Playing Even For Obadiah

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Title:     Playing Even For Obadiah
Author: Charles E. Van Loan [More Titles by Van Loan]

Old Man Curry, owner of race horses, looked out of his tack-room door at a streaming sky and gave thanks for the rain. Other owners were cursing the steady downpour, for a wet track would sadly interfere with their plans, but Curry expected to start the chestnut colt Obadiah that afternoon, and Obadiah, as Jockey Moseby Jones was wont to remark, was a mud-running fool on any man's track. The Bald-faced Kid, who lived by doing the best he could and preferred to be called a hustler rather than a tout, spoke from the tack-room interior. He was a privileged character at the Curry barn.

"How does she look, old-timer? Going to clear up by noon?"

Old Man Curry shook his head. "Well, no," said he. "I reckon not. Looks to me like reg'lar Noah weather, Frank. If a man's got a mud hoss in his barn, now's the time to start him."

The Bald-faced Kid grunted absently. He was deep in a thick, leather-backed, looseleaf volume of past performances, technically known as a form book, generally mentioned as "the dope sheets"--the library of the turf follower, the last resort and final court of appeal. The Kid's lower lip had a studious droop and the pages rustled under his nervous fingers. An unlighted cigarette was behind his ear.

"What you looking for, son?"

"I'm trying to make Gaspargoo win his race to-day. He's in there with a feather on his back, and there'll be a price on him. He's been working good, too. He quits on a dry track, but in the mud he's liable to go farther. His old feet won't get so hot." Curry peered over the Kid's shoulder at the crowded columns of figures and footnotes, unintelligible to any but the initiated, and supposedly a complete record of the racing activities of every horse in training.

"Hm-m-m. Some folks say Solomon didn't write Ecclesiastes. Some say he did--after he got rid of his wives."

The Bald-faced Kid laughed.

"You and your Solomon! Well, get it off your chest! What does he say now?"

"I think it must have been Solomon, because here's something that sounds just like him: 'Of making many books there is no end; and much study is a weariness of the flesh.' It would weary a mule's flesh to study them dope books, Frank. There's so many things enter into the running of hosses which ought to be printed in 'em and ain't. For instance, take that race right in front of you." The old man put his finger upon the page. "I remember it well. Here's Engle's mare, Sunflower, the favourite and comes fourth. Ab Mears wins it with the black hoss, Anthracite. Six to one. What does the book say 'bout Sunflower's race?"

The Kid read the explanatory footnote.

"'Sunflower, away badly, and messed about the first part of the journey; had no chance to catch the leaders, but closed strong under the whip.'"

"Uh-huh," said Old Man Curry. "Good as far as it goes, but that's all. Might as well tell a lie as part of the truth. Why not come right out with it and say that Engle was betting on Anthracite that day and the boy on Sunflower rode the mare to orders? That's what happened. Engle and Mears and O'Connor and Weaver and some of the rest of 'em run these races the night before over in O'Connor's barn. They get together and then decide on a caucus nominee. Why not put that in the book?"

"Speaking of Mears," said the Bald-faced Kid, "he thinks he'll win to-day with Whitethorn."

"Well," said the old man, "I'll tell you, Frank; it's this way 'bout Whitethorn; he'll win if he can beat Obadiah. The colt's ready and this weather suits him down to the ground. He surely does love to run in the slop. Only bad thing 'bout it, Engle and Weaver are both in that race, and since I trimmed that gang of pirates with Elisha they've had it in for me. Their jockeys act like somebody's told 'em there's an open season on my hosses. They bump that little nigger of mine every chance they get. Pretty near put him into the fence twice last week."

"Why don't you holler to the judges?"

"They haven't done any real damage, son. And here's another angle: these judges won't give a nigger any the best of it on a claim of foul agin a white boy. My Mose is the only darky rider here, and the other boys want to drive him out. Between Engle and his gang after me, and the jockeys after Mose, we got our hands full."

"I'll bet. Going to gamble any on Obadiah to-day?"

"If I like the price. None of the bookmakers here will ever die of enlargement of the heart. If Obadiah is shorter than three to one, he'll run for the purse alone. The hoss that beats him on a sloppy track will know that he's been going some."

It happened just beyond the half-mile pole, in a sudden flurry of wind and rain. The spectators, huddling under the grand-stand roof, saw the horses dimly as through a heavy mist. The colours were indistinguishable at the distance, drenched and sodden.

