- ER Rn TA
Beworrali atm
Bellefonte, Pa., October 12, 1928.
A,
THE GREATEST GENERAL.
The greatest commander was—who?
Alexander, who whimpered, they say,
Because there were not to his view
More worlds he might conquer and
sway ?
Or Caesar? Napoleon? Nay!
Though much in their lives we commend,
Their achievements were carried away
By the forces of General Trend.
Politicians are careful to woo
The sentiments people display;
Big Business and bankers review
The pregnant events of the day;
All sorts of conditions they weigh,
All movements and whither they end,
And their lines of procedure they lay
In accord with the General Trend.
Where is he who tried to subdue
The world to his will and his way?
The old is submerged by the new,
The past by the surge of today.
The lords of the earth become clay—
That one unavoidable end,
And even the gods cannot stay
If opposed to the General Trend.
ENVOY.
Friend, waggle the world as it may
And however reformers contend,
They will finally have to obey
The orders of General Trend.
—Plinthourgos.
THE SONG OF THE BEE.
In all his sixteen years Midge
Macklin had known nothing but
horses. His father had been a vet-
erinary and a good one—so good, in
fact, that John T. Banfield had taken
him under contract to care for the
Siestn Rey Stables exclusively.
idge’s mother had died when he was
five and as a result he had been thrown
into a contact with his father much
closer than most boys achieve. And
his father taught him much about
horses.
They lived at the breeding-farm
and it was here that Midge learned
to ride at the age of four, when his
father gave him a Welsh pony. Al-
though at twelve he was making his
spending-money, both before and af-
ter school, as an exercise boy, it nev-
er occurred to John T. Banfield,
watching the little gnome galloping
his thoroughbreds around his private
race-track, that Midge might some
day make a jockey.
Then Midge’s father died very sud-
denly, leaving nothing to Midge. There
was nobody to look after the boy, so
John T. Banfield took over the job—
not because he was particularly char-
itable or fond of Midge, but because
he saw in him a good, cheap exercise
oy.
At sixteen Midge was as large as
a normal boy of twelve. At full man-
hood he would be a fiyweight. John
T. Banfield saw that. Andbody could
have seen it. But what he did not
see was that Midge Macklin was ex-
traordinarily intelligent, with a cold,
calculating, logical intelligence not
commensurate with his years and
worldly experience. He was always
asking why! Always studying cause
and effect.
He was one of those strange hu-
man beings who, having an instine-
tive love for horses, is, in turn, belov-
ed by horses.
Midge knew that a horse has no
brains to speak of; that he can be
habituated to a course of action but
never taught it as one teaches a dog.
He knew that horses, particularly
thorougbreds, are nervous and flighty
and that to do their best work they
must have the utmost confidence in
and familiarity with their masters.
So, in addition to exercising the
Questa Rey horses and helping break
the yearlings, he was forever fussing
around the stables doing work he was
not expected to do. He petted the
horses, spoke to them as to warm per-
sonal friends; he had a habit of car-
rying a carrot or an apple into the
stall with him; instinctively he found
out the itchy spots on a horse and
scratched them.
Nor could the most irritable and
nervous of horses get a fight out of
Midge. When they started cutting
up he let them cut up, getting them
in hand gradually and gently, sooth-
ing them, talking to them, slapping
them on the quarters, humoring them.
He knew how easy it is to spoil a
high-strung horse and he avoided
that. The result was that when
Midge rode a horse that had the rep-
utation of being a bad one at the bar-
rier, that horse reduced his monkey-
shines at least fifty per cent for
Midge.
Midge had a profound affection and
admiration for John T. Banfield, but
John T. Banfield did not know it. To
him Midge was just an exercise boy.
And, while John T. Banfield was a
shrewd racing man, he had failed to
make a very important discovery re-
garding Midge. He did not know that
Midge “had a clock in his head,” that
he was a natural and uncanny judge
of elapsed time, a quality very ~pre-
cious in a jockey and without which
no jockey ever can be truly great.
