"You are a horseman, then?" I suggested.

"Me a horseman? Say, kid, you didn't get my name. Brower--Artie Brower.
Why, I've ridden more winning races than any other man on the Pacific
Coast. That's how I got onto old H.H. I rode for him. He knows a good
horse all right--the old skunk. Used to have a pretty string."

"He's got at least one good Morgan stallion now," said I. "I've seen him
at Hooper's ranch."

"I know the old crock--trotter," scorned the true riding jockey.
"Probably old Tim Westmore is hanging around, too. He's in love with
that horse."

"Is he in love with Hooper, too?" I asked.

"Just like I am," said the jockey with a leer.

"So you're going to be rich," said I. "How's that?"

He leered at me again, going foxy.

"Don't you wish you knew! But I'll tell you this: old H.H. is going to
give me all I want--just because I ask him to."

I took another tack, affecting incredulity.

"The hell he is! He'll hand you over to Ramon and that will be the last
of a certain jockey."