As the old trainer led the horse away around the long stables, the low rumble of far-off thunder grumbled along the western horizon—Robin glanced in that direction. It might mean a change in the chances of every horse that was to run next day. The old man looked downcast; the boy's countenance cleared up. He scanned the sky long and earnestly where a dull cloud was stretching across the west; then he followed the horse among the long lines of low buildings with a quickened step.

It was not till they had reached a box-stall in an old building far off in one corner of the grounds that the old negro stopped. When he had been expecting another horse—the horse of which he had boasted to his entire acquaintance—he had engaged in advance a box in one of the big, new stables, where the descendant of the kings would be in royal and fitting company. He could not bring himself now to face, with this raw-boned, sunburnt colt, the derisive scrutiny of the men who had heard him bragging for a week of what his young master would show them when he came. Yet it was more on his young master's account than on his own that he now slunk away to this far-off corner. He remembered his old master, the king of the turf, the model of a fine gentleman, the leader of men; whose graciousness and princely hospitality were in all mouths; whose word was law; whose name no one mentioned but with respect.

He remembered his young master as he rode away to the war on one of the thoroughbreds, a matchless rider on a matchless horse. How could he now allow their grandson and son, in this rusty suit, with this rusty colt at which the stable-boys jeered, to match himself against the finest men and horses in the country? He must keep him from entering the horse.

But as the old fellow stopped before the stall and glanced at the horse he had been leading, his face changed. It took on the first look of interest it had worn since the horse had appeared on the road in a cloud of dust. He was standing now directly in front of him. His eyes opened. The deep chest, the straight, clean legs with muscles standing out on the forearms in big knots, the fine head with its broad, full brow, its wide eyes full of life and intelligence, the delicate muzzle, suddenly caught his eye. He took a step to one side, and scanned the horse from top to hoof, and his face lighted up. Another step, and he ran his hand over him, up and down, from topknot to fetlock, from crest to croup. At every touch his eyes opened wider.

“Umhm! He hard as a rock!” He was talking aloud, but to himself. “He 's got de barrel to stay, an' he leg jes as clean as a pin!”

It was the first word of praise he had vouchsafed. The young owner's face lighted up. He had felt the old man's disappointment, and his heart had been sinking. It was lifted now.

“What you say he pedigree?”

“Imported Learn——”

“I know. Dat 's de blood! Imported Leamington—Fanny Wash'n' by Revenue! He 'll do. Hit 's bred in de bone!”

“Did you ever see such bone?” the boy asked, running his hand over the big knee-joint.

The old trainer made no answer. He glanced furtively around to see that no one heard the question. Then he went on feeling the horse, inch by inch. Every muscle and sinew he ran his hand over, and each moment his face cleared up more and more. “He ain' nothin' but rock!” he said, straightening up. “Walk him off dyah, son”—with a wave of his hand—“walk him.”

It was as if he were speaking to a stable-boy. He had now forgotten all but the horse, but the young man understood.

He took the bridle, but the horse did not wait. At the first step he was up with him, with a long, swinging stride as springy as if he were made of rubber, keeping his muzzle close to his master's shoulder, and never tightening his rein. Now and then he threw up his head and gazed far over beyond the whitewashed fence toward a horse galloping away off on the curving track, as if there were where his interest lay.

“Straight as a plank,” muttered the old trainer, with a toss of his head. “'Minds me o' Planet. Got de quarters on him.—Bring him back!” he called.

As the young man returned, the older one asked, “Can he run?”

“Run! Want to see him move!”

Without waiting for an answer, he vaulted into the saddle and began to gather up the reins. The horse lifted his head and gathered himself together, but he did not move from his tracks.

“Wait. How far is you come to-day?” demanded Robin.

“About forty miles. I took it easy.” He turned the horse's head.

The old man gave an exclamation, part oath, part entreaty, and grabbed for the reins just as the boy was turning toward the track, where a whitewashed board fence stood over four feet high.

“Wait—whar you gwine! Forty mile! Whar you gwine? Wait!”

“Over into the track. That fence is nothing.”

He settled himself in the saddle, and the horse threw up his head and drew himself together. But old Robin was too quick for him. He clutched the rider by the leg with one hand at the same time that he seized the bridle with the other.

“Git off him; git off him!” Without letting go the bridle, he half lifted the boy from the saddle.

“That won't hurt him, Uncle Robin. He 's used to it. That fence is nothing.”

“Gi' me dis hoss dis minute. Forty mile, an' 'spec' to run to-morrow! Gi' me dis hoss dis minute, boy.”

