the corner of his eye little Mose watched Jockey Grogan on the favourite. The black horse edged toward the webbing, the line broke, wheeled, advanced, broke again and a third time came swinging forward. As it advanced, Mose drove the blunt spurs into Elisha's side. A roar from the starter, a spattering rain of clods, a swirl of dust--and the Handicap was on.

"Nice start!" said the presiding judge, drawing a long breath.

Across the track, the official starter mopped his brow.

"Not so worse," said he. "Go on, you little devils! It's up to you!"

Away went the front runners, their riders checking them and rating their speed with an eye to the long journey. Simple Simon, Pepper and Salt, and Ted Mitch.e.l.l engaged in a brisk struggle for the pace-making position and the latter secured it. Miss Amber and Regulator were in fifth and sixth places respectively, and at the tail end of the procession was Black Bill, taking his time, barely keeping up with the others. A distance race was no new thing to Black Bill. He had seen front runners before and knew that they had a habit of fading in the final quarter. Beside him was Elisha, matching him, stride for stride.

Down the stretch they came, Ted Mitch.e.l.l gradually increasing the pace. Jockey Jones heard the crowd cheering as he pa.s.sed the grand stand and his lip curled.

"We eatin' it now, 'Lisha hawss," said he, "but nex' time we come down yere they'll be eatin' _ow'_ dust an' don't make no mistake!

Take yo' time, baby. It's a long way yit, a lo-ong way!"

Entering the back stretch there was a sudden shifting of the coloured jackets. The outsiders, nervous and overeager, were making their bids for the purse, and making them too soon. The flurry toward the front brought about a momentary spurt in the pace followed immediately by the steady, machine-like advance of Regulator, but as the chestnut horse moved up the brown mare went with him, on even terms.

"There goes Regulator! There he goes!"

"Yes, but he can't shake Miss Amber! She's right there with him! Oh, you Amber!"

"What ails Black Bill? He's a swell favourite, he is! He ain't done a thing yet."

"He always runs that way," said the wise ones. "Wait till he hits the upper turn."

Abe Goldmark, standing on a stool on the lawn, wrinkled his brow in perplexity. "About time for that bird to quit," said he to himself.

"He ain't got any license to run a mile with a leg like that!"

Jockey Moseby Jones was also beginning to wonder what ailed Black Bill. Grogan sat the favourite like a statue, apparently unmoved by the gap widening in front of him.

"We kin wait 'long as he kin, baby," said Mose, comfortingly, "but I sut'ny don't crave to see 'em otheh hawsses so far ahead!"

At the end of the mile Black Bill and Elisha were still at the end of the procession. Miss Amber had managed to shove her brown nose in front, with Regulator at her saddle girth. Many an anxious eye was turned on Black Bill; many saw his transformation but none was better prepared for it than Jockey Moseby Jones. He saw the first wrap slide from Grogan's wrists.

"Come on, baby!" yelled Mose, b.u.mping Elisha with his spurs. "Come on! We got a race here afteh all! Yes, suh, 'is black hawss wakin'

up! Show him something, baby! Show him ow' _cla.s.s_!"

Jockey Grogan laughed and flung an insult over his shoulder.

"Cla.s.s? That skate?" said he. "Stay with us as long as you can. This is a-a-a horse, n.i.g.g.e.r, a-a-a horse!"

Black Bill was beginning to run at last, as the grand stand acknowledged with frenzied yells. Yes, he was running, but a gaunt bay horse was running with him, stride for stride. Old Man Curry, at the paddock gate, tugged at his beard with one hand and fumbled for his tobacco with the other.

Side by side the black and the bay swept upon the floundering outsiders, overwhelmed them, and pa.s.sed on. Side by side they turned into the home stretch, and only two horses were in front of them--Regulator and Miss Amber. The mare was under the whip.

"You say you got a-a-a hawss there!" taunted Mose. "Show me how much hawss he is!"

Grogan shook off the last wrap and bent to his work. Not until then did he realise that the real race was beside him and not with the chestnut out in front.

"Show him up, 'Lisha! Show him up!" shrilled Mose, and the bay responded with a lengthened stride which gave him an advantage to be measured in inches, but Black Bill gamely fought his way back on even terms again. Miss Amber dropped behind. The boy on Regulator was using his whip, but he might just as well have been beating a carpet with it. Third money was his at the paddock gate.

Seventy-five yards--fifty yards--twenty-five yards--and still the two heads bobbed side by side. Jockey Michael Grogan, hero of many a hard finish; cool, calculating, and unmoved by the deafening clamour beating down from the packed grand stand, measured the distance with his eye--and took a chance. His rawhide whip whistled through the air. Black Bill, unused to punishment, faltered for the briefest fraction of a second, and came on again, but too late.

The presiding judge, an unprejudiced man with a stubby grey moustache, squinted across an imaginary line and saw the bay head before he saw the black. "_Jee-roozalum, my happy home!_" said he.

"That was an awful tight fit, but the Curry horse won--by a whisker.

Hang up the numbers. Lord! But that Elisha is a better horse than I gave him credit for being!"

"Yeh," said the a.s.sociate judge, "and the n.i.g.g.e.r outrode Grogan, if anybody should ask you. He had a chance--if he hadn't let that horse's head flop to go the bat!"

"It wasn't that," said the other quickly. "The horse flinched when he hit him."

"I been photographed and interviewed till I'm black in the face,"

complained Old Man Curry, "and now you come along. You're worse than them confounded reporters!"

"You bet I am," was the calm response of the Bald-faced Kid, "because I know more. And yet I don't know enough to satisfy me. Somebody played Elisha, and it wasn't me. You never went near the betting ring. I watched you."

"My money did. Quite a gob of it."

"And you--you thought he'd win?"

"Didn't I tell you to bet on him?"

"h.e.l.l!" wailed the Bald-faced Kid. "He was _lame_--he couldn't walk the night before! Bet on him? How could I after I'd seen him in that fix?"

"Frank," said the old man, "you believe everything you see, don't you?"

The Bald-faced Kid sat down and took his head in his hands.

"Tell it to me, old-timer," said he humbly. "I'm such a wise guy that it hurts me; but something has come off here that's a mile over my head. Tell me; I'm no mind reader."

Old Man Curry combed his beard reflectively and gazed through the tack-room door into the dusk of the summer evening.

"Son," said he at length, "you never swapped hosses much, did you?"

"Never owned any to swap," was the m.u.f.fled response.

"Too bad. You would have learned things. For instance, there's a trick that can be worked when you want to buy a hoss cheap and can get at him for a minute. It's done with a needle and thread and a hair from the hoss's tail. There's a spot in the leg where the tendons come together, and the trick is to pa.s.s that hosshair in between the tendons and trim off the ends just long enough so's you can find 'em again. Best part of the trick is it don't hurt the hoss none, but he knows it's there and he won't hardly rest his foot on the ground till it's pulled out. Then he's as good as new again."