THE BADGE HORSE.

Waikato Times, Volume 87, Issue 13269, 26 August 1916, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE BADGE HORSE.

(By Charles E. Van Loan.)

"It's not the slightest use in the world, Kelly. 1 don't believe this soreness will ever yield to treatment, It would be a crime to race the mare again." Thus spoke the veterinary alter a long and careful examination. Tha verdict was not an unexpected one; but Mike Kelly bugged at his fiery moustache and sighed: "All stave up, eh, doc?" 'Terribly! You might start her once or twice more, but you would have to use cocaine on her feet to deaden tho pain." "Cocaine is no good!'' growled the horseman. "I've tried it —tried everything. . . . Could she pull a light wagon, d'ye think?" The veterinary shook his head. Ho was a young man, and positive in his

opinions. "How long do you think those sore frogs would hist on asphalt and cobblestones?" said he.

"Not long, doc; but in the country—• where the roads is soft —could she earn her keep?"

"Do you want to see this mare hitched up to a peddler's wagon?" demanded the votcrinarv.

"Lord, no!" ejaculated Kelly. "I'd rather do the other thing." "That's sensible. Better have her destroyed and save the cost of her feed." "1 hate to have her shot, doc.'' "lt> better than her suffer like this. She's a line-looking animal, isn't slier" "She is that; an' in her three-year-old form they had all to step to bea I '. her. Fifteen hundred she cost me—■ and now look at her!" "Too bad!" said tho veterinary, preparing to depart. "If you want mo to 'tend to that lil'le thin" lor veil I'll send a man over to take her away." "1 wish yo would," answered Kellv. "I guess it's best at that Well. Sailor Girl, ye heard what lie said, eh - ; ' The condemned mare cuddled her soft nose on Kelly's shoulder and blew mis. tily in his ear. "Ah, quit it now! Quit it!'' scolded the horseman. "Trying" to act round me like that, and me feolin' like i Iflfldk murderer anyway! Old girl, it 1 only had a bank roll ye'd be shipped 1o pnstnn-o up in Xapa Country, an' stav there till ye died of soft livin' an' o'd age. 1 might hand yo over to a peddler, but that would be no kindness—••nything is better than bein mishandled by an ignorant brute that thinks ,i horse is only a machine. Ye'd 12:0 dead lame, Sailor Girl, an' all he'd know would be to use the whip. When ye couldn't drag yourself any farther, he'd. jerk the harness off ye an' leave ye to starve by the side of the mad 1/ord knows 1 wish f could keep ye; but with a feed bill tearim the liver and lights out of me. an' them buck shins and sore foot uchin' all the time —ah, quit, I say! Don't make me feel aivv worse!" At this moment Fate sent a quiel I'ttle "T"\- man round the corner of the Kelly barn. The stranger was in a. worn suit ef tweeds, which had once Ik'ch of fashionable cut, now hopelessly out of style. His patched shoes were carefully oolished-, his frayed linen crisp and snot less, and the g<:i - - coons but. slightly threadbare Ascot tie mas skewered with a tiny <*old pin. sural! enough to escape the notice of a pawnbroker.

a pawnbroker. Everything about the little grey man bore the Mii/'rostion ol f*ot r«>»- davs; from top to toe ho was a faded oicture of former prosperity, a shabby-genteel, middle-aged faiihiTc. A student of human nature might have gu ossr( | him a book-keeper, forced l>v financial reverses to oarn a lmre living by skill with a oon or accuracy at columns of figure', totalling another man's bank balance where once lie totalled his own. As In his past, tli.' aforesaid student "mid have guessed and guessed and guessed again, without once approaching the truth. 'Hello. PTntiger!'' said Kelly. "How's things?'' ''So-so!" answered the little grey mair. "How are they with you?" 'Tough," said the. horseman, "and gettin' tougher. The vet tells me ! better liavo Sailor Girl shot." ''Sailor Girl?" The newcomer paused to think. "Mose Levitio had her once, didn't he 0 Seems to me I remember her winning a few races." "Yes; and I.evine sold lier to me lor fifteen Tinnilred—when he knew she was about done. She's been get tin' worse ever since, an' now ■die's all crippled up— soreness in the fix>gs, an' buck bhins. Can't run a lick !" The quiet little man walked over and laid, his hand on Sailor Girl's neck. The mare turned her liead and allowed him to stroke her nose. "She's that kind tin" gentle it fair breaks my heart, to think of havin 1 her shot." said Kelly nioitrufullv. "Don't shoot her." said t.be little man. "G i\ o '•"'■ *o me." "What would you do with her? She ain't any good." "Never mind that. Give her to mo." "Slio ain't worth what it would cost