The young owner yielded with a laugh, and the old trainer took possession of the horse, and led him on, stopping every now and then to run his hand over his sinewy neck and forelegs, and grumbling to himself over the rashness of youth.

“Jes like he pa,” he muttered. “Never could teach him to tek keer o' a hoss. Think all a hoss got to do is to run! Forty mile, an' want to put him at a five-foot fence when he cold as a wedge!”

When he was inside the stable his manner changed. His coat was off in an instant, and no stable-boy could have been more active. He set about grooming the horse with the enthusiasm of a boy, and the horse after the first inquisitive investigation of his new attendant, made with eye and nose, gave himself up to his care. The young owner did the same, only watching him closely to learn the art of grooming from a past-master of the craft.

It was the first time in years that Robin had played hostler; and it was the first time in his life that that horse had ever had such a grooming. Every art known to the professor of the science was applied. Every muscle was rubbed, every sinew was soothed. And from time to time, as at touch of the iron muscles and steel sinews the old fellow's ardor increased, he would straighten up and give a loud puff of satisfaction.

“Umph! Ef I jist had about a week wid him, I 'd show 'em som'n'!” he declared. “Imported Learn——”

“He don't need any time. He can beat anything in this country,” asserted the owner from his perch on a horse-bucket.

“You ain' see 'em all,” said Robin, dryly, as he bent once more to his work. “An' it 's goin' to rain, too,” he added, as the rumble of thunder came up louder from the westward.

“That 's what I am hoping for,” said the other. “He 's used to mud. I have ridden him in it after cattle many a day. He can out-gallop any horse in the State in mud.”

Robin looked at the young man keenly. He showed more shrewdness than he had given him credit for.

“Kin he jump in mud?” he demanded.

“He can jump in anything. He can fly. If you just had let me take him over those fences——”

Robin changed the subject:

“What 's his name? I got to go an' enter him.”

The boy told him. The old man's countenance changed, but the other did not see it. He was busy getting a roll of bills—by no means a large one—from his pocket.

“How much is it? I have the money all right.” He proudly unrolled the money, mostly dollar bills. The old negro took the roll and counted the money slowly.

“Is dis——?” he began, but stopped. After a minute's thought he went over them again.

“Heah.” He took out about half the money, and handed the rest back. “Wait. I 'll tend to it.” He reached for his coat. “Don't you do nuttin' to him while I 'm gone, an' don't you lef' him, not a minute.” He put on his coat and went out.

His path led out from among the stables to the wing of one of the buildings where the superintendent and his staff had their offices. Here a colloquy took place between Robin and the cigar-smoking, dark-skinned clerk in charge, and then Robin left and paid a visit to another kind of official—an official on the main road, just outside the grounds, who kept an establishment which was divided into two departments. One was dignified by the word “CafÉ” painted in black letters on the white ground of the painted pane, though on the door was the simple American word “Bar.” Over the door of the other was an attempt to portray three gilded balls. The proprietor of this bifurcated establishment, a man with red hair, a low forehead, a broad chin, and brawny shoulders, a long lip and long arms, rejoiced in the name of Nicholas Crimins, though by most of his customers he was irreverently called by a diminutive of that name. The principal part of his business undoubtedly came from the side of the establishment with the short name; but it was known to the stable-fraternity that on occasion “Old Nick” would make an advance to a needy borrower who was “down on his luck” of at least fifteen per cent, of almost any article's value. Saddles, bridles, watches, pistols, scarf-pins, and all the indiscriminate belongings of a race-track population were to be found in his “store.” And it was said that he had even been known to take over a stable when the owner found it necessary to leave the State on exceptionally short notice.

Into this odorous establishment old Robin now went and had a brief interview with the proprietor, whose surprise at the old trainer's proposition was unfeigned. As he knew Robin was not a gambler, the money-lender could set down his request to only one of two causes: either he had lost on a race that day, or he had “points” which made him willing to put up all he could raise on a horse next day. He tried him on the first.

“Had bad luck to-day? I lost a pile myself,” he began insinuatingly. “Thim scoundrels 'll bate ivery horse they say a man look at. It 's a regular syn-dicate.”

“Nor, I did n 't lay a dollar on a hoss to-day,” declared Robin. He looked wise.

It was not that, reflected Mr. Crimins. Then it must be the other. Robin's look decided him.

“Any news!” he asked confidentially, leaning forward and dropping his husky voice. This meant, generally, had he heard of anything likely to change the chances of next day's race.

“Ur—who 's goin' to win the steep'!”

Robin looked wiser.

