Many people seemed glad of it, even Mr. Pitkin, who slapped Gabe on the back as he led the winner from the ring.
"Didn't see the race—I was down getting another drink—but they tell me the General just lucked in on the last jump. Everything dead in front of him, eh?"
"Yes, suh," answered Gabe, passing the halter to one of the black stable hands. "It did look like he win lucky, that's a fac'!"
"Well, don't go to celebrating and overlook that fourth race!" ordered Pitkin. "No gin now! You bring Sergeant Smith over to the paddock yourself."
"Yes, suh, boss."
"And if anybody asks you about him, he's only in there for a tryout."
"Jus' fo' a tryout, yes, suh."
To such as were simple enough to expect a crooked man to return straight answers to foolish questions, Pitkin stated (1) that he was not betting a plugged nickel on his colt, (2) that he hardly figured to have a chance with such horses as Calloway and Hartshorn, (3) that he might possibly be third if he got the best of the breaks, and (4) that he had lost his regular jockey and was forced to give the mount to a bad little boy about whom he knew nothing.
The real truth he uncovered to Jockey Shea, a freckled young savage who had taken up the burden where Mulligan laid it down.
"Listen, kid, and don't make any mistakes with this colt. I'm down on him hook, line, and sinker to win and place, so give him a nice ride and I'll declare you in with a piece of the dough. Eh? Never you mind; it'll be enough. Now, then, this is a mile race, and Calloway will go out in front—he always does. Lay in behind him and stay there till you get to the head of the stretch, then shake up the colt and come on with him. He can stand a long, hard drive under whip and spur, so give it to him good and plenty from the quarter pole home. Don't try to draw a close finish—win just as far as you can with him, because Hartshorn will be coming from behind."