"Hello!" said the presiding judge, who had been wiping his field glasses. "One of 'em went down! What happened?"

"Don't know," replied the associate judge. "I was watching that thing in front--Whitethorn.... Yes, and that horse is hurt, Major.... The boy is all right, though. He's on his feet."

"It's Old Man Curry's horse," said the other. "Obadiah--and I sort of figured him the contender in this race, too.... The boy has got him.... Looks like a broken leg to me.... Too bad.... Better send an officer over there."

Before the judges knew that anything had happened a shabby, bearded old man in a rusty black frock coat dodged across the track from the paddock gate and splashed hurriedly through the infield. Old Man Curry never used binoculars; he had the eyes of an eagle.

"Been looking for it to happen every day!" he muttered. "And a right likely colt, too. The skunks! The miserable little skunks!"

Whitethorn, the winner of the race, was back in the ring and unsaddled before the old man reached the half-mile pole. Jockey Moseby Jones, plastered with mud from his bullet head to his boots, shaken and bruised but otherwise unhurt, clung to Obadiah's bridle.

"Now, honey, you jus' stan' still!" he was saying. "Jus' stan' still an' we git yo' laig fixed up in no time; no time a-a-a-tall."

The colt stood with drooping head, drumming on the ground with the crippled foreleg; from time to time the unfortunate animal shivered as with a violent chill. Old Man Curry knelt in the mud, but rose almost immediately; one glance at the broken leg was enough. He looked at the little negro.

"How did it happen, Mose?"

"Jockey Murphy done it, boss. He was on 'at thing of Weaver's."

"A-purpose?"

"Sutny he done it a-purpose. He cut in on us an' knocked us agin the rail. Come from 'way outside to do it."

Old Man Curry began to take the saddle off the colt. A tall man in a rubber coat, gum boots, and a uniform cap arrived on the scene, panting after his run from the grand stand. He looked at Obadiah's leg, sucked in his breath with a whistling sound more expressive than words, and faced Old Man Curry.

"Want the 'vet' to see him?" asked the newcomer.

"No use in him suffering that long," said the old man dully. "He's ruined. Might as well get it over with."

Jockey Moseby Jones wailed aloud.

"Oh, don' let 'em shoot Obadiah, boss!" he pleaded. "I'll take keer o' him; I'll set up nights 'ith him. Can't you splint it? Ain't there nothin' we kin do fo' him?"

"Only one thing, Mose," said Old Man Curry. "It's a kindness, I reckon." He passed the bridle to the uniformed stranger. "Don't be too long about it," said he.

The colt, gentle and obedient to the last, hobbled off the track toward a sheltering grove of trees near the upper turn. Custom decrees that the closing scene of a turf tragedy shall not be enacted within sight of the grand stand. Two very young stableboys followed at a distance.

"Run away, kids," said the tall man, fumbling at his hip pocket. "You don't want to see this."

Old Man Curry strode along the track, his shoulders squared, his face stern and his eyes blazing with the cold rage which sometimes overtakes a patient man. Little Mose trailed at his heels, whimpering and casting scared glances behind. After a time they heard the muffled report of a pistol.

"He's out of his misery, sonny," said the old man. "It's the best way--the best way--and now I want you to tell them judges just how it happened."

But Jockey Murphy had already told his story, ably seconded by his friends, Grogan and Merritt. These boys had been interviewed by racing judges before and, consequently, were not embarrassed.

"Judges--gentlemen," said Murphy, cap in hand--a vest-pocket edition of a horseman, freckled, blue-eyed, and bow-legged--"this was how it happened: That little nigger nearly spilled the whole bunch of us, tryin' to cut acrost to the rail goin' into the turn. We yelled at him, and he kind of lost his head--tried to yank his hoss around and down he went. Awful slippery over there, judges. I had to pull up with Fieldmouse, and couldn't get her to going again. She's a mean, skulking mare, and won't run a lick after she's been interfered with.... Who else saw it? Why, Merritt was right there somewheres, and so was Grogan. They're all that I'm sure of. You might ask 'em whether the nigger cut acrost or not. He's an awful reckless little kid, and he'll kill somebody yet if he ain't more careful."

Grogan and Merritt, called in support of this statement, perjured themselves like jockeys, and there was no conflicting note in the testimony. Mose, coming late, told his story, but the judges were swayed by the preponderance of evidence. It was three against one, and that one a very poor witness, for Mose was overawed by his surroundings and contradicted himself several times out of pure fright. In the end he was allowed to go with a solemn warning to be more careful in the future.

