looked at Incubus. "My God," he told Watson, "what kind of a monster are you running! She’s got a face like a gargoyle and a rear like a hippopotamus."
"You want I should clout him in the crupper?" Incubus whispered.
"No, no! " he whispered back. "I’m glad he doesn’t take to you, because if he thought you were any good he might claim you."
"Claim me? Whaddya mean?"
"Well, you see," he explained, "since you’re unknown and have no record I’ve had to enter you in a claiming race. That means anybody who’s running another horse in the same race can put in a claim for you before the race, for the price I set on you, and become your owner."
"What’s the price you set on me?" Watson hemmed and hawed. "Three thousand dollars," he admitted.
Incubus cocked an eye at him. "You selling me down the river for a mess of pottage, Watson?"
"No, no," he assured her, "I can’t help it—this is some goddam silly racing rule. You have no reputation so I’ve got to enter you in a maiden claimer."
Incubus raised an eyebrow. "A maiden claimer?"
"A maiden horse," he explained austerely, "is one which has never won a race."
"Oh-h-h-h," she said. "Sorry."
"Now, if the worst comes to the worst and you do get claimed we can figure out ways and means of getting you back. Can’t we, Inky?"
Incubus laughed richly. "Clout him in the crupper!" she chortled. "Oh, man!"
*
The day dawned when Incubus was to make her debut at Belmont. The odds on her were a hundred to one. Laughing softly to himself, Watson put five hundred dollars on her nose.
"You crazy, fella?" the seller said to him. "The horse to bet on is Godlove’s Pamplemousse. He’s a natural to win."
"Incubus is my own horse," Watson explained patiently.
"Oh, I guess it’s like my kid. He plays the pianner and stinks but I gotta clap for him all the same."
"Why didn’t you give her some hip reducing exercises," Godlove sneered as the jockey led Incubus out into the paddock. "She’ll never get through the starting gate with that spread."
"Take it easy," Watson told her, as she reared. "Now, listen," he said to the jockey, a sullen young apprentice—all he could get—"she responds to direction very well. Talk to her. She practically understands."
"Oh, sure," the jockey jeered. "Is snookums gonna win the race for daddykins?"
"Ess," replied Incubus.
The jockey stared at her and at Watson. Watson laughed, a trifle too hard. "I’m a great ventriloquist," he explained. "Can’t break myself of the habit."
"Well, you better begin now," the jockey said, "because I’m temperamental and when I’m emotionally disturbed the horse senses it."
"The horses," the announcer declaimed through the loudspeaker, "are at the post. . . They’re off! . . .
All of them, that is, except Incubus. She can’t get through the starting gate. She’s stuck."
"Yah, wear a girdle!" the crowd called derisively.
With a wrench of sheer rage Incubus pulled herself through the gate and dashed after the other horses. "In the backstretch it’s Pamplemousse in the lead with Disestablishmentarianism and Epigram running half a length behind and . . . But who’s this coming up from the rear? It’s Incubus! She’s ahead by a length . . . By two lengths . . . By three lengths! What a horse! What a jockey! He’s giving her the whip!
. . . Oh, oh, something’s wrong. Incubus has lost her rider! Too bad, Incubus."
The horses raced up the stretch, with Incubus keeping five lengths ahead of Pamplemousse as per direction. She was much annoyed to discover that he had won the race.
"But I won it!" she kept whispering to Watson as he led her off. "I was first. This is a frame-up. I’m going right to the judges and raise an objection."
"It doesn’t count if you don’t have the jockey on you," he told her. "That’s the rule."
"Flap the rules!" she said. "You mean without that pee-wee it doesn’t count? A fine thing! I hate the rules, I hate the rules, I hate the rules!" She stamped her foot. "He hit me with a whip, the little bastard, so I gave him the old heave-ho."
"Aw, come on now, Incubus, we’ll get another jockey who won’t whip you. You see how easy you can win a race?"
She tossed her head. "I’m not so sure I want to run again."
"You know you want to run, Incubus. You’ve made a big impression, I could see that."
"Who cares what people think?"
"I saw Pamplemousse giving you the eye," Watson murmured. "Good-looking horse, isn’t he? Any filly’d be glad to have him interested in her."
"Oh, I dunno," Incubus said. "He’s all right, I guess, if you like them tall and dark. But, okay, I’ll try it again for you, Watson."
Godlove accosted them again as Watson led Incubus into her stall. "I take back what I said about your horse, Watson," he apologized. "She looks like a fiend, but she runs like one too. With the proper handling, she might be a stake horse." He looked speculatively at Incubus. "Give you five thousand for her, big rump and all."
"Not on your life."
Godlove shrugged. "Suit yourself. But she’ll have to run in another claimer, you know." He left, laughing softly.
After two weeks of steady diet and vigorous massage, during which her hip measurements were considerably reduced, Incubus was entered in a four-thousand-dollar claimer. Even though she was still a maiden she was favored next to Pamplemousse by the players, for her unusual first start had not passed unnoticed. Watson bet another five hundred, to obtain which he had mortgaged the old homestead. But this time he could get only even money.
"Remember, Incubus," he instructed her as he buckled her saddle, "if Godlove claims you you know what to do."
"Sure do. Shall I let him live afterward?"
"Yeah, let him live. Just make it uncomfortable for him. . . . Now look here, sonny." This to the new jockey. "She doesn’t like the whip. You saw what she did to her last boy?"
The jockey nodded and gulped. "All you have to do is sit on her and let her go where she wants. Then you’ll be all right."
"I wooden even get near her," the boy said, "if I didn’t have an aged mother to support."
*
The starter waved the yellow flag and the horses were off. Incubus raced neck and neck with Pamplemousse until they were a furlong from the finish line. Then she surged ahead to win by five lengths. When she rode into the winner’s circle the crowd booed, as is their pleasant custom with winning horses and jockeys.