to Keep her

"Sho would he to mo." "Oho!" ejaculated Kelly. "Why didn't I thinlk of that before'-* It's 1 had"o horse ye're afther. eh, Plunifor 0 " "Exactly—a Imdge horse. She'll save tho admission fees during the nieetinq—audi that's something." "Rut she's snftVrin' so with her foot —-all four ol" 'em as sore as boils. Bv good rigJutfi sb'i ought to be put out of her misery." 'That can be done without shooting ho>- " Kelly throw up both hands. "I've tried overvthing. Ye may s< ifthe soreness out for a while, but work her just once and back it comet;, worse than ever. She'll never race a^am — tak'» my woixl for it!" "I don't want a racehorse." said the little vr« v man. "I want a badge horse —anything on four legs that will ! r et me an owner's badge. In return for that Til' see if 1 can't make her comfortable.'' "Then the mare's yours, an' welcome, baid Kelly. "It's a load off me mind All, look at her makin 1 up bo ye already! D'ye know, it wouldn't surprise mo if she understood what we've been talk in' about! She's tho smart one! See—she won't have anything to do with me; ait' before you come along she was snuggling up to me like a child! Ye'll get along fine together—an' I wish ye luck with them sore feet."

In this manner the crippled mare Sailor Girl came into the possession of William! Kennedy, otherwise Plunger Kennedy, commonly called Plunger.

In the days when the tweed suit and the Ascot tie were new Plunger Kennedy was a prominent figure in Western racing circles. Rumor insisted that has sky-rocket turf careen- had been founded on a solitary ten-dollar note, luckily invested at odd's of 40 t<> 1. Whatever his beginnings, the Plunger was soon a ma-rUceldl man, and his subsequent history was boldly written on the bookmakers' sheets —a series of amazing master stroke®, delivered in rapid succession. His sensational raids on the strong boves of the Knights or the Chalk furnished spicy gossip for the habitues of .the betting ring and fired trie imagination of such as read' 'the Sunday supplements. Plunger Kennedy became the man of the hour. Reporters interviewed him, much to his acute embarrassment; and because he could not or would not ro- » veal his foraula for beating an unbeatable game, and preferred to give short answers to impertinent questions, they christened him the Man of Mystery and the Silent Scourge of -the Betting Ring. Almost amy man with sense enough to keep his saouiSt shot may become a man

I atom, of humanity who played the game las he had learned it, preferred his bread battered an both sides, and listened to reason when it whispered to I him through yellow-backed messengers. Kennedy owned some fairly good horses, but from the very first appearance of his colors on the track ill-luck pursued them. After a season of crushing reverses the Plunger found himselt where he had started, minus the mythical ten-doltlar note. The bookmakers had stripped him of everything but the clothes which he had bought in his prosperous days; the man of the hour had attempted to defeat the clock, with the usual result. After his horses had 1 been sold at auc. I turn in the paddock and the proceeds turned over to his creditors, the Plunger learned something that he might have guessed months before—the man who had been buttering the other side of Jockey Reagan's daily .bread was Moso Levine, the bookmaker. Now, it is one thing to make a statement of fact; it is distinctly another thing to prove that statement against perjured testimony. Kennedy recognised the hopelessness of his position and swallowed his medicine in silence.