When this word was brought to Old Man Curry he lumbered heavily up the steps and into the judges' stand, where he refused a chair and delivered himself standing, the water dripping in tiny puddles from the skirt of his long black coat.

"Gentlemen," said he, "you're barking up the wrong tree. I've been expecting something like this ever since the meeting opened. My little boy can't ride a race 'thout interference from these rascals that take their orders from Engle and his bunch. They've tried a dozen times to put him over the fence, and now they've killed a good hoss for me. I ain't going to stand it. I----"

"But the other boys all say----"

"Great King!" interrupted the old man wrathfully. "Of course they do! Told you the same identical story, didn't they? Ain't that proof they're lying? Did you ever see three honest people that could agree when they was trying to tell the truth 'bout an accident? Did you?"

Quite naturally the judges were inclined to regard this as a reflection upon their official conduct. Old Man Curry was reprimanded for his temerity, and descended from the stand, his beard fairly bristling with righteous indignation. Little Mose followed him down the track toward the paddock; he had to trot to keep up with the old man's stride.

"Might have knowed they'd team up agin us," said the negro. "Them Irish jockeys had a story all cooked to tell."

Old Man Curry did not open his mouth until he reached his tack-room, and then it was only to stuff one cheek with fine-cut tobacco--his solace in times of stress. After reflection he spoke, dropping his words slowly, one by one.

"Weaver and Murphy and Engle.... It says in Ecclesiastes that a threefold cord is not easily broken, but I reckon it might be done, one cord at a time.... Well, Mose, they've made us take the medicine!"

"Sutny did!" chirped the little negro. "But they'll never git us to lick the spoon!"

The Bald-faced Kid often boasted that everybody's business was his business--a large contract on any race track of the Jungle Circuit. His stop watch told him what the horses were doing, and stableboys, bartenders, and waiters told him what their owners were doing, the latter vastly more important to the Kid. At all times he used his eyes, which were sharp as gimlets. Thus it happened that he was able to give Old Man Curry a bit of interesting information.

"Considering what these birds, Weaver and Murphy, did to you last week," said the Kid, "I don't suppose you'd fight a bulldog for 'em, or anything like that?"

"Eh? What bulldog?" Old Man Curry could never keep abreast of the vernacular.

"Getting down to cases," said the Kid, "you're laying for Weaver and Murphy, ain't you?"

"I ain't said so in that many words," was the cautious response.

"You ain't going to let 'em kill a good colt for you and get away with it, are you? Weaver was only in that race to take care of Obadiah. Eagle's gang was down hook, line, and sinker on Whitethorn, and they cleaned up. Obadiah was the one they was leery of, so Weaver put Fieldmouse in the race and told Murphy to take care of you. It's simple as A, B, C. Wouldn't you get back at 'em if you had a chance?"

"I ain't signed any peace documents as I know of," said the old man, a smouldering light in his eye.

"Now you're talking!" said the Kid. "If you want to catch Weaver and Murphy dead to rights, I can tell how to go about it."

"So do, Frank," said Old Man Curry. "So do. My ear is open to your cry."

"In the first place," said the Kid, lighting a cigarette, "I don't suppose you know that Weaver has been stealing weight off his horses ever since this meeting opened."

"With Parker, the clerk of the scales?" ejaculated the old man. "I've heard that couldn't be done."

The Bald-faced Kid chuckled.

"A smart owner can do anything," said he, "and Weaver's smart. At these other tracks, stealing weight off a horse is the king of indoor sports, and they mostly work it through a stand-in with the clerk of the scales; but you're right about this fellow Parker. He's on the level, and they can't get at him. A jock has got to weigh in and weigh out on the dot when Parker is on the job. He won't let 'em get by with the difference of an ounce."

"Then how----" began Old Man Curry.

"There you go, busting through the barrier! Weaver is pulling the wool over Parker's eyes. Now here's what I saw yesterday: Weaver had Exmoor in the third race, supposed to be carrying one hundred and ten pounds. Jock Murphy ain't much bigger'n a rabbit--tack and all, he won't weigh ninety-five. That would make, say, fifteen pounds of lead in the weight pad. Murphy got on the scales and was checked out of the jock's room at one hundred and ten, all square enough, but when Weaver saddled Exmoor he left the weight pad off him entirely--slipped it to that big nigger swipe of his--Chicken Liver Pete, they call him."

