“They’ll not!” Kay’s voice rose sharply.  “Panchito will be off first, no matter what position he draws, and Don Mike’s orders to Allesandro will be to keep him in front.  But you are not to bet on him, father.”

“Why not?  Of course I shall bet on him.”

“You know very well, Dad, that there are no book-makers of Tia Juana to make the odds.  The Paris Mutuel system obtains here and the public makes the odds.  Consequently the more money bet on Panchito the lower will be his price.  I’m certain Don Mike will bet every dollar he has in the world on Panchito, but he will bet it, through trusted agents, in pool-rooms all over the country.  The closing price here should be such that the pool-rooms should pay Don Mike not less than fifteen to one.”

“So you’ve been his confidante, have you?” Parker scrutinized his daughter quizzically.

“He had to take somebody into his confidence in order to have his plans protected,” she confessed blushingly.

“Quite so!  Somebody with a deal of influence,” Mrs. Parker interjected.  “John, this is simply delicious.  That rascal of a Don Miguel has reverted to type.  He has put aside his Celtic and Gaelic blood and turned Mexican.  He tells people the truth about his horse and a reporter with a sense of humor has advertised these truths by writing a funny story about him and Panchito and the Indian imp.”

“They’ll have him up in the judge’s stand for an explanation five minutes after the race is won,” Danny Leighton declared.  “Panchito will be under suspicion of being a ringer and the payment of bets will be held up.”

“In which case, dad,” Kay reminded him demurely, “you and Mr. Leighton will be furnished with an excellent opportunity to prove yourselves heroes.  Both of you will go to the judge’s stand immediately and vouch for Don Mike and Panchito.  If you do not I shall—­and I fancy John Parker’s daughter’s testimony will be given some consideration, Mr. John Parker being very well known to every racing judge in America.”

“There are days,” murmured John Parker sadly, “when I find it impossible to lay up a cent.  I have nurtured a serpent in my bosom.”

“Tush!  There are no snakes in Ireland,” his humorous wife reminded him.  “What if Don Mike has hoisted you on your own petard?  Few men have done as much,” and she pinched his arm lovingly.

CHAPTER XXXII

Four days before Thanksgiving Brother Anthony returned from El Toro with Father Dominic’s little automobile purring as it had not purred for many a day, for expert mechanics had given the little car a thorough overhauling and equipped it with new tires and brake lining at the expense of Miguel Farrel.  Father Dominic looked the rejuvenated ruin over with prideful eyes and his saintly old face puckered in a smile.

“Brother Anthony,” he declared to that mildly crack-brained person, “that little conveyance has been responsible for many a furious exhibition of temper on your part.  But God is good.  He will forgive you, and has He not proved it by moving our dear Don Mike to save you from the plague of repairing it for many months to come?”