Moso Levmo had corrupted his jockey—if one may spoil an addled ej&k; but there was no recourse, no remedy, and tho man who had won without boasting lost without complaining. He was enough of a philosopher to realise that easy money has no home, unless a savings account clips its wings. For years the Plunger had haunted the scenes of his former successes, drifting in and out of paddock and betting s riiifj; like a grey ghost, an object of curiosity to the newer crop of racegoers, a joke to the bookmakers. Occasionally he risked a dollar or two where once lie had wagered thousands, and the sleek, heavy-jowled gentlemen of the block never failed to laugh lotidly and ask tho same question: "Trying to get another start, Plun-

Because he never answered them or paid the slightest attention to their witticisms. the bookmakers believed that Kennedy was a bit touched iu the head. Nobody knew where or how he lived; nobody seemed to (are. His comings and goings had long since ceased to interest men of the Mose Levine typo; for the luckiest man in the world, when broke, is harmless. It was even said that the Plunger, pro. sirming on his past reputation, had descended to touting, which is an extremely low form of passing the hat. It may have been true, for a man must live. Kennedy was down to his last suit of clothes when Mike Kelly made him a present of the badge horse —down to his last suit, his laded racing colors, and a yellow sheaf of newspajHT clippings. The news that the Plunger was again an owner created a ripple ot

merriment in the betting ling- Mose 1/evme, the bookmaker, spoke for Ins kind, briefly as follows:

"A hopeless cripple and a busted old has-been! A fine pair to draw to."

Weeks later Mike Kelly met the Plunger iu the paddock at the Oakland track ami shook hands with him. The latter viHi' his ouner's badge in the lapel of his coat, but otherwise his appearance was unchanged'. He was still the same neat little litest of better days. "Well." said Kelly, "an' how is it with ve?

"I see daylight ahead," answered the Hunger with a smile. ."Good news! I'm glad somebody is nicking up a bit. c-'on if it ain't me. Ye're not stablin' here at the track!* 'No. The mare is over at Milt C'i!si< Ic'hi livery barn."

"That place nut cm the Alameda marshes, eh? Why a man ever built on that mud flat i> niorn'n 1 know!"

"It's more than a lot of people know." was the response. "Kellv, have you got rime to look at a miracle?'' "I've got tiothin' else. Plunger—nothin' else. Time an' a feed bill as long as me arm. ft's lmntin' miracles I am these days; an' if I don't find one soon I'll be ruined cotmolotcly. A\hored'y<> keep this miracle, eh?" "Over at Ou sack's place." "Holy Moses! Ye surely don't mean the march'.' - Kennedy nodded. "Yo mean that her condition is im)>t oved —is that it ?" "So much improved that Cusack wants me to start her before very lone." "Then Cusack is as crazy a loon! Didn't. I warn ye that the first time ye -work her the soreness will come back? One gallop an' .die"ll be nil stove up regain." "You said that—yes." nas the calm reply; "but, as a matter of fact the maro lias been workint* for a week now without a sign of lameness. You couldn't tell that anything had ever been the matter with her." "Saints preserve us! Workin' a week, ye say Where." "You know that half-mile track out on the marsh?" "The same that used to be a gentlemen's ridin' and drivin' club?" "That's the place." "A week!" ejaculated Kelly. "Of course the turf over there would be soft and snringy: but with them feet I'd swear Sailor Girl couldn't gallop on a feather bed without bungin' herself fl.l! to pieces!"

"You remember T said it was a miracle." "Man alive, what treatment did ye use' J What, did ye do to her?'' "Nothing much. Nature did a great deal, though." "Now. see here, Plunger; T m a violent man when Tin roused, an' ye exasperate me with your imitation of a clam. Deal in miracles if ye must, hut rut out the conundrums. Comin' right down to cases, what have ve done for the mare that die's able to work again!" , "I'M tell von. You said von cmudn t understand whv Cusack built his stables on that mud flat."