"I know him," said Old Man Curry.

"Everybody knows him," said the Kid. "Well, Chicken Liver put the weight pad under the blanket that he was carrying to throw over the horse after the race. Exmoor won yesterday, but he didn't carry an ounce of lead."

"But how did Murphy make the weight after he finished?" demanded the old man.

"Easiest thing in the world!" said the Kid. "While Murphy was unsaddling the horse, Chicken Liver was right at his elbow, and both of 'em had their backs to the judges. It looked natural enough for the nigger to be there--waiting to blanket the horse the minute the saddle came off of him. All Murphy had to do was grab under the blanket with one hand while he jerked the saddle off the horse with the other--and there he was, ready to weigh one hundred and ten. I'll bet those two fellows have rehearsed that switch a thousand times. They pulled it off so slick that if I hadn't been watching for it I could have been looking right at 'em and never noticed it. And the judges didn't have the chance that I did, because they couldn't see anything but their backs. Murphy pranced in, hopped on the scales, got the O. K., and that was all there was to it. Pretty little scheme, ain't it? And so darned simple!"

Old Man Curry combed his beard with both hands--with him a sign of deep thought.

"Frank," said he at length, "where does this Chicken Liver nigger go while the race is being run?"

"Across the track to the infield. That was where he went yesterday. I was watching him."

"The infield.... Hm-m-m.... Thank you, Frank."

"You could tip it off to the judges," suggested the Kid, "and they'd have Chicken Liver searched. Like as not they'd rule Weaver off for life and set Murphy down----"

"There's a better way than searching that nigger," said Old Man Curry.

"You'll have to show me!"

"Son," said the aged owner, "according to Solomon--and, oh, what a racing judge he would have made!--'he that hath knowledge spareth his words.' I'm sparing mine for the present, but that won't keep me from doing a heap of thinking.... Engle, Weaver, and Murphy.... Maybe I can bust two of these cords at once--and fray the other one a little."

Four men sat under the lantern in Martin O'Connor's tack-room on a Wednesday night. They spoke in low tones, for they were engaged in running the fourth race on Thursday's programme.

"I've let it be known in a few places where it'll do the most good that the mare can't pack a hundred and fifteen pounds and win at a mile." This was Weaver speaking, a small, wiry man with a drooping moustache. "You know how talk gets around on a race track--tell the right man and you might as well rent the front page of the morning paper. As a matter of fact, Fieldmouse can't pack that weight and win."

"That's the way the form students will dope it out," said Al Engle, otherwise the Sharpshooter, the smiling, youthful, gold-toothed blond who directed the campaigns and dictated the policy of the turf pirates. "That much weight will stop most of 'em, but let her in there under ninety pounds and Fieldmouse is a cinch. That little sleight-of-hand stunt between Murphy and your nigger is working fine. They not only put it over on the judges, but none of the other owners are wise. I'd try it myself some day if I wasn't afraid somebody would fumble and give the snap away."

"Huh!" growled the saturnine O'Connor. "Needn't worry about tipping anything off to them judges. They're both blind. Here's what bothers me: Old Man Curry is in that same race with Isaiah."

"Well, what of that?" said Engle. "That old fool is all same as a nightmare to you, ain't he?"

"Call him a fool if you want to," was the stubborn rejoinder, "but he made an awful sucker out of you with that trick horse of his. An awful sucker. If Old Man Curry is a fool, there's a lot of wise people locked up in the bug houses. That's all I've got to say!"

"He's had your goat ever since the meeting opened," grinned the Sharpshooter.

"That's all right," said O'Connor. "That's a whole lot better than my buying a goat from him--for a thousand dollars." This by way of reminding the Sharpshooter of something which he preferred to forget. Engle reddened.

"Aw, what's the good of chewing the fat?" interrupted the fourth man briskly. This was Ab Mears, of whom it was said that he trained his horses to look into the betting ring on their way to the post and to run in accordance with the figures they saw upon the bookmakers' slates. "Let's not have any arguments, boys. All little pals together, eh?... Now, getting down to business, as the fellow said when he was digging the well, Isaiah is a pretty shifty old selling plater when he's at himself; but you know and I know that the best day he ever saw he couldn't beat Fieldmouse at a mile with a feather on her back. She'll walk home alone. The most Isaiah can do is to come second----"

"He'll be lucky if he does that well," interrupted Engle. "The mare will be in front of him all the way.... Same old stuff; wait for the closing betting. Weaver, you keep on hollering your head off about the weight; it'll scare the outsiders and they won't play her. Then, at the last minute, cut loose and load up the books with all they'll take."

