"Pat will do that just before the horses move onto the track. Now let's get going. It's weigh-in time."
We moved to the scales with our rider. He stepped aboard the platform, complete with silks and saddle, and the spinner leaped to a staggering 102, whereupon the officials started gravely handing him little leather sacks.
"What's this?" I whispered to Sandy. "Prizes for malnutrition? He must have won all the blackjacks east of the Mississippi."
"The handicap," she whispered back. "Lead weights at one pound each."
"If he starts to lose," I ruminated, "they'd make wonderful ammunition—"
"One hundred and twenty-four," announced the chief weigher-inner. "Next entry!"
We returned to Tapwater. The jockey fastened the weights to his gear, saddled up and mounted. From the track came the traditional bugle call. Sandy nodded to Pat.
"All right, Pat. Now!"
Pending twisted the knob on his lightening rod and handed the stick to the jockey. The little horseman gasped, rose three inches in his stirrups, and almost let go of the baton.
"H-hey!" he exclaimed. "I feel funny. I feel—"