Mr. Watson," the jockey said as he was assisted from the horse with a dazed but beatific smile on his face, "I’m so steamed up over this win I even thought Incubus was talking to me."
The men standing around laughed. "You’ve let excitement go to your head," Godlove remarked. "Personally I would never hire a jockey who has no emotional equilibrium." The jockey reached a tentative finger toward Incubus’ nose. "Good horse," he said. "Good Incubus."
"I think you’re pretty nice yourself," Incubus murmured out of the side of her mouth. There was a stricken silence.
Reuben Godlove’s eyes narrowed. "That jockey who rode her the other day told me about your ventriloquism," he informed Watson. "Seems like a pretty cheap trick if you ask me." The others murmured agreement, color flowing back into their faces.
"Anyhow, now that she’s my horse," Godlove went on, taking possession of Incubus’ bridle. "She’s going to be trained serious."
"Now?" Incubus asked Watson. "Later," he whispered back.
"That ain’t funny, Watson," Godlove assured him. As he led Incubus off she looked back over her shoulder and winked.
"Mr. Watson," the jockey said, following him off the field, "you’re not really a ventriloquist, are you? That horse talks, doesn’t she?" Watson nodded.
"You gonna let Godlove get away with her?" The boy’s voice rose to a shrill squeak.
"I’ll claim her back in the next race."
"Yeah, but you can’t claim her back less’n you’ve entered another horse in the same race and you don’t have another horse, do you, Mr. Watson?"
Watson’s jaw dropped. "I never thought of that! What’ll I do?"
"You’ve got to get another horse, Mr. Watson. Do you have enough money?"
"Well, the purse from this race is almost two thousand, and I made another thousand betting on Incubus. And, of course, Godlove gave me four thousand for her. But that won’t be enough to buy a decent horse and maintain him—expenses are terrific."
The jockey chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. "I know what you can do," he said at length, "you can buy Prunella. She’s set at a price of five thousand dollars but her owner’s pretty disgusted with her—she has good lines but she finished last in twenty-seven starts—and I think you could have her for four thousand in cash."
Prunella, a meek-looking chestnut filly with big brown eyes and a vicious temper, was enthusiastically disposed of for four thousand and installed in Incubus’ vacant stall. Watson shed a silent tear to see Incubus’ second-best saddle hanging there on the wall.
In the dead of night he slipped into Godlove’s stable. Incubus was awake, reading the Morning Telegraph. "Look at the picture they have of me," she snapped. "Obviously taken by an enemy. Next time Watson, remember—my right profile is the best."
"I’ll remember," he promised and told her what had happened.
"You’re sure this Prunella isn’t taking my place in your affections?" she demanded severely. "That all this isn’t a subterfuge?"
"My God, no! She quits before she starts."
"All right," Incubus said. "Now, I am reliably informed by the stable grapevine that Godlove’s entering me in a six-thousand-dollar claimer. You spent almost all your money on Prunella—how’re you going to claim me?"
There was dead silence in the stable.
"These men," she sighed. "Without us females to think for them they’d be lost. The answer is simple. Prunella’s got to win that race. Then you’ll have the purse, plus whatever you can bet on her, and you’ll get good odds."
"Prunella win the race! She couldn’t beat a speedy snail."
"She’ll win the race." Incubus grinned happily.
*
The weather was clear and the track fast. Incubus was running at three to five—Prunella ninety-eight to one. Reuben Godlove appeared with his arm in a sling and a bandage on his forehead and glowered at Watson. "A fine trainer you are," he snarled.
"Let’s see how well you’ve done with her," Watson suggested, smiling amiably.
The starting gate opened and all the horses dashed out—all except Prunella, who sauntered forth and stood admiring the view. Incubus turned, ran back and nipped Prunella viciously in the forequarters. With a whinny of rage Prunella proceeded to chase Incubus, who was showing a fleet pair of heels along the track. But there were six horses between Prunella and her attacker.
With a thrust of her powerful shoulders, Incubus sent Dernier Cri staggering into the geraniums that bordered the field. She thrust a hoof into the path of Kropotkin and sent him and his rider sprawling on the track. She murmured something into Epigram’s ear and that black colt turned light grey and refused to budge another step.
There were now three horses between Incubus and Prunella. Polyhymnia suddenly started to run backward. Sir Bleoberis buried his head in the sand and pretended he didn’t notice the race was still going on. Cacliucha—who had hitherto not been known as a jumper—hurdled the rail and dashed into the crowd of astonished players.
Still Incubus ran lightly before Prunella, half a length ahead, kicking dust in her face and making irritating remarks, while the enraged filly laid her ears back and bared white teeth to snap at her rival. One length before the finish line Incubus suddenly stopped short, leaving momentum to carry Prunella over the line to victory!
Prunella had won the race. Incubus was second but was disqualified for conduct unbecoming a horse and a lady. It was never determined who had run third.
"Together again at last, Watson," Incubus said during the joyful reunion in the paddock. "Ah, but it’s been a long, long time . . ."
"Two weeks," commented the jockey, who had ridden Prunella.
"Listen, pipsqueak," Incubus told him irately. "I’ve spent the whole two weeks cooking up this speech and I don’t want a half-pint like you spoiling it. It’s been a long, long time, Watson . . ."
Prunella nickered.
"None of your lip, either,"
Incubus said. "Where would you have been if I hadn’t won your race for you? Oh, you can run if you want to, can you? Ha! Ha! Plater!"
Prunella neighed angrily.
"Okay, Watson’ll enter you in a claimer without me and we’ll see what you can do." She turned toward her owner. "And now, Watson, I trust you have a hot tub prepared. I’m so-o-o-o tired . . ."
*
The racing secretary entered Incubus for an allowance with some misgivings. "But if she behaves again this time the way she did last she’s out, Watson. Suspended—disqualified! Can’t have that sort of thing going on, you know."
"She’s actually the most tractable of horses, sir," Watson assured him. "It’s merely that Mr. Godlove didn’t know how to handle her."
"Oh—ah,"
