Old Man Curry Part 31

"No," said he, "I reckon you won't beat that German kid to death. He didn't know any better. You won't lay a finger on him, because why?

He's on a railroad train by now, goin' home to Cincinnati. I reckoned his mother might like to see him. And you ain't goin' to make no trouble for me, Johnson. Not a mite. You might whip a little kid, you big, bulldozin' windbag, but I reckon you won't stand up to a man, no matter how old he is!"

"I--I'll have your entries refused!"

"Don't go to no such trouble as that," was the soothing reply. "There won't be no more Curry entries at this track. A just man might fall down seven times again in such a nest of thieves an' robbers! Tell that to your judges, an' be d.a.m.ned!"

And, head erect, shoulders squared, and eyes flas.h.i.+ng, Old Man Curry started for the betting ring to collect his due.

EGYPTIAN CORN

"Well, you great big hammer-headed lobster, what have you got to say for yourself, eh? _Don't_ stand there and look wise when I'm talking to you! Ain't there a race in this country long enough for you to win? A mile and a half ought to give you a chance to open up and step, but what do you do? You come last, just beginning to warm up and go some! Sometimes I think I ought to sell you to a soap factory, you clumsy false alarm, you ugly old fraud, you cross between a mud turtle and a carpenter's bench, you----"

At this point Slim Kern became extremely personal, speaking his mind concerning the horse Pharaoh, his morals, his habits, and his ancestors. Some of his statements would have raised blisters on a salamander, but Pharaoh listened calmly and with grave dignity.

Pharaoh was not handsome. He was, as Slim had said, a hammer-headed brute of imposing proportions. But for his eyes no turfman would have looked at him twice. They were large, clear, and unusually intelligent; they redeemed his homely face. Without them he would have been called a stupid horse.

An elderly gentleman sat on a bale of hay and listened to Slim's peroration. As it grew in power and potency the listener ceased to chew his straw and began to shake his head. When Slim paused for breath, searching his mind for searing adjectives, a mild voice took advantage of the silence.

"There now, Slim, ain't you said enough to him? Seems like, if it was me, I wouldn't cuss a hoss so strong--not _this_ hoss anyway. He ain't no fool. Chances are he knows more'n you give him credit for.

Some hosses don't care what you say to 'em--goes in one ear and out the other--but Pharaoh, he's wise. He knows that ain't love talk.

He's chewin' it over in his mind right now. By the look in his eye, he's askin' himself will he bite your ear off or only kick you into the middle of next week. Cussin' a hoss like that won't make him win races where he never had a chance nohow."

"I know it," said Slim. "I know it, Curry, but think what a wonderful relief it is to me! Take a slant at him, standing there all dignified up like a United States senator! Don't he look like he ought to know something? Wouldn't you think he'd know where they pay off? He makes me sore, and I've just got to talk to him. I've owned him a whole year, and what has he done? Won once at a mile and a quarter, and he'd have been last that time if the leaders hadn't got in a jam on the turn and fell down. He was so far behind 'em when they piled up that all he had to do was pull wide and come on home! He had sense enough for that. I've started him in all the distance races on this circuit; he always runs three feet to their one at the finish, but he's never close enough up to make it count. He must have some notion that they pay off the second time around, and it's all my boy can do to stop him after he goes under the wire. Why won't he uncork some of that stuff where it will get us something? Why won't he? I don't know, and that's what gets me."

Old Man Curry rose, threw away his straw, and circled the horse three times, muttering to himself. This was purely an exhibition of strategy, for Curry knew all about Pharaoh: had known all about him for months.

"What'll you take for him?" The question came so suddenly that it caught Slim off his balance.

"Take for him!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "Who wants an old hammer-head like that?"

"I was thinkin' I might buy him," was the quiet reply, "if the price is right. I dunno's a hoss named Pharaoh would fit in with a stable of Hebrew prophets, 'count of the way Pharaoh used Moses and the Isrulites, but I might take a chance on him--if the price is right."

Now, Slim would have traded Pharaoh for a nose bag or a sack of shorts and reckoned the intake pure gain, but he was a horseman, and it naturally follows that he was a trader.

"Well, now," said he, "I hadn't thought of selling him, Curry, and that's a fact."

"Did anybody but me ever think of buyin' him?" asked the old man innocently.

"He's got a wonderful breeding," said Slim, ignoring the question.

"Yes, sir; he's out of the purple, sure enough, and as for age he's just in his _prime_. There's a lot of racing in him yet. Make me an offer."

