“You’re not a Mexican.  You’re an American,” the book-maker Joe cried accusingly, “although you bragged like a Mexican.”

“Quite right.  I never claimed to be a Mexican, however.  I heard about this Thanksgiving Handicap, and it seemed such a splendid opportunity to pick up a few thousand dollars that I entered my horse.  I have complied with all the rules.  This race was open to four-year-olds and up, regardless of whether they had been entered in a race previously or had won or lost a race.  Panchito’s registration will bear investigation; so will his history.  My jockey rode under an apprentice license.  May I trouble you for a settlement, gentlemen?”

“But your horse is registered under a Mexican’s name, as owner.”

“My name is Miguel Jose Maria Federico Noriaga Farrel.”

“We’ll see the judges first, Senor Farrel.”

“By all means.”

“You bet we will.  The judges smell a rat, already.  The winning numbers haven’t been posted yet.”

As Don Mike and his retinue passed the Parker box, John Parker and Danny Leighton fell in behind them and followed to the judges’ stand.  Five minutes later the anxious crowd saw Panchito’s number go up as the winner.  Don Mike’s frank explanation that he had deceived nobody, but had, by refraining from doing things in the usual manner, induced the public to deceive itself and refrain from betting on Panchito, could not be gainsaid—­particularly when an inspection of the records at the betting ring proved that not a dollar had been wagered on Panchito.

“You played the books throughout the country, Mr. Farrel?” one of the judges asked.

Don Mike smiled knowingly.  “I admit nothing,” he replied.

The testimony of Parker and Danny Leighton was scarcely needed to convince the judges that nothing illegal had been perpetrated.  When Don Mike had collected his share of the purse and the book-makers, convinced that they had been out-generaled and not swindled, had issued checks for their losses and departed, smiling, John Parker drew Farrel aside.

“Son,” he demanded, “did you spoil the Egyptians and put over a Roman holiday?”

Again Don Mike smiled his enigmatic smile.  “Well,” he admitted, “I’m ready to do a little mortgage lifting.”

“I congratulate you with all my heart.  For heaven’s sake, take up your mortgage immediately.  I do not wish to acquire your ranch—­that way.  I have never wished to, but if that droll scoundrel, Bill Conway, hadn’t managed to dig up unlimited backing to build that dam despite me, and if Panchito hadn’t cinched your case for you to-day, I would have had no mercy on you.  But I’m glad you won.  You have a head and you use it; you possess the power of decision, of initiative, you’re a sporting, kindly young gentleman and I count it a privilege to have known you.”  He thrust out his hand and Don Mike shook it heartily.

“Of course, sir,” he told Parker, “King Agrippa is a good horse, but nobody would ever think of entering him in a real classic.  I told Allesandro to be careful not to beat him too far.  The time was nothing remarkable and I do not think I have spoiled your opportunity for winning with him in the Derby.”