His reason told him that the ill-fortune could not last; he had one great little mare, good enough to win, an honest trainer--there the inventory stopped short; his stock in trade was incomplete--he had not a trusty jockey. In his dilemma he threshed it out with Dixon.
“How's the mare doing, Andy?” he asked. “What did the race do to her?”
“She never was better in her life,” the Trainer answered, proudly. Then he added, to ease the troubled look that was in the gray eyes of his master, “She'll win next time out, sir--I'll gamble my shirt on that.”
“I think she's good enough for the 'Eclipse,' sir, dashed if I don't. I worked her the distance, and she shaded the time they made last year.”
“What's the use,” said Porter, dejectedly; “where'll we get a boy?”
“I know that,” Porter answered, “but all the straight ones are tied hand and foot to the big stables.”
“I've been thinkin' it over,” hazarded Dixon, tentatively--“Boston Bill's got a good lad--there's none of them can put it over him, an' his boss ain't got nothin' in the 'Eclipse,' I know.”
“That means the same old game, Andy; we nurse the horse, get him into condition, place him where he can win, and then turn him over to a plunger and take the small end of the divide. Boston Bill would back her off the boards.
“The stake'd mount up to seven or eight thousand, an' the win would square the little mare with the public.”
“And I'd do that, if I didn't land a dollar,” said Porter. “Andy, it hurt me more to see the filly banged about there in the ruck than it did giving up the money.”
The Trainer smiled. With him this was unusual; there was a popular superstition that he never smiled except when one of his horses won. But his heart expanded at Porter's words, for he, too, was fond of the little mare.
Then Porter spoke again, abruptly, and fast, as though he feared he might change his mind: “They downed me last trip, Dixon--I guess I'm getting a bit slow in my paces; and you do just as you like--arrange with Boston Bill if you think it's good business. He makes a specialty of winning races--not pulling horses, and we need a win, too, I guess.”
“Thank you, sir. We'll land that stake; an' p'raps the sharp division'll take a tumble. I'll bet a dollar they'll go for The Dutchman--he ran a great race the other day, an' he's in the Eclipse--if they start him. Lurcetia's right on edge, she's lookin' for the key hole, an' may go back if we don't give her a race. We'd better get the money for the oat bill while it's in sight. She oughter be a long price in the bettin', too,” continued Dixon, meditatively; “the public soon sour on a beaten horse. You'll have a chance to get even.”