And of course Mr. Pitkin had no tickets to show. He offered to produce copies of telegrams, but the judges had him exactly where they had been wanting to get him and they gave him a very unhappy ten minutes. At the end of this period the presiding judge cleared his throat and pronounced sentence. "Your entries are refused from now on, and you are warned off this track. Take your horses somewhere else, sir, and don't ever bring 'em back here. That's all."
To Pitkin it seemed enough.
He walked down the steps in a daze and wandered away in the general direction of his stable. He was still in a daze when he reached his destination, and the first thing he saw was old Gabe, his coat on and a satchel in his hand.
"Oh, you've heard about it already, have you?" asked Pitkin dully.
"Heard whut?" And Gabe did not touch the brim of his hat.
"We've got the gate—been warned off: entries refused."
"Glory!" ejaculated the aged trainer. "Time they was gittin' onto you!"
"What's that?" shouted Pitkin. "Why, you black hound, I'll——"
"Yo' won't do nuthin'!" said Gabe stoutly. "Pitkin, yo' an' me is through; yo' an' me is done! Yo' made me all the trouble yo' eveh goin' make. Nex' time they ketches yo' cheatin' on a race track I hopes they shoot yo' head off!"