"Just the same," muttered O'Connor, "I'd feel a lot more comfortable if Curry wasn't in the race. That old boy is poison, that's what he is. The last couple of times----"

"Oh, shut up!" rasped Engle. "Elisha was the horse he trimmed us with--Elisha! Get that through your head. This is Isaiah. There's as much difference in horses as there is in prophets. What you need is one of those portable Japanese foot warmers."

The paddock is the place to go for information, particularly after the saddling bell rings. The owners are usually on exhibition at that time. Nearly every owner will answer a civil question about his horse; once in a great while one of them may answer truthfully. In this particular race we are concerned with but two owners, one of whom told the truth.

Weaver, rat-eyed and furtive, answered all questions freely--almost too freely.

"Ye-es, she's a right nice little mare, but they've weighted her out of it to-day. She can't pack a hundred and fifteen and win.... That much lead will stop a stake horse. Better stay off her to-day. Some other time."

Old Man Curry, grave and polite, also answered questions.

"Isaiah? Oh, yes. Well, now, sir, I'll tell you 'bout this hoss of mine. I figure he's got a stavin' good chance to come second--a stavin' good chance.... No, he won't be first."

Just before the bugle blew, Mose received his riding orders.

"If that mare of Weaver's gets away in front, don't you start chasing her. No use in running Isaiah's head off trying to ketch her. I want you to finish second, understand? Isaiah can beat all these other hosses. Don't pay no 'tention to the mare. Let her go."

Little Mose nodded.

"'At Fieldmouse is sutny a goin' fool when 'ey bet stable money on huh," said he. "Let 'at ole mare go, eh?"

"Exackly," said the old man, "but be sure you beat the rest of 'em."

"Fieldmouse an' Murphy," said Mose. "Huh-uh! 'At's a bad combination fo' us, boss, a ba-ad combination. 'Membeh Obadiah?"

The Bald-faced Kid strolled into Isaiah's stall.

"Chicken Liver's got it," he whispered. "I saw Weaver pass it to him."

"That's what I've been waiting for, Frank," said Old Man Curry. "Here, Shanghai! You lead him out on the track. I've got business with the children of Israel."

The Fieldmouse money was beginning to pour into the ring, and the block men were busy with their erasers. Each time the mare's price went down, Isaiah's price went up a little. Old Man Curry drew out a tattered roll of currency and went from booth to booth, betting on his horse at four to one.

"Think you've got a chance to-day, old man?" It was the Sharpshooter, smiling like a cherub.

"Well, now," said Curry, "I'll tell you 'bout me; I'm always trying, so I've always got a chance. Looks like the weight ought to stop the mare."

"That's so," said Engle. "Betting much?"

"Quite considerable for me, yes. Isaiah ain't a trick hoss, but he----"

"Oh, you go to the devil!" said Engle.

But Old Man Curry crossed the track instead. His first care was to locate the negro known as Chicken Liver; this done, he watched the start of the race. Nine horses were lined up at the barrier, and at least six of the jockeys were manoeuvring for a flying start. The official starter, a thick-set man with a long twisted nose, bellowed loudly from time to time.

"No! No! You can't break that way!... You, Murphy! I'll fine you in a minute!... Get back there, Grogan! What did I tell you, Murphy?... Bring that horse up slow! Bring him up! No! No! You can't break that way!"

Isaiah stood perfectly still in the middle of the track; on either side of him the nervous animals charged at the barrier or whirled away from it in sudden, wild dashes. The starter's voice grew husky and his temper hot, but at last the horses were all headed in the right direction, if only for the fraction of a second. Jockey Murphy, scenting a start, had Fieldmouse in motion even as the elastic webbing shot into the air; she was in her racing stride as the starter's voice blared out:

"You're off! Go on! Go on!"

The mare, always a quick breaker, rushed into the lead, Murphy taking her on an easy slant to the inner rail. Isaiah, swinging a bit wide on the first turn, settled down to work, and at the half-mile pole was leading the pursuit, taking the dust which Fieldmouse kicked up five lengths in front.

Chicken Liver, watching Murphy skim the rail into the home stretch, shuffled his feet in an ecstasy of exultation.

