pathos of scorn he continued:

"Ye'r Carson the Stharter--Mister Carson! S'help me, Bob! ye couldn't
sthart a sthreet car down hill wit' bot' brakes off!"

Carson ceased to smile; the smile had passed to other faces, the owners
of which were listening with fiendish delight to the castigation.

Some one touched Mike on the arm, saying, "Come over into the paddock,
Gaynor; you're barkin' up the wrong tree." It was Dixon.

"Bot' t'umbs up! This game's too tough fer me--I'll ship me plugs to
Gravesend. Whin a straight man like Porther gets a deal av this kind"

"Never mind, Mike," interrupted Dixon; "let it drop."

Carson opened his lips to retort, then closed them tight, set his square
jaw firmly, turned on his heel, and walked away.

"What d' ye think av it, b'ys?" appealed Mike to the others.

"You're wrong, Gaynor," declared a thin, tall, hawkfaced man, who was in
his shirt sleeves; "my boy was in that run, and it isn't Carson's fault
at all. It's dope, Mike. Lauzanne was fair crazy with it at the post;
and McKay was dead to the world on the little mare--the Starter couldn't
get him away."

"That's right, Mike," added Dixon; "Carson fined the boy fifty, an' the
Stewards set him down."