It remained for a woman to discov-
er this. Her name was Marion Hen- |.
ning and she was the daughter of
old Dan Henning, who had a little
farm up in Sonoma county, Cali-
fornia, where he bred good horses and
raced his likeleist prospects at Reno
and Tia Juana. If they showed well
he raced them elsewhere under lease
to some good trainer with whom he
divided the purses.
Under this system he had made
some money and twice he had devel-
oped stake horses that had sold for
huge prices. In general how-
ever, Old Dan never had been more
than three jumps ahead of the sher-
iff, until shortly before his death. He
had acquired at that time some twen-
ty really good mares and a sire that
was in demand. Old Dan’s racing
string had been doing very well for
two years, his annual auction sales
had been well attended and bidding
brisk, with consequent high prices,
when influenza cut him down. He
_-"
was not, however, quite out of debt.
Now, Marion always had kept old
Dan Henning’s breeding-records. With
him she had made an exhaustive
study of the thoroughbred horse, pos-
sibly because she had inherited all of
her father’s love for a horse, possi-
bly because old Dan had not rear-
ed her to work for a living. At any
rate, at twenty-two, she was unmar-
ried and the mistress of Scyamore
Rancho, and when her father’s at-
torney’s suggested that she sell the
farm and the horses, she surprised
them my announcing that she was
going to carry on as her father had
done.
Like Midge Macklin, Marion Hen-
ning had brains, although in racing
story it might be better to say that
she had horse-sense. And she had a
horse she thought very well of, a
three-year-old stallion named Pil-
grim’s Pride. As a two-year-old he !
had won several good races and show-
ed extreme promise; as a three-year-
old, Marion felt certain he was go-
ing to redeem that promise. She had
entered him for the Governor’s Han-
dicap and as the season advanced the
girl, deciding to cast about her for
a good jockey, went to Tia Juana to
look the field over.
She had two horses running there
on shares and one day when she went
tc the barn to see how they were
getting on, she found one of her
horses with his head out of the box
stall, accepting a carrot from a small
wistful little boy, who rubbed the ani-
tat between the ears and crooned to
im:
“So you're the Great Big Devil at
the post, are you, Don Marco? Just
won’t behave, eh? I wish I had you
in charge. I'd make you do your
stuff. Yes, and you'd be glad to do
it, too. If I ever get the leg on you,
big horse, we'll certainly spoil the
Egyptians. Yes,, yes, old-timer. That
carrot’s good, isn’t it? Have another.
Nobody understands you, do they, Don
Marco 7”
Midge Macklin was a sensitive boy.
He felt an alien presence and, turn-
ing, saw Marion Henning smiling at
him. He doffed his shabby cap.
“That’s my horse,” said Marion, by
way of introduction.
The boy smiled.
ning’s girl, miss?”
She nodded.
“Dan was a friend of mine,” he
explained. “He got me the leg up on
Dan Marco here last fall. I'm Mack
in,
“How do you do, Midge. I'm glad
to see you. I didn’t see that race,
but Father told me that the way you
booted Don Marco home was the best
bit of riding he had ever seen.”
Midge smiled his gratitude at the
compliment. “That was easy. The
old boy can step some, Miss Hen-
ning.”
“He’s never done it since,” she re-
minded him.
“He’s a misunderstood horse. He's
been spoiled. He’s permitted to act
up at the post and he hasn’t been off
to a really good start since that day
I rose him. Of course we had the
starter crazy that day, but, you see,
I'd watched him a lot and I knew his
habits.
“He’d swerve away from the web-
bing and carry me back about forty
feet before I could get him faced
around again. Then the assistant
starter would lead him up and the in-
stant he’d let go Don Marco would
swerve again. Between ourselves,
Miss Henning, I let him swerve. I
wanted to get the starter mad and
out of patience; I knew that the in-
stant Don Marco was in any half de-
cent position for a half decent start,
the gate would go up.
“Well, I know the starters. I've
spent days sitting on the fence study-
ing them. So I kept my eye on the
starter and I asked the assistant start-
er to keep his hands off Don Marco.
Well, the horse carried me back may-
be twenty yards, then I turned him
and trotted him back slowly. The
other horses were nicely lined up for
a perfect start and I was delaying it.
