"Just about two hundred bones."
"Ah, hah!" Old Man Curry paused a moment for thought and sucked at his straw. "Two hundred at 5 to 2—that'd make seven hundred, wouldn't it? Pretty nice little pile."
The Kid's eyes widened. "Then you don't think Elisha can beat the Ghost to-day?"
"I ain't bettin' a cent on him," said the old man. "Not a cent." And the manner in which he said it meant more than the words.
"Then, shall I—?"
Old Man Curry glanced over at the grey horse, standing quietly in his stall.
"Play that one, son," he whispered.
After the Kid had gone rocketing back to the betting ring, Curry turned to Jockey Moseby Jones.
"Mose," said he, "don't lay too far out of it to-day. This grey hoss lasts pretty well, so begin workin' on 'Lisha sooner than usual. He's ready to stand a long, hard drive. Bring him home in front, boy!"