. The delicate olive of her cheeks
was hidden under a more than liberal allowance of good agricultural
cosmetique. It had been well rubbed in, too, made of a plastic adherence
by the addition of mucilage.

"Lord, what a doirty face!" exclaimed Mike. "But ye kin ride, b'y; so
dirt don't count; clean ridin's the thing."

If Allis hadn't laughed in his face, being full of the happiness of
hope, Mike would not have recognized her--even then he didn't hit it off
quite right.

"Alan Porter!" he gasped. "Bot' t'umbs up! Is it ye, b'y?"

"Hush!" and a small warning finger was held up.

"Don't fear, b'y, that I'll give it away. Mum's the word wit' me. But
I'm dahmned if I t'ought ye could roide like that. It's jus' in the
breed, that's what it is; ye take to it as natural as ducks--" Mike had
a habit of springing half-finished sentences on his friends. "Yer father
could roide afore ye; none better, an' Miss Allis can sit a horse foiner
nor any b'y as isn't a top-notcher. But this beats me, t'umbs up, if it
doesn't. I onderstand," he continued, as Allis showed an inclination
to travel, "ye don't want the push to get on to ye. They won't,
nayther--what did ye say yer name was, sonny?"

"Al Mayne."

"Ye'r a good b'y, Al. I hope Dixon lets ye roide the Chestnut in the
Derby. I'd give wan av me legs--an' I needs 'em bot'--to see ye beat out
that gang av highway robbers that got at the mare. They'll not git at
the Chestnut, for I'll slape in the stall me self."

As Allis moved away, Mike stood watching the neat figure.

"That's the game, eh?" he muttered to himself; "the gal don't trust
Redpath no more'n I do; palaver don't cut no ice wit' her. The b'y
didn't finish on Lucretia, an' that's all there is to it. But how's Alan
goin' to turn the trick in a big field of rough ridin' b'ys? If it was
the gurl herself" a sudden brilliant idea threw its strong light through
Mike's brain pan. He took a dozen quick shuffling steps after Allis, then
stopped as suddenly as he had started. "Mother a' Moses! but I believe
it's the gurl; that's why the Chestnut galloped as if he had her on
his back. Jasus! he had. Ph-e-e-w-w!" he whistled, a look of intense
admiration sweeping over his leather-like face. "Bot' t'umbs! if that
isn't pluck. There isn't a soul but meself'll git ontil it, an' she all
but fooled me."

XXXII

The news that Lucretia was sick had got about. The Porter's stable
traveled out in the betting for the Brookly