Just before the bugle blew, Mose received his riding orders.
"If that mare of Weaver's gets away in front, don't you start chasing her. No use in running Isaiah's head off trying to ketch her. I want you to finish second, understand? Isaiah can beat all these other hosses. Don't pay no 'tention to the mare. Let her go."
Little Mose nodded.
"'At Fieldmouse is sutny a goin' fool when 'ey bet stable money on huh," said he. "Let 'at ole mare go, eh?"
"Exackly," said the old man, "but be sure you beat the rest of 'em."
"Fieldmouse an' Murphy," said Mose. "Huh-uh! 'At's a bad combination fo' us, boss, a ba-ad combination. 'Membeh Obadiah?"
The Bald-faced Kid strolled into Isaiah's stall.
"Chicken Liver's got it," he whispered. "I saw Weaver pass it to him."
"That's what I've been waiting for, Frank," said Old Man Curry. "Here, Shanghai! You lead him out on the track. I've got business with the children of Israel."
The Fieldmouse money was beginning to pour into the ring, and the block men were busy with their erasers. Each time the mare's price went down, Isaiah's price went up a little. Old Man Curry drew out a tattered roll of currency and went from booth to booth, betting on his horse at four to one.