"Ritrht oh! Go on. Plunger." "Well, Cusack located there because he discovered, by accident, that the blue marsh mud'is the greatest stuff in the world to draw fever and mflam. roation out of a horse's feet and shins. '

"Yo don't meant it!" "Certainlv I mean it. That blue mud is a natural poultice. Kelly, containing—or—certain curative properties. Go over there any day and you'll find a few cripples bogged down to their knees in the corral behind the barn. Ten days or two weeks in the mud ihey co home again as good l as. new." ""The sufferin' RHieoea! . . . It -nay help 'em all right, brat does it last?" "It will test long enough to set one race out of the mare. Cusack is so .positive of it that he is willing to bet his last dollar and slap a mortjgage on the property. Don't take my word for it, Kelly. Come over and see the mare work." "The first thing in the momtn'!; said the horseman. "Why, man, if we send Sailor Girl back to the races an' make her win her first start, we can kick the everlastin' daylights out of a guy that I've been layin' for these manv moons!" "Mose Levine?" said the 1 Plunger. "Perhaps I never mentioned it, but I have an open account with that man myself. Onlv one thing worries me." '"Am' what might that be?" "The books might post a short price on a hicirse running in my name and carrying my colors. It would be only natural." ~. , ... Mike Kefy bubbled over with thoughtless mdrtlh. „V ~ , "They'd treat it as a joke!" saw be. Thfl little grey man frowned. "Please remember," said he, sneaking with dignity, "that they did not treat me as a Joke a few years ago. At least, that is nxv impression. If they dad, it was not the sort of w>ke they could afford to laugfet afc /Ibey seemed to be afraid ofgs* ifc^^

remember the <Ad ballad, it is not what yo usedl to be; it's wihat ye are today!' By golly, there's a lot of truth in it. Suppose ou went bulgin 1 ' into that bettin' ring, oarryin' a bank roll an' breathin' defiance from both nostrils. They wouldn't run away an' hide. Mo; they'd fight each other for first chance at ye." Plunger Kennedy bowed stiffly. "Your opinion is your opinion-," said he with freezing politeness. "1 am indebted to you, sir, for the mare; but if she runs it will bo in the name of the Kennedy Stables. She will carry my racing colors—l—l still have them. 1 expect to retire from the turf after this clean-up and 1 must insist that th-; financial details be left to my iud°ment." J 3 "

J Daffy «s a plullyloo-biird," thought . y; „ ut ni J ust Jmraor him along Then, aloud: 'Why, sure, it's your little circus; run it to suit yourself. IV o offence was- nieanit, none at all, I do assure ye." "Then, &ir, no offence is taken." An' that's all right," K iid Kellv. Ihe main thing is to be satisfied tint tiie mare can run three-quarters on a hard track without hreakiu' down. If her feet'll stand it, an' she's only half as good as she used to be, Ousack ain't the only man that'll mortgage his last stick to bet on her."

Ihe betting arrangement must be lett to me, ' insisted Kennedy. "A singly false stop would ruin tlie price Ihe problem is to place a large sum of money without disturbing the price. I believe it can be done." Kelly scratched his head, lost in thought.

"I don't get you, Plunger," said he at length "I've seen that same stunt tried a million times; but it didn't work Bookmakers won't leave a long price up there for you to shoot monev at. . But no matter. I'll take vo'ur word for it. Shall I bring little Johnny Dugan with me to-morrow? He's not only a good jock but he wears a silent tongue inside his face The mare knows him too. '

"If you can depend on him to keep •us mouth shut, yes. . . . What are vou laughing at, Kelly?"

"I was just havin' a mental flashlight of Mose Levme's big fat face while he watches old Sailor Girl rolliu' home! It we slip this one over him, Mose will have to bury his head in the Alameda Marsh, it'll be that full of aches and pains!"

