"I'll claim her back in the next race."
"Yeah, but you can't claim her back less'n you've entered another horse in the same race and you don't have another horse, do you, Mr. Watson?"
Watson's jaw dropped. "I never thought of that! What'll I do?"
"You've got to get another horse, Mr. Watson. Do you have enough money?"
"Well, the purse from this race is almost two thousand, and I made another thousand betting on Incubus. And, of course, Godlove gave me four thousand for her. But that won't be enough to buy a decent horse and maintain him—expenses are terrific."
The jockey chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. "I know what you can do," he said at length, "you can buy Prunella. She's set at a price of five thousand dollars but her owner's pretty disgusted with her—she has good lines but she finished last in twenty-seven starts—and I think you could have her for four thousand in cash."
Prunella, a meek-looking chestnut filly with big brown eyes and a vicious temper, was enthusiastically disposed of for four thousand and installed in Incubus' vacant stall. Watson shed a silent tear to see Incubus' second-best saddle hanging there on the wall.
In the dead of night he slipped into Godlove's stable. Incubus was awake, reading the Morning Telegraph. "Look at the picture they have of me," she snapped. "Obviously taken by an enemy. Next time Watson, remember—my right profile is the best."
"I'll remember," he promised and told her what had happened.
"You're sure this Prunella isn't taking my place in your affections?" she demanded severely. "That all this isn't a subterfuge?"