"Where is he now?" demanded Hopwood.
"Still in front—if he can stay there."
"Honest—is he?"
"Ask anybody!" howled the Kid, in sudden anger. "You don't need to take my word for it!"
At the paddock gate Last Chance was rocking from side to side with weariness and the pursuit was closing in on him. Jockey Gillis measured the distance to the wire and waited until Montezuma and Bluestone drew alongside. Twenty-five feet from home his fist thumped Last Chance on the shoulder again. The big chestnut answered with a frenzied bound and came floundering under the wire, a winner by a neck.
"He won!" cried Hopwood. "That—that was him in front, wasn't it?"
"That was what's left of him," was the response. "Maybe we'd better not cheer until the judges give us the 'official' on those numbers. I've got a hunch they may want to see Jock Gillis in the stand." And to himself: "The fool! He handed it to him again right under their noses! Does he think the judges are cockeyed too?"
"Here's our chance to get rid of the grocer," said the presiding judge to his associate. "Did you notice the way that horse acted? The boy's got a battery on him, sure as guns!"
One hundred yards from the wire Last Chance checked to a walk and as Jockey Gillis turned the horse he tossed a small, dark object over the inside fence. It fell in a puddle of water and disappeared from sight. When the winner staggered stiffly into the ring, Gillis flicked the visor of his cap with his whip.
"Judges?" he piped.