"Come home, baby!" he shouted. "Come 'long home! You de bes' li'l ole hawss--uh!"

Something small and hard jammed violently into the pit of Chicken Liver's stomach, and his song of victory ended in an amazed grunt. Old Man Curry was glaring at him and pressing the muzzle of a forty-five-calibre revolver against the exact spot where the third button of Chicken Liver's vest would have been had he owned such a garment.

"Drop that weight pad, nigger, or I'll blow you inside out! Drop it!"

Chicken Liver leaped backward with a howl of terror. The next instant he was well on his way to the Weaver barn, supplication floating over his shoulder.

"Don't shoot, misteh! Fo' de Lawd's sake, don't shoot!"

Old Man Curry picked up the weight pad and started for the gate. He arrived in time to see the smile on Murphy's face as he swung under the wire, three lengths in front of Isaiah, the other horses trailing far in the rear. Murphy was still smiling broadly when he brought Fieldmouse back into the chalked circle, a privileged space reserved for winners.

"Judges!" piped the jockey shrilly, touching the visor of his cap with his whip. Receiving the customary nod, Murphy slid to the ground and attacked the cinch. It was then that Chicken Liver should have stepped forward with his blanket--then that the deft transfer should have taken place, but Chicken Liver, where was he? Murphy's anxious eyes travelled around the wide circle of owners and hostlers, and his smile faded into a nervous grin.

Now, after each race a few thousand impatient people must wait for the official announcement--the one, two, three, without which no tickets can be cashed--and the official announcement must wait upon the weighing of the riders. For this reason no time is wasted in the ceremony.

"Hurry up, son," said the presiding judge. "We're waiting on you."

Murphy fumbled with the strap, playing desperately for time. As he tugged, his eyes were searching for the missing negro. He caught one glimpse of Weaver's face, yellow where it was not white; he, too, was raking the horizon for Chicken Liver.

"What's the matter with you, Murphy?" demanded the judge. "Do you want help with that tack?"

"No, sir," faltered the jockey. "Th-this thing sticks somehow. I'll git it in a minute. I----"

Old Man Curry marched through the ring and up the steps to the platform of the judges' stand, and when Weaver saw what he carried in his hand he became a very sick man indeed--and looked it. Al Engle backed away into the crowd and Martin O'Connor followed him, mumbling incoherently.

"Maybe this is what Murphy is waiting for, judges," said Old Man Curry with marked cheerfulness. "Maybe he don't want to git on the scales without it."

"Eh?" said the presiding judge. "What is that?"

"Looks like a weight pad to me," said Old Man Curry, "with quite a mess of lead in it. Yes, it is a weight pad."

"Where did you get it?"

"Well," said the old man, "I'll tell you 'bout that: Weaver's nigger had it smuggled under a blanket, but he dropped it and I picked it up. Maybe Weaver thought the nigger was a better weight packer than the mare. I don't know. Maybe----"

"Young man," commanded the presiding judge, "that'll do you. Take your tackle and get on the scales. Lively now!"

Murphy cast one despairing glance about him and slouched to his undoing. The judge, weight pad in hand, followed him into the weighing room underneath the stand. He was back again almost instantly, and his voice had an angry ring.

"Change those numbers!" said he. "The mare is disqualified. Isaiah, first; Rainbow, second; put the fourth horse third. Mr. Weaver, come up here, sir! And where's that nigger? I want him too. Murphy, I'll see you later.... Don't go away, Mr. Curry. I need you."

"That's what I call getting hunk with a vengeance, old-timer." Thus the Bald-faced Kid, at the door of Old Man Curry's tack-room. "You cleaned up right, didn't you? Weaver's ruled off for life, and his horses with him--he can't even sell 'em to another stable. Murphy's lost his license. Chicken Liver's out of a job. Engle and his bunch are in the clear, but they lost a lot of money on the mare. Regular old blunderbuss, ain't you? Didn't miss anybody."

"Son," said Old Man Curry, removing his spectacles, "Solomon had it right. He says: 'Whoso diggeth a pit shall fall therein.' Weaver dug one big enough to hold his entire stable. And that reminds me: I bet fifty dollars for you to-day, and here's the two hundred. Run it up if you can, but remember what Solomon says about that: 'He that maketh haste to be rich shall not be innocent.'"

"I'll take a chance," said the Bald-faced Kid, reaching for the money.

[The end]
Charles E. Van Loan's short story: Playing Even For Obadiah

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