The two boys cantered their mounts down to the quarter post carelessly, as though they were going around to the far side.

“Look at 'em!” cried the Trainer; “isn't he a little gentleman?”

To the uninitiated this might have been taken as a tribute to one of the boys, Westley, perhaps; but the Trainer was not even thinking of them. They were of no moment. It was the wine-red bay, The Dutchman, cantering with gentle, lazy grace, that had drawn forth this encomium. His head, somewhat high carried, was held straight and true in front, and his big eyes searched the course with gentle inquisitiveness, for others of his kind, perhaps.

“He's a lovely horse,” commented Crane, knowing quite well to what Langdon referred.

“He's all that, but just look at the other devil.”

Diablo was throwing his nose fretfully up and down, up and down; grabbing at the bit; pirouetting from one side the course to the other; nearly pulling Westley over his neck one minute, as with lowered head he sought to break away, and the next dashing forward for a few yards with it stuck foolishly high, like a badmouthed Indian cayuse.

“But Westley'll manage him,” Langdon confided to Crane, after a period of silent observation; “he'll get his belly full of runnin' when he's gone a mile and a quarter with The Dutchman. Gad! that was neat; here they come;” for the two boys had whirled with sudden skill at the quarter post, and broke away, with Diablo slightly in the lead. “My God! he can move,” muttered Langdon, abstractedly, and quite to himself. The man at his side had floated into oblivion. He saw only a great striding black horse coming wide-mouthed up the stretch. At the Black's heels, with dogged lope, hung the Bay.

“Take him back, take him back, Westley!” yelled Langdon, leaning far out over the rail, as the horses raced by, Diablo well in front.

The Trainer's admonition seemed like a cry to a cyclone, as void of usefulness. What power could the tiny dot lying close hugged far up on the straining black neck have over the galloping fiend?

“Yes, that's the way,” Langdon said, nodding his head to Crane, and jerking a thumb out toward the first turn in the course, where the two horses were hugging close to the rail; “that's the way he's worked here.”

“Which one?” asked his companion.

“The Black, an' if he ever does that in a race—God help the others—they'll never catch him; they'll never catch him; they'll never catch him,” he kept repeating, dwelling lovingly on the thought, as he saw the confirmation of it being enacted before his eyes; for across the new green of the grass-sprouted course he could see two open lengths of daylight between Diablo and The Dutchman.

“Fifty-one and a half for the half-mile,” he imparted to Crane, looking at his watch. “Now The Dutchman is moving up; Colley doesn't mean to get left if he can help it. I'm afraid Diablo'll shut up when he's pinched; his kind are apt to do that. The Dutchman is game, an' if he ever gets to the Black's throat-latch he'll chuck it. But it takes some ridin'; it takes some ridin', sir.” He was becoming enthusiastic, exuberant. The silent man at his side noticed the childish repetition with inward amusement. He had thought that Langdon would have been overjoyed to see the bay horse smother his opponent. Was not the Trainer to have ten thousand dollars if The Dutchman won the Handicap? But here he was pinning his satisfaction to the good showing of Diablo. He didn't know of the compact between Langdon and the Bookmaker Faust, but he strongly suspected from the Trainer's demeanor that the gallop he was witnessing foretold some big coup the latter scented.

“He hasn't got him yet, he hasn't got him yet!” cried Langdon, joyfully, as the horses swung around the bottom turn, closer locked, but with Diablo still a short length in the lead.

Crane saw no great cause for exhilaration. The Dutchman was certainly giving the Black twenty pounds the best of it in the weights, for one was a three-year-old while the other was four, and they each carried a hundred and twelve.

“The mile in 1:42,” chirped Langdon. “That's movin', if you like, considerin' the track, the condition of the horses, an' that they're runnin' under a double wrap. Now we'll see a ding-dong finish, if the Black doesn't show a streak of yellow. Dutchy's got him,” he added, as through his glasses he saw them swing into the straight, neck and neck.

“Clever Mr. Westlev!” for Diablo's rider, having the rail and the lead, had bored out slightly on the turn, so as not to cramp the uncertain horse he rode, and carried The Dutchman wide.

Up the straight they came, the boys helping their mounts with leg and arm; the Black holding his own with a dogged persistence that quite upset Langdon's prognostication of cowardice.

To the watchers it was as exciting as a stake race. The stamina that Langdon had said would stand The Dutchman in good stead over the mile and a half Handicap course now showed itself. First he was level with the Black, then gradually, stride by stride, he drew away from Diablo, and finished a short length in front.

