it, but don't go to the bat.
Diablo an' The Dutchman don't need no whip to give us about the best
they've got."

"All right, sir," answered Westley. "If I'm a judge, when the Black's
through pullin', he's done racin', 'cause he's a keen one, so there
won't be no call to put the bud to him. If any of the rail birds is
lookin' they'll think we're goin' under a strong wrap, even when we're
all out."

Lang don nodded his head. He was a man not given to exuberant
appreciation. The boys averred that when Dick Langdon didn't curse at
them they had done pretty well, indeed.

"What's your weight?" he asked of Westley, abruptly.

"I've just tipped the scales at a hundred-and-three in my sweater."

"One hundred and three," mused the Trainer, making a mental calculation.
"What's Colley's weight?"

"He's as near a hundred as you can make it."

"Did you bring over a saddle?"

"Yes; two of 'em; one apiece for the horses."

"Tell Colley to take one, and some leads, and weigh out a hundred and
twelve. That'll be three pounds above the scale for May, weight for age,
for the three-year-old, The Dutchman. I guess he won't need more'n seven
pounds dead weight, for it's a five-pound saddle, I think. Let me see,
you said a hundred and three, you were."

"Yes, sir; in the sweater; I can take that off--"

"No; never mind. Take this saddle," and he lifted one from the buggy;
"it'll just suit Diablo; he's got a herring-bone of a wither, an' this
is high in the tree, an' won't cut him. Here's the cloth an' some
leads; weigh out a hundred and twelve too. Weight for age--Diablo's a
four-year-old; you ought to carry a hundred and twenty-six, but he's not
The Dutchman's class, an' the ycungster'd lose him before they'd gone
half the journey. We'll run 'em at level weights, an' he'll get closer
to The Dutchman, an' the sharks won't have such a fairy tale to tell
about our horse."

"A hundred and twelve, you said, sir?" queried Westley, as he put the
saddle that Langdon handed him over his left arm, slipped the thin
sheets of lead in his pocket, and stood dangling the linen weight cloth
in his right hand.

"Yes; level weights--a hundred an' twelve pounds."

"Westley," the Trainer called as the little man started off, "just bring
the saddle back to me here when you've weighed. I'll put it on Diablo
myself; he's a touchy cuss, and I don't want him ruffled by careless
handlin'."

"You take considerable trouble over it," remarked Crane.