I kept my eye on Henderson—that’s
the starter—and he waved me to come
on; as I got Don Marco’s head up to
the tail of the horse on my right I
saw Henderson’s mouth. I knew he
was going to say Come on—that the
gate was going up, and I beat the
gate a split second. Just gave the
horse his head a little and clucked to
him—and we were off—first.
“I rated him. I knew he had re-
serve speed. The jocks that weren’t
hopelessly out of it at the half had
let me make the pace. I knew I was
two seconds slow at the quarter; I
was sure I was a second slow at the
half. But I had the rail and I made
my run before the others—not very
much—just enuogh to get three open
lengths to the good—and then I talk-
ed to this baby. He lasted. Lord,
that was a race—and I've never had
the leg up on this horse since.” He
gave Don Marco another carrot.
“Whom do you ride for, Midge?”
“Exercise boy for the Questa Rey
Stables—Mr. Banfield. But I'm an
apprentice jock now and sometimes
I get a mount in a cheap race from
outside owners. Mr. Banfield won’t
trust me on a good horse.’
“Would you like to ride Don Marco
tomorrow, Midge ? Perhaps I can ar-
range it.”
“I'd like to, miss—and Ill make
every post a winning-post.”
Marion arranged it—and Don Mar-
co, who hadn’t been in the money for
two months, acted decently at the
barrier, beat it and was never head-
ed. Just before Midge mounted Don
Marco he handed Marion a paper on
which he had written the time in
which he intended to negotiate the
quarter, the half, the three-quarters
and the finish. When Marion glanced
up from her split-second stop-watch
and compared the time registered
there with her jockey’s private esti-
mate, she saw that he had guessed it
within half a second!
“That boy shall ride Pilgrim’s
Pride,” the girl decided. “He's a dear
little chap. What if he is an appren-
tice rider? He's like Don Marco.
Nobody knows how really good he is.
He has a clock in his head and he
isn’t old enough to have acquired bad
habits.”
She sought out John T. Banfield
and introduced herself. “You have
“You Dan Hen-
! Governor's Handicap.
| Henning.
GH
Moderator entered in the Governor's
Handicap, I believe, Mr. Banfield?”
He nodded. > J
“Is your boy Midge Macklin going
to ride Moderator that day, Mr. Ban-
field 7”
“Good Lord, no, my dear young
lady. Midge is just a glorified exer-
cise boy, although as an apprentice
I let him have a little experience rid-
ing for other owners occasionally.
Some day he may make a jockey, but
you may rest assured that when Mod-
erator goes to the post I'll have a real
jockey up on him.” :
“Midge gave Don Marco a good ride
: just now,” she defended.
“Nothing to write home about, Miss
Henning. He was in the company of
his equals and inferiors. And Don
Marco isn’t a stake-horse, although
unquestionably he was the best horse
in that race.”
“You remember Pilgrim’s Pride?”
“Good two-year-old.”
“He’s mine and he’s entered in the
I want to en-
gage the services of Midge to ride
him.”
“Well, that should be an added rea-
!son why Moderator should win the
race,” he smiled back at her. “You've
been warnea.”
“I play my. hunches,” she replied.
“Is Midge under contract to you, Mr.
Banfield 7”
“Yes, he is,” Banfield lied.
“Want to sell his contract?”
“I might consider it. How much
am I offered?”
“Tell me how much you want?”
He considered. “Five thousand
dollars for a contract that has five
years to run,” de decided. “I have
better hoys coming up.
“I've bought the Midget,” she re-
plied. “Give you my check the mo-
ment you hand me the contract duly
assigned.”
“I'll have to send away for it. See
you in four or five days, Miss Hen-
ning.”
The young mistress of Sycamore
Rancho was at the barn when Midge
came into his tack room. “I've bought
you from Mr. Banfield, Midge,” she
informed him enthusiastically. “I
couldn’t help it. After that race you
won with Don Marco I simply had to
have you and I bet twenty dollars for
you on Don Marco, Midge.
one. Here’s your share of the loot,”
fd she handed him a hundred dol-
ars.
