THE SANDPIPER. 237 



trunk all day long. Ordinarily a Secretary can ''spot" a 

 man who has an entry like a three-card monte man can 

 spot a "sucker," but sometimes both get left, and this was 

 one of the times, for it never occurred to me that that 

 little man wearing a nankeen shirt and a silent, far-away, 

 weary expression, could possibly have adopted the happy- 

 go-lucky life of a trotting horseman. 



It was late ; I had had my last argument with a stub- 

 born man who had several entries, and had started for 

 the hotel. I was passing the silent little man, still sitting 

 on the wooden trunk, when he touched me on the arm, 

 and — (almost in a whisper, his lips scarcely parting or 

 making a movement) — asked: "Are you the Cleveland 

 Secretary?" 



"I am," said I. 



"I want to talk with you quietly," confidentially whis- 

 pered the little man, and he led me into an empty stall, 

 carefully shutting the door behind us. "I've got some- 

 thing good," said he, and I looked around for the bottle. 

 "Something that can win sure, and I want some one to 

 help me make good money. I want to make a killing." 

 For the first time it dawned upon me that the little silent 

 man was not a spring chicken, but one who did not stand 

 much in need of a guardian at any stage of the proceed- 

 ings, and negotiations opened then and there on a better 

 understood basis, ending with my having the entry of a 

 little brown mare duly signed and executed bv the little, 

 dark-complexioned, whispering old man. 



It was in the 2 40 trot ; the mare was Kit Curry and 

 the blank was signed H. D. Kyger, Darrtown, Ohio. 



"The Sandpiper's" mare was also in the 2 40 trot ; her 

 entrance was paid, and I hugged myself in ecstacy. Now 

 I would even up that charge for the gravel. 



