half than I could; it's the Indian, an' why they're puttin'
up the startin' price beats me, unless"--and he lowered his voice to a
whisper--"there's a job to carry Lauzanne, or White Moth, or somethin'
off their feet. Just watch the Indian, an' don't let him shut you in on
the rail if you can help it. They've put up Redpath, an' that beats
me, too, for I think he's straight. But the Indian hasn't a ghost of a
chance to win. You'd better take a whip."

"I don't want either whip or spurs," answered the girl. "Lauzanne will
do better without them."

"I know that, but take a whip--something else in the race might need it;
an' if you have to use it, use it good an' strong. If Langdon lodges an
objection I can make him quit."

Over at The Dutchman's stall there was a very confident party. Their
horse would go to the post as fit as any thoroughbred had ever stripped.
Langdon was a great trainer--there was no doubt about that; if there had
been Crane would have discovered it and changed his executive officer.
The tall son of Hanover was lean of flesh, but gross in muscle. He was
as though an Angelo had chiseled with sure hand from his neck, and ribs,
and buttocks all the marble of useless waste, and left untouched
in sinewy beauty layer on layer, each muscle, and thew, and cord.
Flat-boned and wide the black-glossed legs, and over the corded form
a silken skin of dull fire-red. From the big eyes gleamed an expectant
delight of the struggle; not sluggishly indifferent, as was Lauzanne's,
but knowing of the fray and joyous in its welcome.

"He'll win on a tight rein," confided Langdon to Jockey Westley; "he's
the greatest Hanover in the land. There's a dozen races bottled up in
that carcass"--and he slapped the big Bay lovingly on the rump"--but if
you're put to it, Bill, you can call on him fer the full dozen today.
There's nothin' to it but yourself and White Moth."

Carelessly he stepped to the back of the stall, touching Westley as he
passed. Kicking the loose dirt with his toes, and bending his head to
bury his voice, Langdon continued in a subdued tone: "The Indian'll cut
out the pace so fast that it'll choke off Lauzanne. The Chestnut's a
plugger an' ain't no good when it comes to gallopin'. If you was to all
loaf aroun' he might hang on an' finish in front; but the pace'll kill
him--it'll break his heart; the fast goin'll lay out White Moth, too,
for she'll go to the front an' die away after a mile an' a quarter. Jus