That was the first real money
Midge Macklin had ever seen and his
eyes popped and his throat worked
as he gazed upon it. “Thanks, Miss
Henning,” he mumbled.
“You belong to the Sycamore
Rancho, Midge,” she went on. “You're
going to ride Pilgrim’s Pride in the
Governor’s Handicap.”
“What?” The world was
out from under Midge.
She repeated the promise.
“You're going to trust me on Pil-
grim’s Pride in the Governor’s Han-
dicap ?”
“Why not? But, of course, Midge,
if you aren’t interested !
“Oh, miss, if I win that race—-"
He paused, unable to visualize such
a glorious future as that would en-
tail. “Well, Ill give him a good ride,
anyhow,” he ended. “If he’s a winner
I'll win with him as handy as: any
jock on the Big Time could. He'll
have an apprentice allowance of five
slipping
pounds in the weights and that will :
help. You're awful kind to me, Miss
Thanks ever so much.
Did you say you'd bought me from
Mr. Banfield ?”
“I've bought your contract, Midge.
It has five years to run, and if you
and I have any luck with my horses |
in those five years the deal may turn
out to be a very profitable one for
both of us.” r
“How much did you pay him?”
“I'm going to pay him five thous-
and dollars.”
He’s sold me, eh?” Midge’s voice
was husky with emotion. “I liked Mr. |
Banfield. I thought he liked me. I
didn’t think he’d do that. I—I guess
—he thinks I don’t amount to much.”
There were tears in the boy’s eyes.
Then suddenly his Celtic rage flared,
triumphant above his
“That’s the worst deal Mr. Banfield
ever put over,” he declared, his voice
taking a high shrill note.
him whether I'm a jock or an exer-
cise boy. Sell me, would he, like I
was a broken-down selling platter?
I'll learn him.”
Ha turned and walked away.
The next morning John T. Banfield
came to him. “Jump into my car,
Midge,” he said affably. “I want you to
drive into San Diego with me.”
At a lawyer’s office in San Diego
John T. Banfield explained to Midge
that he desired to give hima perma-
nent position and a permanent wage
and promote him from exercise boy
to jockey. Fifty dollars a week for
the first year and an advance of ten
dollars a week each year for the four
succeeding years.
“Going to mke a real jockey out
of you, Midge,” he boomed. “That
was a great ride you gave Don Mar-
co yesterday. Want you to sign a
five-year contract.
are a minor and cannot legally sign
a contract, my lawyer suggests that
you come into court and petition the
judge to have this gentleman here
named as your guardian. As your
guardian, legally appointed, he “will
be enabled to sign in your name this
fine contract I am offering you. How
about it, Midge?”
“I'll think it over,” said Midge.
“You'll think it over here and now,
my boy. I've made the offer. If you
do not accept it, I shall withdraw it—
and after that I'll not require your
services any longer.”
“You got them cheap enough at
that,” the boy flared at him. “You'd
never thought of a contract if you
hadn’t seen a chance to sell .me to
Miss Henning for five thousand dol-
lars. Well, I'm not going to ask for
any guardian unless it’s Miss Hen-
ning, and I ain’t going to let you stick
her for no five thousand dollars on
something you never had when you
sold it to her. I'm going to work for
Miss Henning. I'd ’a’gone to Hell
for you, Mr. Banfield, but you—you
don’t care a hoot about me. You
don’t care for nothing but money. All
right, maybe some day I'll cost you
a lot more’n I'm worth.” :
Five to
emotion. |
“I’ll show
However, as you
| He commenced to weep, darted out
of the office, hired a car and went
‘back to Tia Juana. Half an hour
later he had transferred his few miser-
able possessions to an empty stall in
the Sycamore Rancho’s barn; when
Marion came to the barn again he
told her what had occurred between
John T. Banfield and himself.
“I go on your pay-roll, Miss Mar-
ion,” he pleaded, “and you pay me
what you think is right and fair. We
don’t need no contract. If we had a
contract you might—sell me; and 1
ore. like to be sold away from folks
I—like.”
