Old Man Curry Part 21

"Will you ever quit beefing about the money you lost on that race?"

snapped Engle.

"Will I ever forget who got me into it?" countered O'Connor. "And if you'll take a tip from me--which you won't because you think you're smarter than I am--you'll let Old Man Curry's horses alone. It ain't in the cards that you or me can monkey with those Bible horses without getting hurt. Grab this Fairfax, or whatever they call him now, but count me out."

"No-o," said The Sharpshooter, his lips pursed and his brow wrinkled.

"I don't want to grab him. I'd rather get him some other way."

"Buy him, then."

Engle shook his head.

"Curry wouldn't sell--not to me, anyway. He might to some one else. I saw Jimmy Miles this afternoon, and he was crying about what a wonderful horse he'd sold for nothing. I wonder where I could get hold of Jimmy?"

The following evening the Bald-faced Kid called upon his aged friend and interrupted a heart-to-heart session in Old Man Curry's tackle-room.

"h.e.l.lo, old-timer! h.e.l.lo, Jimmy! Am I b.u.t.ting in here?"

Jimmy Miles, a thin, sandy-haired man with pale-blue eyes and a retreating chin, answered for both.

"No, nothing private. I've been tryin' to tell Curry here that he kind of took a mean advantage of me when he bought Fairfax so cheap."

"Eliphaz," corrected the old man, "and it wa'n't no advantage because you was crazy to sell."

"I'd been drinkin' or I wouldn't have been such a fool," whined Miles. "Booze in--brains out: the old story. If I hadn't been right up against it, I wouldn't have sold the horse at all--attached to him the way I was. I'd worked with him a long time, gettin' him ready to win, and it was a mistake to let him go just when he was shapin' up.

I--I'd like to buy him back. Put a price on him, old man."

Miles stooped to extinguish a burning match end which the Kid had thrown on the floor, and in that instant the Bald-faced Kid caught Old Man Curry's eye and shook his head ever so slightly.

"He ain't for sale," said the owner of Eliphaz.

"Not for cash--and your own figure?" persisted Miles. Again a wordless message flashed across the tackle-room. This time the Kid, yawning, stretched one hand high over his head.

"Two thousand dollars!" said Old Man Curry promptly.

Miles gulped his astonishment.

"Why--why, you _got_ him for a hundred and fifty!" he cried.

"He's a better hoss than when I got him," said the old man, "and he's won four races. Maybe he'll win four more. You asked for my figure.

You got it. Two thousand. Not a cent less."

Miles argued and pleaded, but the old man was firm.

"It ain't as if I was wantin' to sell," he explained. "I never want to sell--when the other man wants to buy. That's business, ain't it?

Two thousand--take it or leave it."

"I'll see you later," said Miles. "You might come down some."

Hardly was he out of the room before Old Man Curry turned to his remaining guest.

"Well, Frank," said he, "you know something. What is it?"

"I know Miles is trying to buy the black horse for Al Engle."

Old Man Curry's fist thumped upon his knee.

"Engle! How did you find that out, son?"

The Bald-faced Kid grinned.

"Everybody ain't as close-mouthed as you are, old-timer. Engle, O'Connor, and Jimmy Miles split a quart of wine in the restaurant under the grand stand after the last race to-day and the waiter hung around and got an earful. O'Connor was against the deal from the jump. He says n.o.body can win any money on a Bible horse without queering his luck. Engle knows you wouldn't sell to him so he sent Miles after you and told him what to say. He'd like to run that horse in his colours next Sat.u.r.day and win the Handicap with him."

"You're sure he ain't intending to lay him up with the books and have him pulled, or something?"

"Not at this track, old-timer. You see, Engle is just the least little bit leery of Pettigrew. They talked it all over and decided that it wouldn't be healthy for him to buy a four-time winner and make a bad showing with him the first time out. He wants the horse for a gambling tool, all right enough, but he won't be foolish enough to do any cheating with Eliphaz at this track. Engle says himself that he don't dare take a chance--not with old Pettigrew laying for him--on general principles. Engle thinks that if he buys the black horse and wins a good race with him first time out it may pull the wool over Pettigrew's eyes. He says Eliphaz is a cinch in the Handicap next Sat.u.r.day."

Old Man Curry fingered his beard for some time in silence.

"Blast the luck!" said he suddenly. "Why didn't I know Miles was arepresentin' Al Engle?"

"You'd have said three thousand, eh?"

"No," said Old Man Curry. "No, son. Fifteen hundred."

"_Fifteen hundred!_ You're crazy!"

"Mebbe I am, but Solomon, he says that even a fool, if he keeps his mouth shut tight enough, can pa.s.s for a wise man.... Frank, I wish you'd go out and find Jimmy Miles. Sort of hint to him that if he comes back here he won't be throwed out on his head. Do that for me, and mebbe you won't lose nothing by it."

The negotiations for the purchase of Eliphaz were long drawn out, but on Friday evening at dusk Old Man Curry went into the stall and said good-bye to his four-time winner.

"Don't be so skittish!" said the old gentleman. "I ain't come to put the strap on ye.... Habit is a great thing, black hoss, a great thing. In this case I'm kind of dependin' on it. You know what the dog done, don't ye? And the sow that was washed, she went wallerin'

in the mire, first chance she got. That's in the New Testament, but Peter, he got the notion from Solomon and didn't give him credit either.... Good-bye, black hoss, and whatever happens, good luck!"

This was at dusk, but it was close to eleven o'clock when the transaction was completed by transfer of a fat roll of bills, which Old Man Curry counted very carefully.

"Four hundred--five hundred--Jimmy, this hoss has got a engagement for the Handicap to-morrow--seven hundred--seven-fifty--Was you thinkin' of startin' him?"

"M--well, yes. I think he's got a chance," said Miles.

"A royal chance--'Leven hundred--twelve hundred.... In that case, price bein' satisfactory and all, I oughtn't to hold out any info'mation. This black hoss shouldn't be worked to-morrow mornin'.

He got his last workout to-day; the full distance, and he's ready. I wasn't even goin' to warm him up before takin' him to the paddock.

Some hosses run better hot; some run better cold.... Fourteen hundred--fifteen hundred, and O. K.--Better not forget that, Jimmy."

"I won't, old-timer. Guess I better take him now, eh?"

"As well now as any other time. He's your hoss."

Major Ewell Duval Pettigrew was an early riser, but he was barely into his trousers when a bell boy tapped at his door. The major was small and plump, with a face like a harvest moon, if you can imagine a harvest moon wearing a bristling moustache and goatee. Hors.e.m.e.n knew to their sorrow that the major owned a long memory, a short temper, and strong prejudices. Consistent racing was his cry and woe to the in-and-outer.