that he had twenty pounds the best
of it, he should have held his own the whole route to be a stayer, for
the colt isn't more'n half ready yet."

"I didn't hustle him none too much, sir; I might a-squeezed a bit more
out of him. Did we make fair time?"

"Quite a feeler, Mister Jockey," thought Langdon to himself; "it's news
you want, eh?" Then he answered aloud, with a diplomacy born of many
years of turf tuition: "Fairish sort of time; it might have been better,
perhaps--a shade under two-twelve. I thought they might have bettered
that a couple of seconds. But they'll come on--they'll come on, both of
them. If anybody asks you, Westley, The Dutchman was beaten off, see?
I don't like to discourage the clever owners that has good 'uns in
the Derby" Then he added as a sort of after thought, and with wondrous
carelessness:

"It doesn't matter about the Black, you know; he's only a sellin'
plater, so it doesn't matter. But all the same, Westley, when we find a
soft spot for him, an over-night sellin' purse or somethin, you'll have
the leg up, with a bet down for you at a long price, see?"

"I understand, sir."

By the time Langdon had slipped the saddle from Diablo's back the boy
had thrown a hooded blanket over him, and he was led away. "Send them
home, Westley. Now, Mr. Crane, we'll drive back to the house an' have a
bit of lunch."

As they drove along Crane brought up the subject of the trial.

"The colt must be extra good, Langdon, or the Black is--well, as he was
represented to be, not much account."

"I guess Diablo's about good enough to win a big handicap, if he
happened to be in one at a light weight."

"He didn't win to-day."

"He came pretty near it."

"But where would he have been carrying his proper weight?"

"About where he was, I guess."

"You said as a four-year-old he should have had up a hundred and
twenty-six, and he carried a hundred and twelve; and, besides, had the
best boy by seven pounds on his back."

"Just pass me that saddle, Mr. Crane," said Langdon, by way of answer.
"No; not that--the one I took off Diablo."

Crane reached down his hand, but the saddle didn't come quite as freely
as it should have. "What's it caught in?" he asked, fretfully.

"In itself, I reckon--lift it." "Gad! it's heavy. Did Diablo carry that?
What's in it?"

"Lead-built into it; it's my old fiddle, you know. You're the first man
that's had his hand on that saddle for some time, I can tell you."

"Th