“We'll shake hands on it instead,
Midgie,” she suggested, and thus the
deal was closed.
Marion employed a trainer, Jim
Merton, and a good man he was, yet,
curiously enough, in the matter of
Pilgrim’s Pride she listened most to
the advice of Midge; for although
young, she knew he was old with wis-
dom of his craft. He had worked
with Pilgrim a week before she sent
for him.
“What do you think of our entry
Midge?”
“I hate to tell you this, Miss Mar- |
ion,” Midge replied, “but that dog’s |
ni
“Forty:eight anda fifth,” she call-
ed back to him. “Oh, Midgie, that’s
a race horse.”. .
“That’s a dog,” Midge contradict-
ed; but he can run when he wants to.
The thing is to make him want to.”
“How did you get it out of him,
Midge 7”
“That’s a secret, Miss Marion. I
think I’ve made him ashamed of him-
self. I've been talking to him and
telling him what a low-down lisap-
pointment he’s been and I reckon he
sort o’ took a notion to reform. He
wouldn’t do it for nobody but me.”
“If the Tia Juana track is as fast
as this one and he has half decent
luck he’s worth a big bet, Midge.”
“I think so, Miss Marion. I'm go-
ing to bet my little roll on him. If
we win, I want you to sell him.”
“Why? If he wins we should be
able to annex a few more big stakes.”
“And if I get spilled and hurt and
somebody else has to ride him he
won't be worth more than his hide.
You sell him, Miss Marion, and let
somebody else try to psychoanalyze
him. My stuff is good, but I can’t g0
yon doing it forever. He'll get on to
me and be morning-glory again.”
“Is this the first time he has really
a morning-glory. He isn’t worth the extended himself for you?”
cost of shipping him. He has every- |
thing a champion should have except |!
heart. I'm disappointed in him.”
{ Marion was horrified. “A morn-
ing-glory? Why, we’ve never had
one on Sycamore Rancho.”
“Well, you've got one now and he’s
‘a daisy. Morning after morning I've |
set him down over a half-mile
company. He’s a lamb at the po
st, | :
he breaks like a flash, he’s faster than | the traine
greased lightning and I think he can
stand a long grind. Every morning
he’s the grandest prospect
country. But when I skip the morn-
ing workout and work him in the late
afternoon he’s just two seconds be-
hind his time. He just won't extend
himself. Ive tried everything, but
the stop-watch tells the tale.
er knew a morning-glory that brought
home the bacon in the afternoon. And
that’s when races are run, Miss Mar-
ion.”
It was a week before Marion ad-
mitted that Midge’s verdict was un-
impeachable.
Nobody has ever been able to dis-
cover the answer to the question:
Why is a morning-glory? Racing
men only know that they happen. To
such curiously constituted horses the
morning workout is sufficient evil for
the day. Apparently, they prefer to
"give all they have in the cool of the
dawn and to withhold it in the after-
{noon. Or perhaps they are horses
just a bit faint-hearted, and when |
running in company they lack the
spur of ambition and accept defeat
too readily.
[| “A real race-horse,” Midge explain-
ed, “is selfish and plucky. He just
naturally can’t bear to be beaten and
he’ll do everything to prevent it. But
A morning-glory—well, he ain’t got
no pride, that’s all. He does what
he’s told to do in the morning, but
he won’t do what he’s asked to do in
the afternoon. The Pilgrim’s too
easy-going—not enough nerves. Now,
if I could only give him a good scare
at the right time in a race, he’d be
liable to run over his field. I can’t
lift him with whip or spur. And I
can’t talk him into it.’
‘Well, we'll not hop him up, Midge,
if that’s what you're leading up to,
and we'll not have a cunning little
electric battery up your sleeve so
you can sting him.”
“We might sting him mentally.”
i “Just what do you mean?”
“Please don’t ask me now. Ill
make some experiments and if they
work out all right we’ll both know it
{without talking about it.”
| For three weeks Marion heard
nothing more about Pilgrim’s Pride,
then one day after luncheon Midge
.came over to the house.
