Old Man Curry Part 14

Before Little Calamity went to sleep that night he reviewed the situation somewhat as follows:

"My dope was wrong, but it's a cinch a hustler like the Kid ain't hangin' around the boss for his _health_.... And he didn't kick in wit' that alibi because he loves _me_ any too well.... I can't figure him at all."

If he could have heard a conversation then going on in Old Man Curry's tackle-room, the figuring would have been easier.

"Frank," said the old man, "I had my eye on you to-day. You ain't got designs on that fool's bank roll, have you?"

The Bald-faced Kid blew a cloud of cigarette smoke into the air and watched it float to the rafters before he answered question with question.

"How long have you known me, old-timer?"

"Quite a while, my son."

"You know that I get my living by doing the best I can?"

"Yes."

"Did you ever know me to steal anything from a blind man? Or even one that was near-sighted?"

"No-o."

"Then don't worry about this Hopwood."

"But he ain't blind--except in the Scriptural sense."

"Think not, eh? Listen! That bird can't see as far as the sixteenth pole. Somebody has got to watch the races and tell him how well his horse is going or else he'll never know. Think what he'd miss! I'm his form chart and his eyes, old-timer, and all I charge him is a laugh now and then. Cheap enough, ain't it?"

Old Man Curry found his packet of fine-cut and thrust a large helping into his left cheek. "'For as the crackling of thorns under a pot,'"

he quoted, "'so is the laughter of a fool.'"

The end of the meeting was close at hand; the next town on the Jungle Circuit was preparing to receive the survivors. The owners were plotting to secure that elusive commodity known as get-away money; some of them would have been glad to mortgage their chances for a receipted feed bill. Last Chance had started five times and each time Hopwood had listened to a thrilling description of the race; the chestnut's performances had been bad enough to strain the Kid's powers of invention.

On the eve of the final struggle of the nonwinners, the Kid sat in grave consultation with Hopwood and Little Calamity and the rain drummed on the shingle roof of the tackle room. The fat man was downcast; he had been hinting about selling Last Chance at auction and returning to b.u.t.te.

"You don't mean to say that you're going to _quit_?" demanded the Kid, incredulously. "Just when he's getting good?"

"What's the use?" was the dreary reply. "Luck is against me, ain't it?"

"But he's always knocking at the door, ain't he? He's always right up there part of the way. You can't get the worst of it every time, you know. Be game."

"I've had the worst of it every time so far," said Hopwood, with a dejected shake of his head. "Every time. I swear I don't know what's wrong with that horse. He _looks_ all right and he _acts_ all right, but every time he starts something happens. They b.u.mp him into the fence or pocket him or he gets a clod in his eye and quits. He's been last every time but one and then he was next to last. I--I'm sort of discouraged, boys."

"Aw, never mind, boss!" chirped Little Calamity, one eye on the Kid and the other wandering in the general direction of the owner.

"To-morrow is another day and there ain't a thing left in the nonwinner cla.s.s for him to beat. All the good ones are gone. He worked fine this morning, and----"

"You've said that every time."

"Yes, but you're overlooking the muddy track!" Hopwood blinked in perplexity as the Kid came to the rescue with a new story.

"The muddy track? What difference will that make?"

"Listen to him! All the difference in the wide world!"

"Yeh," chimed in Calamity. "You bet it makes a difference!"

"You're forgetting that Last Chance is by a mudder out of a mudder,"

suavely explained the Kid. "His daddy used to win stakes kneedeep in it. His mother liked mud so well they had to mix it with her oats to get her to eat regular. What difference will it make? Huh! Wait and see!"

The owner rose, grunting heavily.

"I hope you're right this time," said he. "Lord knows I've had disappointments enough. When I bought this horse they guaranteed him to win at least every other time he started----"

"With an even break in the luck, of course," interrupted the Kid.

"You've got to have luck too."

"They didn't mention anything about luck when they took my money."

Hopwood was positive on this point. "They told me it was a sure thing and I wouldn't be in this mess if I hadn't thought it was.... You boys talk it over between you. I'm going to ask Mr. Curry if he wants to buy a horse. He can have him for half what he cost me."

Hopwood turned up his collar and departed; the two conspirators listened until his footsteps died away down the row of stables. "Will Curry split on us?" asked Little Calamity, anxiously.

"Not in a thousand years!" was the confident reply. "The old man is a sport in his way. It's a queer way, but he's all right at that. He plays his own string and lets you play yours. Hopwood will find out what Solomon says about buying strange horses, but the old man won't tip your hand or mine. Queer genius, Curry is.... Well, your sucker has lasted longer than I thought he would."

"And now he's getting onto himself," said Calamity mournfully.

"He's not. He's getting cold feet."

"To-morrow is the last crack we'll get at him.... _Can_ this beagle run in the mud?"

"How do I know? I was only stringing him."

Little Calamity sighed and the Kid rose to take his departure.

"Wait a minute!" said the other. "Don't go yet. Maybe this horse _will_ do better in the mud. You don't know and I don't know, but he _might_."

"What he might do ain't worrying me," said the Kid.

"Listen a second. Maybe you won't believe it, but I've been on the up and up with the boss. Honest, I have. I could have tipped one of the other hustlers to tout him and sink the money for a split, but--well, I didn't do it, that's all. He was white to me and I tried to be white too, see? I even told him not to bet on the horse until I gave him the office, and so far we've been running for nothing but the purse. You haven't touted him either----"

"Draw your bat and make a quick finish!" said the Kid shortly.

"What's it all about?"

"Suppose I should talk him into putting a bet down to-morrow?"

"A bet on what?"

"On Last Chance. It ain't no crime for a man to bet on his own horse, is it? He told me he'd give me a percentage of what he won. Maybe the old crowbait will go better in the mud, and I'll ride him until his eyes stick out a foot. We might accidentally get down there to the judges' stand in front, and----"

"And still you haven't said anything," interrupted the Kid. "You want something; what is it?"