"Let us hope that his strong box will be empty." said the Plunger with the manner of one offering a toast. "Amen to that!" said Kelly fervent-

Reformers, and others imperfectly infornied. prefer to believe that after the hist race of the day the bookmaker devotes himself exclusively to wine, women and song, taking no thought for the morrow. Nothing could bo wider of the truth, The bookmaker strives earnestly to lie twenty-four hours ahead of the calendar.

The overnight entry slip is his evening diversion; and a complicated one it is—so many owners, so many jockeys, so many horses, and each man. boy and beast present* a separate problem. Some things the bookmaker knows: some tilings he suspects; and other things he fears. As he studies the overnight entry slip hundreds of other men are studying theirs, with an eye to protit at the bookmaker's expense. It behooves him to leave little or nothing to chance.

In his room at the old Palace Hotel, Mose Lcvine was warming his fat-stock-inged toot at an open tire and chuckling over tin- card for the next day.

"Look who's with ns again!" he wheezed to Cae»ar (Joldmark, his assistant. "Sailor Girl and the Kennedy stables! Well, well! Plunger must be afraid they'll rake his owner's badge away; so he's starting his cripple!" "Wonder it' there'll he a play on her? I he pikers always used to unbelt every tmtfo Kennedy started a horse, voti know," said Goldnmrk.

"I hope they unbelt on this one!" grunted Levine. "She was no good when I got rid of her two years ago and it took Kelly all this time to find it out. Young Davis, the vet. told me he had advised Kelly to have her shot; and he would have done it, only Kennedy came along and begged her for a badge horse. Now he's going to start her. She won't get to the half-mile pole!" "I don't suppose Kennedy has got a nickel,'' said Goldmai'k. "And hasn't had for years." said Levine. "He's a dead bird in the pit. No use paying any attention to him. He's bad all the luck that was coming to him. How do you figure that handicap tomorrow, Caesar? It looks like a close race to nie." While Caesar was figuring the handicap, three men were doing some figuring of their own in Kelly's shack across the the bay. By the light of a lantern Plunger Kennedy was counting a thick roll of bills and checking a series of totals on the back of an envelope. "I make it an even thirty-two hundred dollars," he announced. "Too bad we couldn't raise more." "I didn't notice that ye raised any," muttered Mike Kelly.

"I furnish tho horse and the long price." said Kennedy, stuffing tho money into an inside pocket. "And the brain," lie added as an afterthought. Milt Cus:aek nodded. He was a tall, ungainly .specimen of countrified humanity with mild blue eyes and a receding chin. To Cusack, Plunger Kennedy was still a great man and an oracle.

"They will be watching me like so many hawks to-morrow," confined the little man : "but, beginning at daylight, all they will see is that I am working on the mare's feet and legs. I expect to work on them up to the last minute — until she starts for the post." "Then how can ye be in the- bet-tin' ring." demanded Kelly, "arrangin' for this long price ye speak of so confidentlv:;"

"I am not going near the betting ring," was the quiet answer.

"H-m-m-m! Well as one of tho high contractin' parties I'd appreciate a hint as to what ye intend to do." "That would be hreaking our agreement, Kelly. Y'ou have seen that the mare is in shape to win on a hard track, and both of you have agreed to leave the financial arrangements in my hands. The placing of the money will be a delicate operation. It calls for finesse —" "It calls for more than that," interrupted Kelly. "Listen now: In the first place ,it's a race for non-winners since the Lord knows when —bad horses, all of 'em. There won't be a pronounced favorite —nothin' that sticks out of the bunch. "The bookies will wait for the money to show up; an' when they see what's being played they will make the odds accordingly. Am- I right?" "Absolutely." "Well, then," said Kelly, "if ye send bettin' commissioners into the ring with all this dough they'll cut the mare to odds-on, cripple though she may be. It's too much money to bet on a lame horse. A hundred-dollar note could make any dog in the bunch favorite, an' ye know it; yet ye give us a song an' dance about getfcin' it all on —at a price. How do ye figure it?" "That," said the Plunger, "is my business." "I'm in favor of letting him alone," said Cusack. "He put it over before. He can do it again. Let him alone." "I guarantee the horse and L-maran-tee the price," said Kennedy. "That ought to be enough." "It's plenty for me," said Cusack."But my stable is in hock!" expostulated Kdly. V "So is mine; but it won't be in hock long if we keep our hands off and leb him run things." . - /■ Kelly subsided, grumbling, and the Plunger rote, buttoned his coat carefully above the botee caused by the roll of bills, and bade lus friends good-mgbt. There wu someUuoff •]*»<** J**nrty in

