list. Even Diablo, bad horse as he was supposed to be, was at a shorter
price; the heavy outlay of his owner, and some intangible rumors having
caused the bookmakers to feel inclined to hold him close up against
their chests. His work since his trial with The Dutchman had been quite
satisfactory. He looked upon Westley, the jockey, as a friend, and
strode along in his gallops as though he had never sulked or shown
temper in his life.

Favoritism for the Brooklyn was divided between The King, a
five-year-old that had won it the year before, and White Moth, a
three-year-old, winner of the last year's Futurity. Jockey Redpath had
been riding Lucretia in her gallops since she had come to Gravesend.
At last Dixon had been singularly fortunate in the matter of jockeys.
Redpath was just making his reputation, making it as all jockey
reputations are made, by winning races.

This somewhat unstudied factor in racing had loomed large on his
mental vision. It might be possible to acquire a reputation in other
professions by good fortune or favor. As a jockey, a light weight might
possibly make money by dishonest methods, though that itself seemed
doubtful, but there was no way to rise to the top of the tree except by
riding winners; verily there was one royal road to fame in the field.
Knowing all this, Redpath rode to win.

On the 22d Dixon gave Lucretia a good strong three-quarter gallop over
the handicap course; on the 23d she had a quiet canter; and on the
morning of the 24th, the eventful day, she poked her mouse-brown nozzle
over the bar of her stall when Allis came to look at her and seemed to
say, "I'll do my part to-day."

Nothing could have been wished for in Lucretia's appearance that wasn't
there, except just the faint suspicion of a sacrifice of strength to
speed. But if the frame wasn't there, the good strong heart was; the
courage and the gentleness, and the wisdom, and the full glow of perfect
health.

For hours the trains had borne to Long Island crowd after crowd of
eager, impatient New Yorkers. Lovers of horses, lovers of gambling, pure
and simple; holiday makers, and those who wished to see the Brooklyn
run out of sheer curiosity; train after train whirled these atoms of
humanity to the huge gates of the Gravesend arena, wherein were to
battle that day the picked thoroughbreds, old and young.

Even like bees, black-coated and buzzing, the eager ones swarmed from
the cars and rehived in the great stand. B