A few days later Mike Gaynor took the stable up to Gravesend. Dixon had a cottage there, which he occupied with his wife, and Allis was to stop with them.

On the 20th of May the horses were settled in their racing quarters. Only four days remained for introducing Lucretia to the Gravesend track; on the 24th she would take up her ninety-two pounds and be tested to the utmost in the great Brooklyn Handicap.

Dixon felt that several things were in her favor. She was as quiet as an old cow at the post; many false starts would improve rather than diminish her chances, for nothing seemed to excite the gallant little brown mare. Her great burst of speed would enable the jockey to get out of the ruck and steal a good place to lie handy at the leader's heels. She could be nursed to the last furlong of the stretch, for the sight of horses in front would not daunt her brave spirit.

Against the mare were two or three rather important factors; she was slight of build, not overstrong, and the crush of contending horses might knock her out of her stride, should they close in. Then there was just a suspicion of lack of staying power in the Assassin strain; Lucretia might not quite last the mile and a quarter so early in the season, being a mare. However, she had a chance.

“But I'd hardly call it a betting chance,” Dixon said, speaking to Allis; “there's never been a three-year-old won the Brooklyn yet. There'll be openings enough to put down the money later on—in the Derby, if the mare pans out well.”

Andy Dixon was first of all 'a careful man. “There are risks enough in racin' without lookin' for them,” he said. “When one has got an absolute lead-pipe cinch, it's two to one against its coming off.” That was another of his conservative aphorisms.

Andy made no big wins, had never been booked as a successful plunger, had never skinned the ring; on the other hand, bringing the scales of equity to a dead level, he had never been forced to ask any man to pay his feed bills for him, nor let an account stand over for a time.

Allis was in good hands, and, what added to the value of the situation, she knew it, and would take Dixon's advice. The Trainer's opinion was borne out by the betting market; Lucretia stood a long way down in the 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. Betting ring, and paddock, and lawn became alive because of their buzz; tier after tier, from step to roof, the serrated line of whitefaced humanity waited for the grand struggle.

The first race was but a race, that was all. Horses galloped, but did they not gallop other days? It was not the Brooklyn. And also the second was but another race. How slow, and of what little interest were the horses! Verily, neither was it the Brooklyn, and it was the Brooklyn forty thousand pairs of eyes had come to see.

Down in the betting ring men of strong voices bellowed words of money odds, and full-muscled shoulders pushed and carried heads about that were intent on financial businesses. But what of that? It was not the Brooklyn, it was gambling.

Out in the paddock a small brown mare of gentle aspect, with big soft eyes, full of a dreamy memory of fresh-shooting grass, walked with easy stride an elliptical circle. Her fetlocks fair kissed the short grass in an unstable manner, as though the joints were all too supple. Inside of the circle stood Allis Porter and a man square of jaw and square of shoulder, that was Andy Dixon. Presently to them came Mike Gaynor.

“We're gittin' next it now, Miss Allis; we'll soon know all about it.”

“We're all ready, Mike,” said Dixon, with square solemnity. “When they've beat the little mare they'll be catchin' the judge's eye.”

“There's nothing left now, Mike, but just a hope for a little luck,” added the girl.

“Ye'r talking now, Miss Allis. Luck's the trick from this out. The little mare'll have a straight run this trip. Here's the b'y comin' now, and a good b'y he is.”

A little man in blue jacket and white stars joined them, saluting Miss Allis with his riding whip. “Are you going to win, Redpath?” asked the girl.

“I'm going to try, Miss. She's a sweet mare to ride, but it's a big field. There's some boys riding that ought to be in the stable rubbing horses.”

“You'll have to get out in front,” said Dixon, speaking low; “your mare's too light to stand crowdin', an' even if you have to take her back for a breather after you've gone half the journey, she'll come again, for she's game.”

“Them Langdon fellows thinks they've got a great chance wit' our cast-off, Diablo,” volunteered Mike. “I had a peep at him in the stall, an' he's lookin' purty fit.”

“He never was no class,” objected Dixon.

“If ye'd see him gallop the day he run away, ye'd think he had class,” said Mike. “Bot' tumbs up! ye'd a t'ought it was the flyin' Salvator.”

“Well, we'll soon know all about it,” declared Dixon. “There's the saddlin' bell. Have you weighed out, Redpath? Weight all right, ninety-two pounds?”

“All right, sir. It was a close call to make it, though; there was a few ounces over.”

“All the better; it's a hot day, an' if they're long at the post it'll take them spare ounces out of you, I fancy.”

Dixon held up his finger to the boy that was leading Lucretia, and nodding his head toward the stall led the way.

“We're number seven, Mike,” said Allis, looking at the leather tag which carried the figure on Jockey Redpath's right arm.

“'There's luck in odd numbers, said Rory O'Moore,'” quoted Mike.

“I've a superstitious dread of seven,” the girl said; “it's the one number that I always associate with disaster—I don't mind thirteen a bit.”

“We'll break the bad luck seven to-day,” asserted little Redpath, bravely.

“I hope so,” answered Allis. “Let me put my finger on the number for good luck,” and she touched the badge on his arm. “Now I'm going up to get a good seat in the stand,” she continued; “I'll leave Lucretia to you, Redpath.”