Porter laughed at the idea that responsibility could attach to Crane. As to the Chestnut, he was not worth a tenth of the three thousand he had cost--that was well known; and if Crane or any other man sought to buy him at that price it would savor too much of charity. At any rate, Lauzanne belonged to Allis, and Crane would have to bargain with her.
Then there was Diablo, Crane said; his presence was a menace to Miss Porter.
“I've nursed him for a good while,” Porter replied, “and he's a bad betting proposition--he's too uncertain. You don't want such a horse as that--nobody does. I'll keep him a bit longer, and put him in a handicap or two where the purse will be worth running for, and I won't have to back him; he'll get in with a featherweight, and some day may take it into his head to gallop, though he's a rank bad one.”
Crane did not press the point; he understood Porter's motives throughout. He knew the master of Ringwood was an unchanging man, very set in his ways, adhering closely to his plans and opinions. So Crane went back to Brookfield without purchasing a horse, saying as he left, “I claim first privilege when you wish to sell.”
He had talked to Porter in the stable, and Mike, busy near by, heard that part of their conversation referring to the horses.
“They haven't got money enough in the bank to take the little mare from us yet, have they, Mike?” Porter said to Gaynor, full of his pride in Lucretia.
“That they haven't, sor,” replied Mike, proudly. “But, faith, I wish th' gint hadn't come a-tryin' to buy her; it's bad luck to turn down a big offer fer any horse.”
Porter smiled indulgently. This stable superstition did not appeal to him.
“It would a-broke the bad luck, sor, to have let him took the Black.”
“It would have broken his bank, you mean, Mike.”
“Well, he'll break somewan's back here yet, an' I'm tellin' you that sthraight. They say a black cat's full av th! divil, but Diablo's ould Nick hisself, though I'm sayin'it was th' b'y Shandy's fault sp'ilin' him. An' if it wasn't fer Miss Allis it's a pity you couldn't a-sold him the Chestnut. He's a sawhorse--he's as heavy in th' head as a bag of salt; he'll never do no good to nobody. Them's the kind as kapes a man poor, eatin' their heads off, an' wan horse, or maybe two, in the stable earnin' th' oats fer them. It's chaper to cut th' t'roats av such cattle.”