“Don Marco’s back, and so is Bally-
'hoo,” he announced. “I’m going to
put the Pilgrim over the course in
competition with them this afternoon
‘and I'd like, Miss Marion, if you'll
‘clock me. The race is called for
i three-thirty.”
“And has Pilgrim’s Pride had his
usual morning exercise, Midge?”
“Yes, miss. And if he does today
what I think he’s liable to do, he'll
still be fit for the race of his life.”
At three-thirty, therefore, Marion
'sat up in the little pagoda at the fin-
(ish line on her own mile race-track,
‘split-second stop-watch in hand. A
hundred yards down the road Jim
Merton drew down the starting-gate;
Don Marco and Ballyhoo, with exer-
cise boys up, and Pilgrim’s Pride,
piloted by Midge, pranced up to the
gate firgeted, whirled, fidgeted, whil-
ed again and were off to a perfect
‘start. As the webbing was released
|the girl’s thumb came down on the
head of the stop-watch. Her glance
never strayed from three thorough-
breds racing down the tracks, Don
Marco four open lengths out front,
Ballyhoo second, Pilgrim’s Pride a
bad third. At the quarter the Pil-
grim began closing in.
At the half-mile Ballyhoo had been
passed and slowly, inexorably, Pil-
grim’s Pride was creeping up on Don
Marco. They turned into the stretch
with Don Marco coming strong along
[the rail, two lengths in advance of
{the Pilgrim, who carried wide at the
turn. And then something happen-
ed. The Pilgrim commenced to make
|his run! With apparent ease he
flashed by Don Marco, took the rail
{and came on in a thunder of flying
hoofs, his head outstretched, his nos-
trils flung wide. He was giving all
that was in him and giving it glad-
| ly.
Of course, at the mile, Don Marco
was done and the boy sensibly pulled
up. Ballyhoo had long since pulled
up and there was no longer any com-
petition for the Pilgrim. Neverthe-
!less he did not falter; indeed, as he
passed in front of the pagoda he in-
creased his stride with a sudden
spurt, seeming to call upon new re-
serves of speed and stamina. As he
flashed past the finish of the course
Marion looked at her stop-watch and
gasped.
Midge pulled the horse up and came
jogging back to her. “I'll guess it,”
he called. “He stepped that mile and
jan eighth in forty-nine.”
{the entries.
I nev- |
“Yes, Miss Marion.”
{ “But he showed very well as a two
; year-old and in his workouts since
‘then he has showed so much promise.
i “Workouts are in the morning,”
i Midge reminded her and jogged back
‘to the barn.
They shipped Pilgrim’s Pride to
in Tia Juana and Midge accompanied
in the express-car. They
i the trainer in the express-car. They
i Midge worked the horse regularly,
i
ithe ' permitting him short bursts of speed
but never extending him for the bene-
fit of the railbirds who lined the
{fences in the early morning, clocking
Nevertheless, out of a
‘field of twelve starters that remained
ion the list of entries the night before
the race, Midge was pleased to notice
! that the various tipsters rated Pil-
grim’s Pride to their gullible clients
all the way from sixth to last.
That night Midge called upon his
employer at the latter's hotel.
“Well, he’s fit,” he announced, “and
Jim Merton has placed all the bets
for your ranch help with the bookies
in San Francisco. Betting anything
on him?”
“I was waiting for your final re-
port, Midge. Do you still advise it?”
“Barring racing luck, which is
never very good, he has as fair a
chance as the favorite. I'd spread
that five thousand you were going to
pay John T. Banfield for that con-
tract on me he never had; but I
wouldn’t bet it at the track, Miss
Marion. He'll open ten to one for
i sure and five thousand would cut him
to even money. Have Jim Merton
place it for you in San Francisco and
Los Angeles. You'll get closing odds
then, and your bets will be safe
enough. I've got a good position.
Third from the rail. He’s a sensible
horse at the post and starts like a
flash and I don’t figure on getting
pocketed. Have you seen the
weights ?”
“No, Midge.”
“A hundred and ten—and that day
at the Sycamore Rancho he carried a
hundred and twenty. That’s a little
surprise I've been saving up for you,
Miss Marion. I gave him top weight
that day. I wouldn’t kid myself and
I wouldn’t kid you. He'll run tomor-
row, never fear.”
