"Jockey Murphy done it, boss. He was on 'at thing of Weaver's."
"A-purpose?"
"Sutny he done it a-purpose. He cut in on us an' knocked us agin the rail. Come from 'way outside to do it."
Old Man Curry began to take the saddle off the colt. A tall man in a rubber coat, gum boots, and a uniform cap arrived on the scene, panting after his run from the grand stand. He looked at Obadiah's leg, sucked in his breath with a whistling sound more expressive than words, and faced Old Man Curry.
"Want the 'vet' to see him?" asked the newcomer.
"No use in him suffering that long," said the old man dully. "He's ruined. Might as well get it over with."
Jockey Moseby Jones wailed aloud.
"Oh, don' let 'em shoot Obadiah, boss!" he pleaded. "I'll take keer o' him; I'll set up nights 'ith him. Can't you splint it? Ain't there nothin' we kin do fo' him?"
"Only one thing, Mose," said Old Man Curry. "It's a kindness, I reckon." He passed the bridle to the uniformed stranger. "Don't be too long about it," said he.
The colt, gentle and obedient to the last, hobbled off the track toward a sheltering grove of trees near the upper turn. Custom decrees that the closing scene of a turf tragedy shall not be enacted within sight of the grand stand. Two very young stableboys followed at a distance.