Empty pockets, safe owner." And that was all.

Bud sifted tobacco into the paper, rolled it into a cigarette and smoked it to so short a stub that he burnt his lips.
Then he dropped it beside his foot and ground it into the sand while he talked.
He would run Smoky no more that day, he declared, but next Sunday he would give them all a chance to settle their minds and win back their losings, providing his horse's ankle didn't go bad again with to-day's running.

Pop, Dave, Jeff and a few other wise ones examined the weak ankle and disagreed over the exact cause and nature of the weakness.

It seemed all right.

Smoky did not flinch from rubbing, though he did lift his foot away from strange hands.