store; in other words, one bookmaker whose prices serve as a model for the smaller fry. Mose Levine operated the Big Store at the Oakland Track, and his heavy underlip curled in a contemptuous sneer as he tacked up the card of entries for the second race. "Dogs— every last on© of 'em!" said he reaching for his chalk. Levine was in no hurry to post the opening odds. He knew that the other block men waited for his figures and. that the racetrack regulars watched him and it was his moment in the limelight, which he always made th*» most of. With insulting deliberation he began to chalk up the price, a pause between oach one. Granada Boy, 4 to 1; Golden Dream, 10 to 1; Baldy Parker, 25 to 1. Here he stopped to receive a whispered report from one of his "outside men"— in this case from his paddock expert. "The stable money will be bet on Granada Boy to-day, there's a hot tip out 011 Baldy Parker across tho board, and Kennedy has got Sailor Girl in the paddock already, working on her feet." "Working how " "Well, when she came in she was all bandaged up, with pads of cotton packed into her hoofs. Kennedy is pickin' out the cotton now." "Cotton pads, eh:' Soaked in dope, most likely. Kelly tried that a couple of times, but it didn't work. Have vou found out if they've been working 'botany where?" . "All I know is that they've had her in a barn outside the track." Levine cut Granada Bov to 6 to 2 and chalked up a price of 15 to 1 on Sailor Girl. While he was filling the rest of his slate there was a wild commotion on the outside of the betting ring. Hoarse voices were heard uplifted in song; and Levine turning, saw a group of sailors lurching through the crowd, their Hat blue caps bobbing and their bronzed faces reflecting the high shine of a perfect day ashore. With them was a petty officer, who had evidently not been celebrating so extensively as his fellows.

On tremendous bluejacket acted as pilot—a broad-shouldered, deep-chested, bull voiced Swede; and as he elbowed his way through the crowd his pale blue eyes fell on Mose Levine's slate. He halted and began to spell out the names "Granada Boy; Golden Dream ; Baldy Parker—maybe that bane little Vim Parker on the Charlestown, eh? Sailor Girl—hey. fallers, look! A horse named Sailor Girl bane goin' to run to-day!'' "Ay got a hunch a sailor boy can win if he bet on Sailor Girl!" He forced his way to Levine's stand, where he paused, swaying slightly. Mister, that Sailor' Girl—she 'got a chance!-'" "Want to bet on her?" "Ay, have a look-see." The Swede took oft' his flat cap and peered into the crown. It contained a package, of cigarettes, a corkscrew and a small roll of bills. Removing the currency the sailor carefully replaced his cap over one eye and began to count his money. Levine noted with itching interest that the bills were of large denominations—twenties and tens. "We yust got back from a long cruise an' don't draw our pay till Ive get home. Ay got no small change mister." "Bet whatever you like," .said Mose Levine. "What do you think this is?— a dollar book. ?" "Ay bet. you twenty on Sailor Girl," smiled the Swede, tiying to fix Levine with a vacant stare. Ho peeled off a note and offered it to the bookmaker. "Sailor Gil to win. three hundred to twenty!" chanted Levine. "Here's your ticket!" The Swede eyed the pasteboard stupidly.

