Old Man Curry Part 9

"And that's how I'm fixed," whined Squeaking Henry in conclusion. "I think I can rustle the eats all right enough--one meal a day anyway--and if I just had a place to sleep----" He paused and regarded Old Man Curry expectantly.

"Come in, son," said the patriarch. A wiser man than Squeaking Henry might have found Curry's manner almost too friendly. "Come in.

There's a spare cot here and you're welcome to it. Mose, my little n.i.g.g.e.r, sleeps here too, but I reckon you won't mind him. He's clean."

Strange to say, it was Jockey Moseby Jones who minded. He minded very much, in plain English, waylaying Old Man Curry as he made the rounds of the stalls that night, lantern in hand.

"This yer Squawkin' Henry, boss, he's a no-good hound. He's no good a-a-atall. They ketched him at b.u.t.te last year ringin' in hawss dice on 'e c.r.a.p game 'mong friends an' 'ey jus' nach.e.l.ly sunk his floatin'

ribs an' kicked him out on his haid. Tha.s.s all they done to him, Mist' Curry. Betteh watch him clost, else he'll steal 'em gol'

fillin's outen yo' teeth!"

"You know him, do you, Mose?" asked Old Man Curry.

"Do I knows him!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the little negro. "I knows him well 'nough to wish yo' hadn't 'vited him to do his floppin' in yo'

tack-room!"

"Ah-hah!" said Old Man Curry reflectively. "Mose, I reckon you never heard what Job said?"

Jockey Moseby Jones heaved a deep sigh.

"Heah it comes again!" he murmured. "No, boss; he said such a many things I kain't seem to keep track of 'em all. Whut he say now?"

"Something about the wise being taken in their own craftiness; I've forgotten the exact words."

"Umph! Sho'lly yo' don't call Squawkin' Henry _wise_?"

"No-o, but he may have wise friends. Somehow I've sort of been expecting this visitor, Mose. You heard him tell about how bad off his mother is. It seems a shame not to accommodate him, when all he wants is a place to sleep--and some information on the side."

"Info'mation, boss?"

"Well, I can't exactly swear to it, Mose, but I think the children of Israel have sent this Henry person among us to spy out the land.

That's a trick they learned a long time ago, after they got out of Egypt. Joshua taught it to 'em. Ever since then they don't take any more chances than they can help. They always want to know what the other fellow is doing--and it's a pretty good system at that. Being as things are the way they are, a spy in camp, etcetry, mebbe what hoss talk is done had better be done by me. You _sabe_, Mose?"

"Humph!" sniffed the little jockey. "I got you long ago, boss, lo-ong ago!"

Al Engle, sometimes known as the Sharpshooter, horse owner and recognised head of a small but busy band of turf pirates, was leaving his stable at seven-thirty on a Wednesday evening, intending to proceed by automobile to the brightly lighted district. Sleek, blond, youthful in appearance, without betraying wrinkle or line, Engle's innocent exterior had been his chief dependence in his touting days.

He seemed, on the surface, to be everything which he was not.

As he stepped forth from the shadow of the stable awning a hand plucked at his sleeve.

"It's me--Henry," said a voice. "I've got a message for Goldmark--couldn't catch him on the phone."

"Shoot it!" said Engle.

"Tell him that Elisha has gone dead lame--can't hardly rest his foot on the ground."

"That'll do for Sweeney!" said the Sharpshooter. "Elisha worked fine this morning. I clocked him myself."

"But that was this morning," argued Squeaking Henry. "He must have bowed a tendon or something. His left foreleg is in awful shape."

"Are you sure it's Elisha?" demanded Engle.

"Come and see for yourself. You know the horse. Owned him for a few weeks, didn't you? Curry is working on his leg now. You can peek in at the door of the stall and see for yourself. He won't even know you're there."

Together they crossed the dark s.p.a.ce under the trees, heading for a thin ribbon of light which streamed from beneath the awning of Curry's barn. Somewhere, close at hand, a piping voice was lifted in song:

_"On 'e dummy, on 'e dummy line;_ _Rise an' s.h.i.+ne an' pay my fine;_ _Rise an' s.h.i.+-i-ine an' pay my fi-i-ine,_ _Ridin' on 'e dummy, on 'e dummy, dummy line."_

"What's that?" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Engle, pausing.

"Aw, that's only Curry's little n.i.g.g.e.r, Mose. He's always singing or whistling or something!"

"I hope he chokes!" said Engle, advancing cautiously.

The stall door was almost closed, but by applying his eye to the crack Engle could see the interior. Old Man Curry was kneeling in the straw, dipping bandages in a bucket of hot water. The horse was watching him, ears p.r.i.c.ked nervously.

"If this ain't tough luck, I don't know what is!" Old Man Curry was talking to himself, his voice querulous and complaining. "Tough luck--yes, sir! Tough for you, 'Lisha, and tough for me. Job knew something when he said that man born of woman is of few days and full of trouble. Yes, indeed! Here I had you right on edge, and ready to--whoa, boy! Stand still, there! I ain't goin' to hurt ye, 'Lisha.

What's the matter with ye, anyway? _Stand still!_"

The horse backed away on three legs, snorting with indignation. Engle had seen enough. He withdrew swiftly, nor did he pause to chuckle until he was fifty yards from Curry's barn.

"Well," said Squeaking Henry, "it was him, wasn't it?"

"Sure it was him, and he's got a pretty badly strained tendon, too.

At first I thought the old fox might be trying to palm off one of his other cripples on you, but that was Elisha all right enough. Yes, he's through for about a month or so."

"That's what I figure," said Henry. "The old man, though, he's got his heart set on starting Elisha in the Handicap next Sat.u.r.day. He thinks maybe he can dope him up so's he won't feel the soreness."

"In a mile and a half race?" said Engle. "I hope he tries it! He'll just about ruin that skate for life if he does. Five-eighths, yes, but a mile and a half? No chance!"

"You'll tell Goldmark?"

"Yes, I'll tell him. So long."

Engle swung away through the dark and Squeaking Henry watched him until he was swallowed up in the gloom.

"That being the case," said he, "and Elisha on the b.u.m, I guess I'll take a night off. This Sherlock Holmes stuff is wearing on the nerves."

Al Engle delivered the message, giving it a strong backing of personal opinion.

"No, Abe, it's all right, I tell you. It's straight. I've seen the horse myself, ain't I? Know him? Man alive, I had the skate in my barn for nearly a month! I ought to know him. Why, there's no question about it. He's so lame he can hardly touch his foot to the ground. If he starts, he's a million to one to win; a hundred to one he won't even finish. Certainly I'm sure! You can go broke on it.

Don't talk to me! Haven't I seen strained tendons before? Next to a broken leg, it's the worst thing that can happen to a race horse."

While Engle was closeted with Goldmark, Old Man Curry was entertaining another nocturnal visitor. It was the Bald-faced Kid, breathless, his brow beaded with perspiration.

"Just got the tip that Elisha has gone lame," said the Kid. "I was in the c.r.a.p game over at Devlin's barn when Squeaking Henry came in with the news. I ran all the way over here."

"Oho, so it was Henry, eh?" Old Man Curry rumbled behind his whiskers--his nearest approach to a laugh. "Henry, eh? Well, now, it's this way 'bout Henry. He's better than a newspaper because it don't cost a cent to subscribe to him. He's got the loosest jaw and the longest tongue in the world."