"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.
"A popular figure, eh?" Incubus sneered. "Tcba!"
"Y’know, 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