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Updated: June 24, 2025
Engle, who was responsible for the skirmishes with Curry, had begun operations with the theory that Old Man Curry was a harmless, brainless individual, "shot full of luck," he expressed it. Circumstances had caused him to alter his opinion somewhat; he no longer pitied the owner of Eliphaz and Elisha; he suspected him. O'Connor went even farther.
There was a stir in the crowd about the stand. A bidding contest is always an added attraction. "Friend, you don't want this hoss," expostulated Old Man Curry, addressing Engle. "He ain't a race hoss; he's a trick hoss. You don't want him." "What about you, Curry?" asked the associate judge. "Oh, well," said the old man, slowly. "And five." "Six hundred!" Old Man Curry seemed annoyed.
While Engle was closeted with Goldmark, Old Man Curry was entertaining another nocturnal visitor. It was the Bald-faced Kid, breathless, his brow beaded with perspiration. "Just got the tip that Elisha has gone lame," said the Kid. "I was in the crap game over at Devlin's barn when Squeaking Henry came in with the news. I ran all the way over here." "Oho, so it was Henry, eh?"
But, though he refused to take up the colorful theme of the biographies of the Captain, the Dancer, Lolita, and the rest, John Engle began to speak lightly upon an associated topic, first asking the girl if she knew with what ceremony the old Western bells had been cast; when she shook her head and while the slow throbbing beat of the Captain still insisted through the night's silences, he explained that doubtless all six of Ignacio Chavez's bells had taken form under the calm gaze of high priests of old Spain.
"Curry has got too many friends higher up, and if we should try it and fall down it would give the track a black eye. The sucker horsemen would be leery of us." "If any framing is to be done," announced McManus, "count me out now. You fellows know Grouchy O'Connor? Him and Engle framed on Curry till they were black in the face, and what did it get 'em? Not a nickel's worth!
"Come, Elmer," she said hastily. "I want you to know Miss Florence Engle; she is a sort of cousin of ours." "Sure," said Elmer off-handedly. "Come on, Rickard." But the Kid, standing upon no ceremony, had drawn his hat a trifle lower over his eyes and turned his shoulder upon them, continuing along the street in his slouching walk.
"I can trust Ignacio Chavez; I can trust Julius Struve. And, if you want it in words of one syllable, I cannot trust Caleb Patten!" "Hm," said Engle. "I think you're mistaken there, my boy." "Maybe," returned Norton. "But I can't afford right now to take any unnecessary chances. Which may not sound pretty, but which is the truth." "Of course I'll do what you ask," Engle said.
Engle, Saxon, and Jute all belonged to the same Low-German branch of the Teutonic family; and at the moment when history discovers them they were being drawn together by the ties of a common blood, common speech, common social and political institutions.
"And create a lovely precedent," sneered Engle. "Use your head a little more; that's what it's for. A man that hops his horses as often as you do can't afford to start any investigations along that line. If you must throw something at Curry, throw a brick, not a boomerang.... And somehow I don't believe it's hop.
Seth Morgan; evidently both its services and those of Roderick Norton might be dispensed with in the matter of her being presented. "Of course," Mrs. Engle was saying. An arm about the girl's slim waist, she drew her to a big leather couch. "Marian never does things by halves, my dear; you know that, don't you? That's a letter she gave you for me?
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