"Sponges?" Angus repeated, puzzled.
"Sure—sponges! One of the bloody, dirtiest, meanest, surest-fire tricks in the whole box. A little, soft sponge shot up each nostril. A horse can't blow 'em out. He can breathe all right when he's quiet, but when he starts to run he can't get wind enough through 'em to feed his lungs, and they choke him off. It don't take a minute to work the trick on a quiet horse. It can be put over five minutes or a day before a race. A rider can do his best and get no speed. A crooked owner can fix his own horse and tell his boy to ride to win. That's what somebody's put over on us, and I'll gamble on it. Dave, fetch me my little black bag."
The bag contained a kit of veterinary instruments, and from them Dorgan selected a pair of long, slender forceps. But Chief objected and had to be thrown. Angus sat on his head while Dorgan worked. In the end he got the sponges, and Chief released, struggled up snorting, but apparently relieved and glad to be able to fill his lungs full once more.
"And a devil of a note a night before a race!" Dorgan commented. "Some horses it would put clean up in the air. But I'll bet Chief will fix this French bunch now, in spite of their dirty work."
"What makes you think they did it?"
"Ain't they givin' even money against the field? That means they think they got us fixed. That big stiff that tried to beat me up to-night would have fixed me if he could. They framed that fight to get Dave away from here. Well, there's no use makin' a roar, because we got nothin' on them. We're lucky to get wise." He nodded to Chetwood. "I dunno's we would if it hadn't been for you. I didn't think you knew a thing about the game, but I guess you do."
"Even if I am a pilgrim?" Chetwood laughed. "But you know we have horses and a few races in England."
"The smoothest crook I ever come across in the racin' game was an Englishman," Dorgan admitted generously.
Chetwood laughed at this ambiguous testimonial, and Angus liked him the better for it. Leaving Dorgan and Rennie to look after the horse, they took their townward way. The darkness seemed more intense. They stumbled on the deeply-rutted road.
"We should have borrowed a lantern," Chetwood observed. "The bally trees make it black as the devil. I think—Look out, Mackay! 'Ware foot-pads!"