"I been photographed and interviewed till I'm black in the face," complained Old Man Curry, "and now you come along. You're worse than them confounded reporters!"
"You bet I am," was the calm response of the Bald-faced Kid, "because I know more. And yet I don't know enough to satisfy me. Somebody played Elisha, and it wasn't me. You never went near the betting ring. I watched you."
"My money did. Quite a gob of it."
"And you—you thought he'd win?"
"Didn't I tell you to bet on him?"
"Hell!" wailed the Bald-faced Kid. "He was lame—he couldn't walk the night before! Bet on him? How could I after I'd seen him in that fix?"
"Frank," said the old man, "you believe everything you see, don't you?"
The Bald-faced Kid sat down and took his head in his hands.
"Tell it to me, old-timer," said he humbly. "I'm such a wise guy that it hurts me; but something has come off here that's a mile over my head. Tell me; I'm no mind reader."
Old Man Curry combed his beard reflectively and gazed through the tack-room door into the dusk of the summer evening.