at all just," explained Mike; "he's bluffin', that's
all. Shure a child could handle him if they'd only go the right way
about it."

Then he leaned over and whispered in an aside to the visitors--"Bot'
t'umbs up!" (this was Mike's favorite oath). "Diablo hates that b'y an'
some day he'll do him up, mark my words."

"Here, Shandy," he cried, turning to the rubber, "loose the Black's head
an' turn him 'round."

Mortimer almost shrank with apprehension for the boy, for Diablo's ears
were back on his flat, tapering neck, and his eyes looking back at them,
were all white, save for the intense blue-shimmered pupil. To Mortimer
that look was the incarnation of evil hatred. But the boy unsnapped
the halter-shank without hesitation, and Diablo, more inquisitive than
angry, came mincingly toward them, nodding his head somewhat defiantly,
as much as to say that the nature of the interview would depend
altogether upon their good behavior.

"See that!" ejaculated Mike, a pleasant smile of satisfaction rippling
the furrows of his face; "see how he picks out the best friend the
stable's got."

Diablo had stretched his lean head down, and was trying to nibble with
gentle lip the carrot Allis held half hidden behind her skirt. There
was none of Lucretia's timidity in Diablo's approach; it was full of an
assumption of equality, of trust in the intentions of the stranger who
had come with the mistress he hart faith in.

"They're all like that when Miss Allis is about," explained Mike; "there
never would be a bad horse if the stable-b'ys worked the same way. Tie
him up, Shandy," he added. "Even the jockeys spoil their mounts," Gaynor
continued in a monotone; "the horse'll gallop better for women any
time--they treat thim gentler, that's why."

"Most interesting," hazarded Mortimer, feeling some acknowledgment of
Mike's information was due.

"It's the trut'. Miss Allis'd take Lauzanne, or the Black, or the little
mare, an' get a better race out av thim than any jock I've seen ridin'
hereabout."

"Mike," exclaimed Allis, "you flatter me; you almost make me wish that I
were a jockey."

"Well, bot' t'umbs up! Ye'd av made a good un, Miss, an' that's no
disrespect to ye, I'm sayin'."

Mortimer smiled condescendingly. Allis's quick eye caught his expression
of amused discontent; it angered her. Mike's praise had been practically
honest. To him a good jockey was the embodiment of courage and honesty
and intelligence; but she knew