Old Man Curry closed his book.
"You want 'em to know which is your hosses?" he asked. "Is that the idee?"
"Sure," answered Pitkin. "I was trying to think up a design of some kind. Lucky Baldwin, used to have a Maltese cross. How would it do if I had a rooster or a rising sun or a crescent sewed on to the back of the jacket?"
Old Man Curry pretended to give serious thought to the problem.
"Roosters an' risin' suns don't mean anything," said he judicially. "An emblem ought to mean something to the public—it ought to stand for something."
"Yes," said Pitkin, "but what can I get that will sort of identify me and my horses?"
"Well," said the old man, "mebbe I can suggest a dee-sign that'll fill the bill." He picked up a bit of shingle and drew a pencil from his pocket. "How would this do? Two straight marks this way, Pitkin, an' two straight marks that way—and nobody'd ever mistake your hosses—nobody that's been watchin' the way they run."
Pitkin craned his neck and snorted with wrath. Old Man Curry had drawn two crosses side by side, and the inference was plain.
"That's your notion, is it?" said he, rising. "Well, one thing is a mortal cinch, Curry; you'll never catch me psalm singing round a race track, and any time I want to preach, I'll hire a church! Put that in your pipe and smoke it!"