Thoroughbreds | Page 6

down toward her his trainer, Andy Dixon, came forward a few
paces to meet him.
"Are they hammerin' Crane's horse in the ring, sir?" he asked,
smoothing down the grass with the toe of one foot, watching this
physical process with extreme interest.
"Just what you'd notice," replied Porter. "Why?"
"Well, I don't like the look of it a little bit. Here's this Lauzanne runs
like a dog the last time out--last by the length of a street--and now I've
got it pretty straight they're out for the stuff."
"They'd a stable-boy up on him that time."
"That's just it," cried Dixon. "Grant comes to me that day--you know
Grant, he works the commission for Dick Langdon--and tells me to
leave the horse alone; and to-day he comes and--" he hesitated.
"And what?"
"Tells me to go light on our mare."
"Isn't Grant broke?" asked Porter, with seeming irrelevance.
"He's close next it," answered the Trainer.
"Aren't his friends that follow him all broke?"
"A good many of them have their address in Queer Street."
"Look here, Andy," said the owner, "there isn't a man with a horse in
this stake that doesn't think he's going to win; and when it's all over
we'll see Lucretia's number go up. Grant's a fool," he added, viciously.
"Didn't he break Fisher-didn't he break every other man that ever stuck
to him?"
"It's not Grant at all," replied Dixon, rubbing the palms of his hands
together thoughtfully--a way he had when he wished to concentrate in
concrete form the result of some deep cogitation--"it's Langdon, an' he's
several blocks away from an asylum."
"Langdon makes mistakes too."
"He cashes in often when he's credited with a mistake," retorted the
other.
"Well, I've played the little mare," asserted Porter.
"Much, sir?" asked Dixon, solicitously.

"All I can stand--and a little more," he added, falteringly; "I needed a
win, a good win," he offered, in an explanatory voice. "I want to clear
Ringwood--but never mind about that, Andy. The mare's well--ain't she?
There can't be anything doing with McKay--we've only put him up a
few times, but he seems all right."
"I think we'll win," answered the Trainer; "I didn't get anythin'
straight--just that there seemed a deuced strong tip on Lauzanne,
considerin' that he'd never showed any form to warrant it. Yonder he is,
sir, in number five--go and have a look at him."
As John Porter walked across the paddock a horseman touched the
fingers of his right hand to his cap. There was a half-concealed look of
interest in the man's eye that Porter knew from experience meant
something.
"What do you know, Mike?" he asked, carelessly, only half halting in
his stride.
"Nottin' sir; but dere's somebody in de know dis trip. Yer mare's a good
little filly, w'en she's right, but ye'r up against it."
Porter stopped and looked at the horseman. He was Mike Gaynor, a
trainer, and more than once Porter had stood his friend. Mike always
had on hand three or four horses of inconceivable slowness, and
uncertainty of wind and limb; consequently there was an ever-recurring
inability to pay feed bills, so he had every chance to know just who was
his friend and who was not, for he tried them most sorely.
Porter knew all this quite well; also that in spite of Mike's chronic
impecuniosity he was honest, and true as steel to a benefactor. He
waited, feeling sure that Gaynor had something to tell.
"There's a strong play on Lauzanne, ain't there, sir?"
Porter nodded.
"Sure t'ing! That Langdon's a crook. I knowed him when he was ridin'
on freight cars; now he's a swell, though he's a long sprint from bein' a
gentleman. I got de tip dat dere was a killin' on, an' I axed Dick
Langdon if dere was anyt'ing doin'; an' Dick says to me, says he, puttin'
hot' t'umbs up"--and Mike held both hands out horizontally with the
thumbs stiff and vertical to illustrate this form of oath--"'there's nottin'
doin', Mike,' says he. What d'ye t'ink of that, sir, an' me knowin' there
was?" asked Mike, tragically.
"It's the biggest tip that always falls down, Gaynor; and they've got to

be pretty swift to beat Lucretia."
"That filly's all right; she's worked out well enough to do up that field
of stiffs. I ain't no rail bird, but I've hed me eye on her. But I ain't doin'
no stunt about horses, Mister Porter; I'm talkin' about men. Th' filly's
honest, and ye'r honest sir, but ye don't roide th' mare yerself, do ye?"
"You think, Mike--" began Mr. Porter, questioningly; but Gaynor
interrupted him with: "I don't think nothin', sir, an' I ain't sayin' nothin.
I ain't never been before the Stewards yet for crooked work, or crooked
talk;