Marion’s heart was beating wildly
as the bugle called the eighteen hors-
es to the post the following after-
noon. Pilgrim’s Pride stalked sedate-
ly past the grand stand in No. 3 place
and Midge waved at her as he rode
past. Then they paraded back.
They were at the post a minute and
a half; then there burst from the
crowd a sound that was half roar,
half sigh, and the horses were off to a
beautiful start.
True to Midge’s prediction, Pil-
grim’s Pride was off first, making the
and held it; when he was challenged
he did not respond. At the half he
was fourth, at the three-quarters
til as the field came into the stretch
he was challenging the leader.
Down the stretch they came, Mod-
erator, the favorite, running easily
and holding the head of Pilgrim's
Pride at his tail. But Moderator
could not shake him off, and through
her glasses Marion saw that the fav-
orite’s jockey was using his hat
while Midge was hand-riding the
Pilgrim.
Closer and closer they came; then
suddenly the Pilgrim commenced
moving up. His blazed face was at
the saddle-girth of Moderator now,
at his quarter, on even terms . . .
Moderator was falling back. Past
the paddock the field swept, the Pil-
grim an open length in front and
gaining at every jump . . .
She closed her eyes. When she
opened them again the results of the
race were just going up on the boara
across the track. Pilgrim’s Pride first,
Moderator second, Oregonian third.
John T. Banfield’s entry had been
nosed out by a whisker. He had run
a great race, having come up from
tenth place to challenge the leader in
a magnificent burst of speed that
would have carried him to victory had
he made his run ten seconds earlier.
The girl looked at the timers
board. 1:48—flat! She wondered if
it was a world’s record. She was too
excited to remember. Certainly close
to it—close enough to make of Pil-
grim’s Pride a horse of very great
value.
She saw Midge ride him into the
circle reserved for winners, dismount,
remove his tack and step into the
weighing-room. When he came out
again, almost immediately, she knew
he had weighed out as he had weigh-
ed in—that the victory was secure.
Then the governor of Boja California
came into the circle, and lifted Midge
back on to the Pilgrim’s wet glisten-
ing back, while the Governor's wife
hung around the sleek neck the long
wide floral stole of victory. Marion
saw a dozen camera-men in action.
then Midge slid off, Pilgrim’s Pride
was blanketed, and horse and rider
pace. He .caught the rail presently,
fifth. Then he started moving up un- B
a)
eously Marion made her way to the
paddock also..
After changing into his street
clothes in the jockey room over the.
paddock, Midge came down to meet
his mistress. He found John T. Ban-
field talking to her.
“Come here, Midgie,” the girl com-
manded. “You're a dear. I knew
you'd do it. Iknew I just had to beat
Moderator if only to prove to Mr.
Banfield what a poor judge of appren-
tice jockeys he is. I bet the five
thousand, too. We'll know in a min-
ute what the closing odds were.”
“At least ten to one,” said John T.
Banfield. “The bookies were laying
eight to one; boosted him from
four to one to incite the fancy. Midge
you ran a great race.”
“If you'd had me up on Modera-
tor I'd have won a fifty-thousand-
dollar purse,” Midge reminded his
late patron. “It must be fifty thous-
and, with all the added money.”
“Midgie,” said Marion Henning,
“Mr. Banfield wants to buy Pilgrim’s
Pride!”
Midge’s heart leaped. What a
true-blue sport she was. Now that he
had led her to a trimuphant victory
she was not going to make another
move without consulting him.
“Well, anything's for sale at a price,
Miss Marion. How much does Mr.
Banfield offer?”
“Fifty thousand,” Banfield replied.
“Chicken-feed,” Midge murmured
sorrowfully. “Guess we won't trade
today. No need to be in a hurry. I
got my eye on a couple more stakes
I might just as well clean up for Miss
Marion and then sell. Besides, Miss
Marion,” he added, turning to the
girl, “there ain’t no sense in grab-
bing at the first offer you get... ..
There’s other sports in this world.