“Well—the' may be some surprises tomorrow. You keep your eyes open. Dese heah Yankee hosses don' always have dey own way——”

“I try to, but thim sheenies! Tell me what you know?” His voice was a cajoling whisper now. “They says Hurricane's—or is it Swallow's—!” He was looking with exaggerated interest at something in his hand, waiting in hopes that Robin would take up the sentence and complete it.

Robin chuckled, and the chuckle was worth what he wanted.

“Swallow 's too fat; Hurricane 's good, but it 's muscle an' wind an' de blood what tells in de last mile—blood an' bottom. You keep yer eye on a dark hoss. Gi' me meh money.”

The loan-broker still held on to the notes, partly from force of habit, while he asked: “Who 's a-ridin' him!”

But Robin reached for the bills and got them.

“Somebody as knows how to ride,” he said, oracularly. “You 'll see to-morrow.”

As he turned away the lender muttered an oath of disappointment The next moment he examined something curiously. Then he put it to his ear, and then in his pocket with a look of deep satisfaction.

“Well, I 'll make this anyhow.”

When Robin came out of the shop, for the first time in twenty years he was without his big gold watch. He passed back by the secretary's office, and paid down the sum necessary to enter a horse in the next day's steeplechase. The clerk looked toward the door.

“Don't you know the sun is down?”

“De sun down! 'Tain't nothin' but de cloud. De sun 's a quarter of a hour high.” Robin walked to the door.

“What time is it by your watch?”

“Hit 's edzactly seven—” His back was to the official.

“Humph!” grunted the clerk. “Don't you know——”

“—lackin' six——”

“—the sun sets at ten minutes to seven!”

“—lackin ' sixteen minutes forty-two seconds and a quarter,” pursued Robin, with head bent as if he were looking at a watch.

“Oh, you be hanged! Your old watch is always slow.”

“My watch? Dis heah watch?” He turned, buttoning his coat carefully. “You know whar dis watch come f'om?” He pressed his hand to his side and held it there.

“Yes, I know. Give me your money. It will help swell Carrier Pigeon's pile to-morrow.”

“Not unless he can fly,” said Robin.

“What 's his name!” The clerk had picked up his pen.

Robin scratched his head in perplexity.

“Le' me see. I 'mos' forgit. Oh, yes.” He gave the name.

“What! Call him 'J. D.'?”

“Yes, dat 'll do.”

So, the horse was entered as “J. D.”

As Robin stepped out of the door the first big drops of rain were just spattering down on the steps from the dark cloud that now covered all the western sky, and before he reached the stable it was pouring.

As he entered the stall the young owner was on his knees in a corner, and before him was an open portmanteau from which he was taking something that made the old man's eyes glisten: an old jacket of faded orange-yellow silk, and a blue cap—the old Bullfield colors, that had once been known on every course in the country, and had often led the field.

Robin gave an exclamation.

“Le' me see dat thing!” He seized the jacket and held it up.

“Lord, Lord! I 's glad to see it,” he said. “I ain' see it for so long. It 's like home. Whar did you git dis thing, son! I 'd jest like to see it once mo' come home leadin' de field.”

“Well, you shall see it doing that to-morrow,” said the young fellow, boastfully, his face alight with pleasure.

“I declar' I 'd gi' my watch to see it.”

He stopped short as his hand went to his side where the big gold timepiece had so long reposed, and he took it away with a sudden sense of loss. This, however, was but for a second. In a moment the old trainer was back in the past, telling his young master of the glories of the old stable—what races it had run and what stakes it had won.

The storm passed during the night, and the sun rose next morning clear and bright. One horse, at least, that was entered for the big race was well cared for. Robin had slept in his stall, and his young master had had his room. They had become great friends, and the young man had told the old trainer of his hopes. If he won he would have enough to send his sister off to school in the city, and he would go to college. Robin had entered into it heart and soul, and had given the boy all the advice he could hold.

Robin was up by light, looking after the horse; and the young owner, after waiting long enough to take another lesson in the proper handling of a horse about to run, excused himself, and, leaving the horse with the old trainer, went out, he said, “to exercise for his wind.” This was a long walk; but the young rider's walk took him now, not along the track or the road, but along the steeplechase course, marked by the hurdles; and though the ground was wet and soggy on the flat, and in some places the water still stood, he appeared not to mind it in the least. So far from avoiding the pools, he plunged straight through them, walking backward and forward, testing the ground, and at every “jump” he made a particular examination.

When he returned to the stable he was as wet as a “drowned rat,” but he looked well satisfied, and the old trainer, after he had talked with him a few minutes, was satisfied also.

“Dat boy 's he gran'pa's gran'chile,” he muttered, well pleased with his account.