"Von keep that," explained Levine, "and if Sailor Girl wins come back here and I'll give you three hundred and twenty dollars for it." The Swede studied for a moment, his lips moving silently; then his voice rose in a mighty roar: "Hey, fallcrs, look here!" The other sailors crowded round him, exclaiming and gesticulating as they examined the figures on the ticket. The petty officer took some part in the discussion— Levine heard him remonstrating with the rank and file and urging caution—but he was soon shouldered out of the circle and made save his authority until afloat. Immediately the space in front of Levine's block was jammed with bareheaded sailors, fumbling in their caps and filling the air with maudlin demands for tickets on Sailor Girl to win:

"Here matey! Take mine!" "Shay, who'sk crowdin' me? Lemme 'lone!" "Port your helm, you lubber! Port your helm!" "One at a time, gentlemen; one at a time," grinned Lcvine. "No hurry." Meanwhile the other block men, scenting soft money, endeavoured to attract the attention of the bluejackets. "Ship, ahoy!" "Say, bring some of that monev over here!"

"Don't spend it all in one place!" The sailors lingered with Levine until the last man had stowed a pastehoard away in his cap, and then the sheet and ticket writers had a breathing spell while the tars held another noisy consultation. At the end of it the Swede again presented himself, smiling a loose and wheedling smile. "Mister," said he, "we bet you once oil round ; hut—'ic—maybe Ave like to bet you sbme more, just for luck." "You don't see anybody holding you, do you?" asked Levine. "Fallers, he says he don't care!" bawled the Swede. Again Levine was mobbed by eager investors, some of whom insisted on betting three or four times. Tho other block men barked in vain until one of them chalked up odds of 20 to 1 on Sailor Girl, when there was a wild rush and a transfer of patronage. Iu the lull the sheet-writer tugged at Leviue's sleeve. "We're loaded for bear on Sailor Girl," said he. "Better quit taking their money." "Quit? With a lot of drunken sailors playing a hunch ? I wash they had a million!" And Levine promptly erased the 15 and substituted 20." "Prices as good as the best!" lie chanted. "Come get your Sailor Girl —ail you want of it —twenty dollars for one!"

The majority of the bluejackets returned to him, handing up their currency as long as it lasted. The others rioted all over the betting ring, registering each new transaction with drunken whoops of triumph. Their antics brought forffl gales of laughter; anxious touts hung in their wake, but the sailors would play nothing but Sailor Girl!— Sailor Girl!— Sailor Girl! Jack ashore is notoriously easy prey, and never easier than when he meets with professional gamblers. The block men, taking in the situation at a glance, solicited business at the tops of their voices. They enjoyed the naval interlude hugely, regarding the sailors' hank rolls as bread returning from saltv waters. "They're just bettin' a drunken bunch," said the wise ones. "All they know about the mare is that they lake the name. Well, a fool and has money "

After the,final bugle , call Plunger Kennedy hoisted Johnny Dugan into the saddle, patted! the mare on the neck endf drifted inconspieuoualy out of the paddock. He skirted the far edge of the .betting ring, giving no more than aS:«*ance at the prices, entered the restaurant, and rapped on the door of a private room; „. ~ Meantime Mike Kelly was telling his troubles to Milt Cusack. "I ducked out to the paddock when couldn't find Kennedy aoywhere. Him art Bis bettin' oywrnwaoiieTßl They ■ 'W*"**^W ; jj.*-'^^l-^l - A".-^il^^^ i J^^

cap," said Caesar Goldmark. "Those are Kennedy's colors, Mose." "Sailor Girl!" ejaculated Levine. "I —I can't see her very well. How is she going? She oughn't to last to the turn."

"Maybe not; but if she keeps up her lick shell be in front iu fifty yards.'' , "In front! That old cripple? I tell you she's stopping now." "No," said Goldmark; "it's that other blue thing you're looking at. That's Sailor Girl in front now." Down by the fence, Miko Kelly and Cusaek, taking turns at a cheap" fieldglass, wore also aware that the blue and white colors were setting the pace. "Just runnin' away from 'cm," said Kelly dolefully; "and we don't know whether we've got a nickel on her or not!"

