"I wouldn't bet much, if I were you," he advised her seriously.

"I will bet every dollar I can. That's what the boys are doing, and
they're good judges of a horse."

"I think Dorgan is a better one."

"What does he know about Flambeau?" she asked.

"He seems to be satisfied with knowing Chief."

A little line came between Kathleen's eyes, but she shook her head.
"Flambeau carries all the money we can get up."

Angus having given her his advice said no more, and went to have a final
look at Chief.

"I've had Dave bet my roll for me," Dorgan told him. "I ain't a regular
rider no more, and I need the money. Barring accidents, Chief wins
handy."

"The Frenches are just as sure of Flambeau."

"Yeh," Dorgan replied calmly. "I just seen the boy burglar that's ridin'
for 'em. There's tracks he couldn't work on, but I ain't makin' no kick.
If he puts anything over on me, it'll be new stuff. But I guess they
figure they got the race won in the stable."

When Flambeau came on the track, Angus admitted to himself that he
justified Kathleen's confidence. Knowing quite well what he had to do,
the horse was eager. Up on his withers crouched a hard-faced boy in
maroon and silver, who eyed the other horses and riders with cool
contempt.

But Chief was being led through the gate, and up on his back flashed
Dorgan's old black-and-yellow silk. The big horse stepped forward,
looking at track and crowd with surprised and inquiring but quite calm
eyes. Dorgan patted his neck and spoke to him, and he came past the
stand in the long, singing, stretching canter which was deceptive by its
very ease. Angus looked at Kathleen.

"He's a grand horse!" she admitted, and once more the little line lay
between her eyes.

It became evident at the start that it was a fight between Dorgan and
French's boy. Neither would concede the slightest advantage. Both were
warned. As they wheeled back, after half a dozen abortive starts,
French's boy was spitting insults from the corner of his mouth, and old
Dorgan was grinning at him. Side by side, watching each other like
boxers, they wheeled and came down on the line. Crouched, arms extended,
the harried starter caught the bunch fair at last.

"G'wan!" he yelled as his flag swept. "G'wan outa here!" And the dust of
the flurrying hoofs hid him.

At the turn Flambeau was running third, and slightly behind and a little
wide and thus out of a possible danger zone, was the black and yellow.
But in