“That little guy is all right,” said Jaundice. “Did you hear what he said about Lord James havin’ a chanst on that track he was talking about? Say, Lord James has about as much chanst as I have.”
“Everyone has a chance,” I said feebly.
“Me?” he asked in surprise.
“Sure; the Book says everyone has who repents.”
“I ain’t got nothin’ to repent of exceptin’ pullin’ three or four of them bum chasers. The stewards couldn’t get nothin’ on me at that.”
“The Judges up there know it all.”
“Know everything? Then, say, what chanst has a guy got?”
As a religious prospect the case was too hard, so I telephoned the little rector and gave it over to him. He called upon Jaundice several times, and the following week I went to the hospital again. Jaundice was weak but smiling.
“Say,” he whispered hoarsely, “I got a chanst. That little man says that them Judges up there knows I was carryin’ too much weight to run true and that you can’t blame anyone for losin’ when he is handicapped out of it. I told him about pulling them chasers and lyin’ and stealin’, and he said that didn’t make no difference, that the Judges don’t set a guy down forever if he is sorry he done wrong.” He remained thinking for a time.
“He didn’t have to tell me to be sorry,” he whispered. “Honest, I always was sorry when I pulled one of them bum chasers when he was trying. It wasn’t square to the horse. This is the softest bet I ever had,” he whispered. “I’m going to play it. Them’s good odds—a chanst to win all them things he told me about and only be sorry. It’s like writing your own ticket.”