“A great trial,” cried the Trainer, gleefully, holding out his watch for Crane's inspection. “See that!” pointing to the hand he had stopped as the Bay's brown nozzle flashed by the post; “two-nine on this course! Anything that beats that pair, fit and well, a mile and a quarter on a fast track'll have to make it in two-five, an' that's the record.”

“It looks good business for the Derby, Langdon.”

“Yes, it does. That's the first showing I've had from the colt as a three-year-old; but I knew he had it in him. Hanover was a great horse—to my mind we never had his equal in America—but this youngster'll be as good as his daddy ever was. I don't think you ought to start him, sir, till the Derby, if you're set on winnin' it.”

He had moved up to the gate as he talked, and now opened it, waiting for the boys to come back. They had eased down the horses gradually after the fierce gallop, turned them about and were trotting toward the paddock, where stood the two men. Langdon took Diablo by the bridle rein and led him in toward the stalls.

“How did he shape under you, Westley?” he asked, as the boy slipped from the saddle.

“I wouldn't ask to ride a better horse. I thought I had the colt beaten, sure; but my mount seemed to tire a little at the finish. He didn't toss it up, not a bit of it; ran as game as a pebble; he just tired at the finish. I think a mile is his journey. He held The Dutchman safe at a mile.”

“I guess you're right, Westley; a mile's his limit. At level weights with the three-year-old, which means 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.”

“Then Diablo did carry his full weight,” commented Crane, a light breaking in upon him.

“Just about, and carried it like a stake horse, too.”

“And you—”

“Yes; I changed the saddles after Westley weighed. He's a good boy, and don't shoot off his mouth much, but all the same things will out while ridin' boys have the power of speech.”

“It looks as though Diablo had something in him,” said Crane, meditatively.

“He's got the Brooklyn in him. Fancy The Dutchman in at seventy pounds; that's what it comes to. Diablo's got ninety to carry, an' he gave the other twenty pounds to-day. You've got the greatest thing on earth right in your hands now—”

Langdon hesitated for a minute, and then added: “But I guess you knew this all before, or you wouldn't have sent him here.”

“I bought him for a bad horse,” answered Crane, quietly; “but if he turns out well, that's so much to the good. But it's a bit of luck Porter's not having declared him out to save nearly a hundred. He seems to have raced pretty loose.”

“I wonder if he thinks I'm taking in that fairy tale?” thought Langdon. Aloud, he said: “But you'll back him now, sir, won't you? He must be a long price in the winter books.”

“Yes; I'll arrange that,” answered the other, “and I'll take care of you, too. I suppose Westley will take the mount?”

“Surely.”

“Well, you can just give him to understand that he'll be looked after if the horse wins.”

“It's the Brooklyn, sir, is it?”

“Seems like it.”

“I won't say anything about the race to Westley, though.”

“I'll leave all that to you. I'll attend to getting the money on; you do the rest.”

When Crane had gone, Langdon paid further mental tribute to his master's astuteness. “Now I see it all,” he muttered; “the old man just thought to keep me quiet; throw me of the scent till he duplicated the other trial, whenever they pulled it off. Now he's got a sure line on the Black, an' he'll make such a killin' that the books'll remember him for many a day. But why does he keep throwin' that fairy tale into me about buyin' a bad horse to oblige somebody? A man would be a sucker to believe that of Crane; he's not the sort. But one sure thing, he said he'd look after me, an' he will. He'd break a man quick enough, but when he gives his word it stands. Mr. Jakey Faust can look after himself: I'm not goin' to take chances of losin' a big stable of bread-winners by doublin' on the Boss.”

Langdon's mental analysis of Crane's motives was the outcome of considerable experience. The Banker's past life was not compatible with generous dealing. His act of buying Diablo had been prompted by newborn feelings of regard for the Porters, chiefly Allis; but no man, much less Langdon, would have given him credit for other than the most selfish motives.

True to his resolve, Langdon utterly refused to share his confidences with Jakey Faust.

“We've tried the horses,” he said, “and the Dutchman won, but Crane knows more about the whole business than I do. You go to him, Jake, or wait till he sends for you, an' you'll find out all about it. My game's to run straight with one man, anyway, an' I'm goin' to do it.”

That was all Faust could learn. When an occasion offered he slipped a ten-dollar note into Shandy's hand, for he knew the lad was full open to a bribe, but Shandy knew no more than did the Bookmaker. The Dutchman, had won the trial from the Black quite easily, was the extent of his knowledge. As to Diablo himself, Shandy gave him a very bad character indeed.