''But he was so sure,'' argued Cusaek. "He had it all planned out." "How could he figure that a bunch of drunken fools would beat him to it r I wonder where he went to." Halfway round the turn Johnny Dugan looked behind him. The nearest horse looked behind him. The nearest was beginning to straggle. "It's all over," thought the jockev—"all over but the shoutin'! They're dyin' behind her now; but Kennedy said to take no chances an' send her along. I guess I'll just let out some, of these wraps an' set her down a little. • . . Come on, Sailor Girl! Show 'em you're a racehorse yet!" "How is she now?" asked Lcvino anxiouslv.

"Just breezing," replied Caesar; "and the boy ain't even called on hei for anything."

"But~SWll quit!" gulped Mose. "She— she's got to quit! Those lame feet will stop her. . . Ain't she slowing up now?"

"If she is I'd hate to see her begin to run. How much of that alleged sucker money did von take?"

"Enough to put an awful crimp in the book—and me! Rut, with a mare as lame a s she is—and a lot of drunken sailors playing a hunch " Goldmark laughed harshly and slipped his binoculars into the case. "Yes," ho growled; "about as drunk as that mare is lame! And you fell for it and tried to break the United States Navy on a twenty-to-one shot! . . I wish I had a few horses as badly crippled up as Sailor Girl; then I wouldn't have to work for a fathead like you!"

c 'You —you think somebody knew something?" gurgled Levine. "The sailors did," was the curt reply. "You can arrange to pay off on Sailor Girl—«he wins in a rouip— poor lame thing!"

"Oh. look at her come!" quavered Mike Kelly. "She wins all by her little lone! Why didn't I hold out a couple of hundred and bet it myself? Why didn't I, Cusaek?"

"Because you agreed to leave that part of it to me," spoke a quiet voice. Kelly and Cusaek whirled, and thorn stood Plunger Kennedy, smiling slightly as- he watched Sailor Girl pass under the wire a dozen lengths ahead of her field. The little gray man was as calm and serene as a Juno morning.

Behind him were two strangers in the uniform of the United States Navy—a dapper petty officer .and a tremendous blue-jacketed Swede, the latter perfectly sober and grinning from ear to car. ''Glory!" yelled Kelly, grabbing Kennedy by the shoulders. "And T never guessed it! Sailor.-; for bettin commissioners, eh?"

'■Exactly." replied the Plunger. "And not so drunk as they looked. They got us the price on Sailor Girl."

The great crowd that had gathered to watch Mose Levine pay the sailorssaw, instead, a small gray man in worn tweeds, who dumped a formidable stock of paste-boards on the narrow counter under the cashier's nose. "Tell Levine I want to see him," said the Plunger. Tlie cashier passed the word, and Levine climbed over the railing and into the booth. "You?" said he. swallowing hard, "Yon! Why, the bets —-" " were made bv my commissioners. I've waited a long time to get you, Levine; and now I've got yon good!'' Mose realised all the bitter truth of the Plunger's remark. "I—l don't keep any such sum of money out hero at the track." said he. "Then go and borrow it from your friends! I lost to you, and I paid. Go borrow it!"

That night the Plunger crave a banquet to his two friends while his hefting commissioners explored the Barharv Coast regardless of exnense.

"Only one thing I regret." said Miko Kelly, toving with the stem of a wineglass: "Johnny won too far away with the mare. He fixed her so we can't get a. price on her the next time out."

"There will t be no next time out." said Kennedy. "To-morrow morning 1 announce through the medium of tho press my retirement from the turf. Sailor Girl retires with me. Her sore feet have earned a rest. The mare js mv pensioner." '"Gosh!" said Milt Cusack. "FeH'rs. T feel's if I could r>en —nems'h'u m' whole liverv stable! Wow!"