Thoroughbreds | Page 7

the same," said Porter. Then he proceeded on his way toward stall five, in which was Lauzanne.
"How are you, Mr. Porter?"
It was Philip Crane, standing just outside of the stall, who thus addressed him. "Got something running today?" he continued, with vague innocence.
Langdon, just inside the box, chuckled softly. Surely Crane was a past master in duplicity.
"I'm starting Lucretia in this race," replied Honest John.
"Oh!" Then Crane took Porter gently by the sleeve and drew him half within the stall. "Mr. Langdon, who trains a horse or two for me, says this one'll win;" and he indicated the big chestnut colt that the Trainer was binding tight to a light racing saddle. "You'd better have a bit on, Mr. Porter," Crane added.
"Lucretia carries my money," answered Porter in loyalty.
Langdon looked up, having cinched the girth tight, and took a step toward the two men.
"Well, we both can't win," he said, half insolently; "an' I don't think there's anything out to-day'll beat Lauzanne."
"That mare'll beat him," retorted Porter, curtly, nettled by the other's cocksureness.
"I'll bet you one horse against the other, the winner to take both," cried Langdon in a sneering, defiant tone.
"I've made my bets," said Lucretia's owner, quietly.
"I hear you had an offer of five thousand for your filly, Mr. Porter," half queried Crane.
"I did, and I refused it."
"And here's the one that'll beat her to-day, an' I'll sell him for half that," asserted the Trainer, putting his hand on Lauzanne's neck.
Exasperated by the persistent boastfulness of Langdon, Porter was angered into saying, "If he beats my mare, I'll give you that for him myself."
"Done!" snapped Langdon. "I've said it, an' I'll stick to it."
"I don't want the horse--" began Porter; but Langdon interrupted him.
"Oh, if you want to crawl"
"I never crawl," said Porter fiercely. "I don't want your horse, but just to show you what I think of your chance of winning, I'll give you two thousand and a half if you beat my mare, no matter what wins the race."
"I think you'd better call this bargain off, Mr. Porter," remonstrated Crane.
"Oh, the bargain will be off," answered John Porter; "if I'm any judge, Lauzanne's running his race right here in the stall."
His practiced eye had summed up Lauzanne as chicken-hearted; the sweat was running in little streams down the big Chestnut's legs, and dripping from his belly into the drinking earth spit-spit, drip-drip; his head was high held in nervous apprehension; his lips twitched, his flanks trembled like wind-distressed water, and the white of his eye was showing ominously.
Langdon cast a quick, significant, cautioning look at Crane as Porter spoke of the horse; then he said, "You're a fair judge, an' if you're right you get all the stuff an' no horse."
"I stand to my bargain whatever happens," Porter retorted.
At that instant the bugle sounded.
"Get up, Westley," Langdon said to his jockey, "they're going out."
As he lifted the boy to the saddle, the Trainer whispered a few concise directions.
"Hold him steady at the post," he muttered; "I've got him a bit on edge to-day. Get off in front and stay there; he's feelin' good enough to leave the earth. This'll be a matter of a couple of hundred to you if you win."
"All out! all out!" called the voice, of the paddock offcial. "Number one!" then, "Come on you, Wesltey! they're all out."
The ten starters passed in stately procession from the green-swarded paddock through an open gate to the soft harrowed earth, gleaming pink- brown in the sunlight, of the course. How consciously beautiful the thoroughbreds looked! The long sweeping step; the supple bend of the fetlock as it gave like a wire spring under the weight of great broad quarters, all sinewy strength and tapered perfection; the stretch of gentle-curved neck, sweet-lined as a greyhound's, bearing a lean, bony head, set with two great jewels of eyes, in which were honesty and courage, and eager longing for the battle of strength and stamina, and stoutness of heart; even the nostrils, with a red transparency as of silk, spread and drank eagerly the warm summer air that was full of the perfume of new-growing clover and green pasture-land.
Surely the spectacle of these lovely creatures, nearest to man in their thoughts and their desires, and superior in their honesty and truth, was a sight to gladden the hearts of kings. Of a great certainty it was a sport of kings; and also most certainly had it at times come into the hands of highway robbers.
Some such bitter thought as this came into the heart of John Porter as he stood and watched his beautiful brown mare, Lucretia, trailing with stately step behind the others. He loved good horses with all the fervor of his own strong, simple, honest nature. Their walk was a delight to him, their roaring