"You don't want me to talk first, do you? I don't reckon I could make a real offer on a hoss that never wins 'less all the others fall down. Pharaoh ain't what you might call a first-cla.s.s buy. From his looks it costs a lot to keep him."

"Not near as much as you'd think," was the quick rejoinder.

"Pharaoh's a dainty feeder."

"Ah, hah," said Old Man Curry, stroking his beard. "About as dainty as one of them perpetual hay presses! That nigh foreleg of his has been stove up pretty bad too. How he runs on it at all beats me."

"He's sound as a nut!" declared Slim vehemently. "There ain't a thing in the world the matter with him. Ask any vet to look him over!"

"Well, Slim, I dunno's he's worth the expense. Come on, now; tell me what's the least you'll take for him?"

"Five hundred dollars."

"Give you a hundred and fifty cash."

"Say, do you want me to make you a present of him?" demanded Slim, indignantly sarcastic. "Maybe you think I'd ought to throw in a halter so's you can lead him away!"

"No," said Old Man Curry. "I won't insist on a halter. I got plenty of my own. You said yourself he wa'n't no good and I thought you meant it. I was just askin' if you'd sell him; that was all. Keep him till Judgment Day, if you want him. No harm done." Old Man Curry began to walk away.

"Hold on a minute!" said Slim, trying hard to keep the anxious note out of his voice. "Be reasonable, old-timer. Make me an offer for the horse: one that a sensible man can accept."

Old Man Curry paused and glanced over his shoulder.

"Why," said he, faintly surprised, "I kind of thought I'd done that a'ready!"

"_Look_ at him!" urged Slim. "Did you ever see a more powerful horse in your life? And smart too. A hundred and fifty dollars! One side of him is worth more than that!"

"Likely it is," agreed the old man solemnly. "Seems to me I saw a piece in the paper 'bout a cannery where they was goin' to put up hoss-fles.h.!.+"

"I admit he's had a lot of bad luck," persisted Slim, "but get Pharaoh warmed up once and he'll surprise you. Didn't you see how fast he was coming to-day?"

"The numbers was up before he got in," was the dry response. "What's the good of a hoss that won't begin to run until the race is over?

You said yourself he only won for you when all the others fell down.

It's kind of difficult to frame up races that way. Jockeys hate to take the chances. Will two hundred buy him? Two hundred, right in your hand?"

"Oh, come over here and set down!" said Slim. "You ain't in any hurry, are you? Nothing you've said yet interests me. On the level, you ain't got a suspicion of what a good horse this is!"

"No, but I kind of suspicion what a bad hoss he is." Old Man Curry resumed his seat on the bale of hay and produced his packet of fine-cut tobacco. "You tell me how good he is," said he, "and I'll listen, but before you open up here's what Solomon says: 'The simple believeth every word, but the prudent man looketh well to his going.'

Hoss tradin' is no job for a simple man, but I made a livin' at it before you was born. Now fire away, and don't tell me this Pharaoh is a gift. 'Whoso boasteth himself of a false gift is like clouds and wind without rain.' I reckon Solomon meant mostly wind. Now you can cut loose an' tell me how much hoss this is."

Two hours later Old Man Curry arrived at his barn leading Pharaoh. He had acquired the hammer-head for the sum of $265 and Slim had thrown in the halter. Shanghai, Curry's hostler and handy man, stared at the new member of the racing string with open-mouthed and pop-eyed amazement.

"Lawd's sake! What _is_ that, a cam-u-el?"

"No, I don't reckon he's a camel, exactly," replied the old man. "I don't know just what he is, Shanghai, but I'm aimin' to find out soon. The man I got him from allowed as he was a race hoss."

"Huh-uh, kunnel! He sutny don' ree'semble no runnin' hawss to _me_. I neveh yet see a head shape' like that on anything whut could run."

Shanghai came closer and examined the equine stranger carefully. "Yo'

an ugly brute, big hawss: ugly no name faw it. Oh-oh, kunnel; he got a knowin' eye, ain't he? If this hawss is wise as he look, he ought to be a judge in the Soopreme Cote! Yes, suh; somepin' besides bone in that ole hammeh-head!"

"I bought him for his eyes," said Old Man Curry. "His eyes and his name. This is Pharaoh, Shanghai."

"Faro, eh?" The negro chuckled. "Tha.s.s a game where yo' gits action two ways: bet it is or it ain't. Now, mebbe this yere Faro is a race hawss, an' mebbe he ain't, but if yo' eveh puts him in with early speed an' a short distance to go, betteh play him with a copper, kunnel. He got same chance as a eagle flyin' a mile 'gainst pigeons."