"My God, no! She quits before she starts."
"All right," Incubus said. "Now, I am reliably informed by the stable grapevine that Godlove's entering me in a six-thousand-dollar claimer. You spent almost all your money on Prunella—how're you going to claim me?"
There was dead silence in the stable.
"These men," she sighed. "Without us females to think for them they'd be lost. The answer is simple. Prunella's got to win that race. Then you'll have the purse, plus whatever you can bet on her, and you'll get good odds."
"Prunella win the race! She couldn't beat a speedy snail."
"She'll win the race." Incubus grinned happily.
The weather was clear and the track fast. Incubus was running at three to five—Prunella ninety-eight to one. Reuben Godlove appeared with his arm in a sling and a bandage on his forehead and glowered at Watson. "A fine trainer you are," he snarled.
"Let's see how well you've done with her," Watson suggested, smiling amiably.
The starting gate opened and all the horses dashed out—all except Prunella, who sauntered forth and stood admiring the view. Incubus turned, ran back and nipped Prunella viciously in the forequarters. With a whinny of rage Prunella proceeded to chase Incubus, who was showing a fleet pair of heels along the track. But there were six horses between Prunella and her attacker.