hand, for he lashed out furiously, with a great farreaching
leg that nearly caught Crane unawares.

"Your polite language seems to be as irritating to him as the
blacksmith's oaths," ejaculated Crane, as he came back from the hasty
retreat he had beaten.

"It's only play. Good horses is of two kinds when you're saddlin' 'em.
The Dutchman there'll hang his head down, and champ at the bit, even
if you bury the girt' an inch deep in his belly; he's honest, and knows
it's all needed. That's one kind; and they're generally the same at the
post, always there or thereabouts, waitin' for the word 'go.' An' they
race pretty much the same all the time. If you time 'em a mile in 1:40
at home, they'll do it when the colors is up, an' the silk a-flappin'
all about 'em in the race.

"Whoa! Hold still, you brute! Steady, steady! Whoa!" This to Diablo, for
while talking he had adjusted the weight cloth with the gentleness of a
cavalier putting a silk wrap about his lady love's neck, and had put a
fold of soft woolen cloth over the high-boned wither.

"Stand out in front of him and hold his head down a bit;" this to the
boy. Then as he slipped the saddle into place and reached underneath
for the girths, he continued his address to Crane on the peculiarity of
racers.

"Now this is a horse of another color, this one; he ain't takin' things
easy at no stage of the game. He objects to everything, an' some day
that'll land him a winner, see? He'll get it into his head that the
other horses want to beat him out, an' he'll show 'em a clean pair of
heels; come home on the bit, pullin' double. Whoa, boy! Steady, steady,
old man!" Then he ceased talking, for he had taken the girth strap
between his teeth, and was cinching up the big Black with the firm pull
of a grizzly. Diablo squirmed under the torture of the tightening web on
his sensitive skin, and crouched as though he would fall on the Trainer.

"Yes, sir;" continued Langdon, as he ran the stirrups up under the
saddle flap out of the way, and motioned to the boy to lead Diablo
about. "Yes, sir; this fellow's different. He's too damn sensitive.
At the post he's like as not to act like a locoed broncho, an' get one
blamed for having 'juiced' him, but he don't need no dope; what he needs
is steadying. If he gets away in front, them long legs of his will
take some catchin'. He's the kind that wins when the books are layin' a
hundred to one against him. But the worst of it is with his sort