"You're not a Mexican. You're an American," the book-maker Joe cried accusingly, "although you bragged like a Mexican."
"Quite right. I never claimed to be a Mexican, however. I heard about this Thanksgiving Handicap, and it seemed such a splendid opportunity to pick up a few thousand dollars that I entered my horse. I have complied with all the rules. This race was open to four-year-olds and up, regardless of whether they had been entered in a race previously or had won or lost a race. Panchito's registration will bear investigation; so will his history. My jockey rode under an apprentice license. May I trouble you for a settlement, gentlemen?"
"But your horse is registered under a Mexican's name, as owner."
"My name is Miguel José Maria Federico Noriaga Farrel."
"We'll see the judges first, Señor Farrel."
"By all means."
"You bet we will. The judges smell a rat, already. The winning numbers haven't been posted yet."
As Don Mike and his retinue passed the Parker box, John Parker and Danny Leighton fell in behind them and followed to the judges' stand. Five minutes later the anxious crowd saw Panchito's number go up as the winner. Don Mike's frank explanation that he had deceived nobody, but had, by refraining from doing things in the usual manner, induced the public to deceive itself and refrain from betting on Panchito, could not be gainsaid—particularly when an inspection of the records at the betting ring proved that not a dollar had been wagered on Panchito.
"You played the books throughout the country, Mr. Farrel?" one of the judges asked.
Don Mike smiled knowingly. "I admit nothing," he replied.