The horse backed away on three legs, snorting with indignation. Engle had seen enough. He withdrew swiftly, nor did he pause to chuckle until he was fifty yards from Curry's barn.
"Well," said Squeaking Henry, "it was him, wasn't it?"
"Sure it was him, and he's got a pretty badly strained tendon, too. At first I thought the old fox might be trying to palm off one of his other cripples on you, but that was Elisha all right enough. Yes, he's through for about a month or so."
"That's what I figure," said Henry. "The old man, though, he's got his heart set on starting Elisha in the Handicap next Saturday. He thinks maybe he can dope him up so's he won't feel the soreness."
"In a mile and a half race?" said Engle. "I hope he tries it! He'll just about ruin that skate for life if he does. Five-eighths, yes, but a mile and a half? No chance!"
"You'll tell Goldmark?"
"Yes, I'll tell him. So long."
Engle swung away through the dark and Squeaking Henry watched him until he was swallowed up in the gloom.
"That being the case," said he, "and Elisha on the bum, I guess I'll take a night off. This Sherlock Holmes stuff is wearing on the nerves."
Al Engle delivered the message, giving it a strong backing of personal opinion.