I'll take half of it."
"I'll take what's left."
They used their cards to register the bet and handed the memorandum to
Don Mike, who showed his magnificent white teeth in his most engaging
smile, bowed, and insisted upon shaking hands with them both, after
which the quartet sauntered back to the grand-stand and sat down among
the old shepherd and his flock.
As the bugle called out the horses for the handicap, Father Dominic
ceased praying and craned forward. There were ten horses in the race,
and the old priest's faded eyes popped with wonder and delight as the
sleek, beautiful thoroughbreds pranced out of the paddock and passed in
single file in front of the grand-stand. The fifth horse in the parade
was Panchito--and somebody had cleaned him up, for his satiny skin
glowed in the semi-tropical sun. All the other horses in the race had
ribbons interlaced in their manes and tails, but Panchito was barren of
adornment.
"Well, Don Quixote has had him groomed and they've combed the cactus
burrs out of his mane and tail, at any rate. He'd be a beautiful
animal if he was dolled up like the others," the book-maker, Joe,
declared.
"Got racing plates on to-day, and that cholo kid sits him like he
intended to ride him," his companion added. "Joe, I have a suspicion
that nag is a ringer. _He looks like a champion_."
"If he wins we'll _know_ he's a ringer," Joe replied complacently.
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