"The hoss—lost?" By the delicate inflection and the pause before the final word, Old Man Curry might have been inquiring about the last moments of a departed friend. The Kid was looking at the ground, so he missed the twinkle in the old man's eyes.
"He ran like an apple woman," was the sullen response. "Confound it, old-timer, I can't pick 'em every time!"
"No, I reckon not," said the patriarch. "I—reckon—not." He lapsed into silence.
"Aw, spit it out!" said the Kid after a time. "I'd rather hear you say it than feel you thinking it!"
Old Man Curry smiled one of his rare smiles, and his big, wrinkled hand fell lightly on the boy's shoulder.
"What I was thinking wasn't much, son," said he. "It was this: if you can make total strangers open up and spend their substance for something they only think is there, you ought to get rid of an awful lot of shirts and socks and flummery—the things that folks can see. If you can sell stuff that ain't, you surely can sell stuff that is!"
"I'm sick of the whole business!" The words ripped out with a snarl. "I used to like this game for the excitement in it—for the kick. I used to like to see 'em run. Now I don't give a damn, so long as I can get some coin together quick. And the more you need it the harder it is to get! To-day I had four suckers down on different horses in the same race, and a sleeper woke up on me. Four bets down and not a bean!"
The twinkle had gone from the old man's eyes.
"Four hosses in one race, eh? Do you need the money that bad, son?"