The old man's eyes flashed wrathfully.
"You know better'n that, Frank. All the help the black hoss had was what little bit Mose give him after the barrier went up. Ketch me handing the drug habit to a dumb critter! I guess not!"
"Keep your shirt on," was the soothing reply. "I'm only telling you what they say. They think Jimmy Miles didn't know the right prescription."
"A lot of things he don't know besides p'scriptions!" retorted Old Man Curry, still nettled. "Hosses, for one!"
"But you're getting away from the subject, old-timer. Ain't you going to tell me what you've done to this horse to make him win?"
"Some day, Frank—some day." The aged horseman combed his white beard with his fingers and regarded his impatient young friend with benign tolerance. "You—got many clients, so far?" Thus tactfully did Old Man Curry recognise the fact that the Bald-faced Kid was what another man might have called a tout.
"A few, yes," said the Kid. "Pikers."
"Well, sort of whisper to 'em that Eliphaz'll be a good bet the next time out."
"If it's a dog race, there won't be any price on him," was the sulky response.
"It won't be a dog race," said Old Man Curry. "It'll be a hoss race."