"Maybe he won't bleed to-morrow, Frank."
"He won't, eh?" The Bald-faced Kid drew out the leather-backed volume which was his constant companion, and began to thumb the leaves rapidly. "You're always heaving your friend Solomon at me. I'll give you a quotation I got out of the Fourth Reader at school—something about judging the future by the past. Look here: 'Jeremiah bled and was pulled up.' 'Jeremiah bled badly.' Why, everybody around here knows that he's a bleeder!"
"There you go again," said Old Man Curry patiently. "You study them dad-burned dope sheets, and all you can see is what a hoss has done. You listen to me: it ain't what a hoss did last week or last month—it's what he's goin' to do to-day that counts."
"A quitter will quit and a bleeder will bleed," said the Kid sententiously.
"And Jeremiah says the leopard can't change his spots," said Old Man Curry. "Have it your own way, Frank."
Exactly twenty-four hours later the Bald-faced Kid, peering across the track to the back stretch, saw Old Man Curry lead a black horse to the quarter pole, exchange a few words with Mose, adjust the bit, and stand aside.
"What's that one, Kid?" The question was asked by Shine McManus, a professional clocker employed by a bookmaker to time the various workouts and make a report on them at noon.
"That's Jeremiah," said the Kid. "The old man hasn't worked him much lately."