Thoroughbreds | Page 7

but there's a boy ridin' in dat bunch to-day w'at got six hundred for
t'rowing me down once, see? S'elp me God! he pulled Blue Smoke to a
standstill on me, knowin' that it would break me. That was at Coney
Island, two years ago."
"And you don't remember his name, I suppose, Mike?"
"I don't remember not'in' but that I got it in th' neck. But ye keep yer
eye open, sir. Ye t'ink that none of the b'ys would t'row ye down cause
ye've been good to 'em; but some of 'em are that mean they'd steal th'
sugar from a fly. I know 'em. I hears 'em talk, cause they don't mind
me--t'ink I'm one of th' gang."
"Thank you very much, Gaynor; I appreciate your kindly warning; but I
hope you're mistaken, all 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