"One would
think it was a big handicap you meant to capture this morning."

Langdon started visibly. Was Crane thinking of the Brooklyn? Did this
quiet, clever man sitting at his elbow already know as much as he hoped
to discover in his present gallop?

He answered: "Handicaps is usually won pretty much like this; they're
generally settled before the horse goes to the post for the trip itself.
When he goes through the paddock gate the day of the big race he's
out of his trainer's hands; the man's got no more to do with the race
himself than a kid sittin' up in the grand stand. Here's where I come
in, if we mean to land the Brooklyn," and he looked searchingly at
Crane, a misleading grin on his lips. But the latter simply joined in
the laugh, doubtingly, perhaps.

"A hundred and twelve, neat," declared Westley, as he returned, throwing
some loose leads into the buggy. "Colley's gone to saddle The Dutchman."

"All right," answered Langdon, getting down from the seat and taking
the saddle. "Go and tell the boy to bring Diablo out of the stall. I'll
saddle him in the open. He generally kicks the boards when I cinch him
up, an' it puts him in a bad humor."

Langdon started off with the jockey, but turned back, saying, "Oh, Mr.
Crane, I wanted to ask you--"

By this he had reached the buggy, while Westley continued on his way to
the stalls.

"It's a fine day, sir," continued Langdon, finishing his sentence,
and exchanging the saddle held in his hand for the one that was in the
buggy.

"Going to put the other on?" asked Crane.

"Yes; I fancy Diablo will like this better. Touchy brutes, these race
horses; got to humor 'em. Come on over to the stalls--the horse'll
stand."

Diablo was being led around in a small circle by his boy. He was a
magnificent creature, sixteen and a half hands high, and built on the
same grand scale; perhaps a bit leggy for the huge barrel that topped
the limbs; that was what caused him to go wrong in his younger days. His
black skin glistened in the noonday sun.

"That's what I call the mirror of health," said Langdon, in an unwonted
burst of poetic eloquence, as he passed his hand across the horse's
ribs. Then feeling that somehow he had laid himself open to a suspicion
of gentleness, added, "He's a hell of a fine looker; if he could gallop
up to his looks he'd make some of the cracks take a back seat."

Even Diablo had resented either the mellifluous comparison or the rub
of Langdon's