| 1. Murdoch's Hoard | 1:2 |
| 2. Mewhu's Jet | 3:5 |
| 3. Johnny Brack | 5:7 |
| 4. Piper's Son | 8:5 |
| 5. Daymare | 3:1 |
| 6. Helen O'Loy | 8:1 |
And then, of course, there were our three mud turtles which must have been entered by someone who thought that the Kentucky Derby was a claiming race and who hoped that the LePage's Glue people would make a bid for the three mounds of thoroughbred horseflesh that dropped dead in the backstretch:
| 7. Flying Heels | 100:1 |
| 8. Moonbeam | 250:1 |
| 9. Lady Grace | 500:1 |
The rack hadn't hit the top of the slide before there was a sort of mass-movement towards the mutuel windows. The ones who didn't go in person tried to hurl betting-thoughts in the hope of getting there early and failing this they arose and followed the crowd. Slowly the odds began to change; the figures on our three platers began to rise. There was very little activity on the other six horses. Slow-thinking Gimpy Gordon started to get up but I put out a hand to stop him.
"But the odds are dropping," he complained.
"Gimpy," I said, "they pay on the final listing anyway. But would you like a tip?"
"Sure," he said nervously.
"My tip is to keep your cash in your pocket. Put it on the nose of some horse and it's likely to get blown away by a high wind."
The odds were changing rapidly. What with psionic information receivers, trend predictors and estimated anticipators, the mutuel computers kept up with the physical transfer of funds, figured out the latest odds, and flipped the figures as fast as the machinery could work the dials. In no more than a few minutes the odds on the three platers looked more like the odds on horses that stood a chance of winning.