Give the boys a chance. They know
the Pilgrim has won over the best
horses in the country.”
Deliberately he led Marion away.
But John T. Banfield followed them.
“A hundred thousand for the Pil-
grim,” he announced. “Take it or
leave it.”
“Sold!” said Midge quietly. “Got
a check-book with you?”
“Certainly.”
“Write it. Here’s your bill of sale
for Pilgrim’s Pride. I had it made
out a week ago. It’s the regular
printed form, Mr. Banfield. I knew
you'd want him if he won. Fill in the
blank and Miss Marion will sign it.”
“The young man’s a quick trader,”
Banfield suggested blandly.
He filled in the check and the bill
of sale and Marion signed it. As he
lifted his hat and walked away, Midge
glared after him. “And I wish him
joy of the Pilgrim,” he growled. “He
can buy the Pilgrim but he can’t buy
me—and that goat would have finish-
ed in the ruck if I hadn’t ridden him.”
“Will you tell me now how you
managed to induce him to perform,
Midge ?”
His little hand stole into hers. “A
horse ain’t got no brains, Miss Mar-
ion,” he explained. “You can’t real-
ly teach ’em very much, but you can
give ’em a habit. I told you the Pil-
grim had to be scared into running,
didn’t I? Well, it’s the easiest thing
in the world to scare a thoroughbred
horse—and no matter how gentle he
is you can never tell when something
will scare him and you’d have been
willing to bet a new hat it wouldn't
and couldn’t. Me, I just educated the
Pilgrim to a certain form of fright.
“I got the batteries out of your car
and put ’em in his manger. Then I
tied him up to the manger and led two
copper wires from each battery up
to his neck, just where the mane
quits growing. I tied one wire around
his neck and I wet his neck with wa-
ter first. Then I sat up on the edge
of the stall and with the other wire
on the end of a long stick I touch-
ed the wire around the Pilgrim’s neck
There was a buzz and a snapping of
sparks and the old Pilgrim got a shock.
Didn’t he carryon? I want to tell you
he did, Miss Marion. He tried to tear
the barn down. And every time he'd
get quiet I'd touch him up again.
“Well, I educated the Pilgrim for
three days. At the end of that time
I could throw him into convulsions by
looking into his stall and saying,
uz-z-z!
“Then I took him out, put a hun-
‘dred and twenty pounds on him and
ran him with Don Marco and Bally-
hoo. I discovered that day he didn’t
need competition to give him ambi-
tion. He didn’t do his real running
.until he found himself out in front—
jogged off to the paddock. Simultan-'
and then I said, Buz-z-! and jabbed
him on the neck with this. And you
knew what happened.”
Midge held up his right hand, dis-
playing on the middle finger a ring
fashioned from a horse-shoe-nail
which had been nickled. Marion was
familiar with such trinkets. There
is a superstition among jockeys,
swipes and trainers that a ring made
from a horseshoe-nail will avert
rheumatism, and most of them wear
this simple charm.
“Are you rheumatic, Midgie ?”
“Not yet—but you never can tell.
But this ring is lucky. Remember the
first time I rode Don Marco? Well,
that was the first winner I ever put
over, so when they changed his plates
I got one of the nails and made this
ring. It’s a soft nail. Look,” and
with the thumb and forefinger of his
left hand he bent the end of the nail
outward from the head. Horse-
shoe-nails are pretty sharp—and I
made this one a little sharper. I wore
this ring in the race with the end
pulled out. Nobody could see it when
my hand was closed over the reins,
and there ain’t a judge in the world
that would be suspicious of a horse-
shoe-nail ring on a jock. When I
wanted to make my run with the Pil-
grim, I sang the song of the bee to
him—and jabbed him in the neck
with the point of my ring.”
“Midge, you're a wicked boy.”
“Well, I'm more than nine years
old and I been around race-horses all
my life. Did you have your glasses
on the Pilgrim?”
“Of course.”
“As we come into the stretch did
you see him throw up his tail and
swing it in a circle?”
“Yes.”
“That was when I stung him first.
But I know something else about the
(Continued on page 7, Col. 1.)