"The bookmakers won't get fat on what they take away from him," was the careless rejoinder. "This fellow has got a groceryman's heart. He can squeeze a dollar until the eagle screams for help, and he never heard of Riley Grannan. If he bets at all it won't be more than a ten-dollar note. Last Chance goes in the second race to-morrow—nonwinners at the meeting—and I'm going down to the stable now to have a conference and give Calamity his riding orders."
"I wash my hands of you," said the old man. "Fun is all right in its place, but fun that hurts somebody else has a way of coming home to roost. Don't forget that, my son."
"Aw, who's going to hurt him?" was the sulky rejoinder. "I'm only helping the chump to buy some of the experience that you spoke about the other day."
"Solomon says——" began Old Man Curry, but the Kid beat a hasty retreat.
"Put him on ice till to-morrow!" he called back over his shoulder. "This is my busy day!"
For a horse that had never won a race, Last Chance made a gay appearance in the paddock. Little Calamity, conscious of his shortcomings as a trainer, had done his best to offset them by extra activities in his capacity as stable hand. The big chestnut had been groomed and polished until his smooth coat shone like satin and blue ribbons were braided in his mane. The other nonwinners were a sorry-looking lot of dogs when compared with Last Chance, and the owner's bosom swelled with proud anticipation.
"Look at the fire in his eye!" said Hopwood to the Bald-faced Kid. "See how lively he is!"
"Uh-huh," said the Kid, who was present in the rôle of adviser. "He seems to be full of pep to-day."
As a matter of fact, Last Chance was nervous. He knew that a trip to the paddock was usually followed by a beating with a rawhide whip and a prodding with blunt spurs, hence the skittishness of his behaviour and the fire in his eye. Given a decent opportunity he would have jumped the fence and gone home to his stall.