Jasper Binnhart nodded his head in acceptance of the statement.
“And, Lord, what a string he had before he sold out when he went abroad. He owned ‘County Guy,’ the third son of imported Paladin, dam Fortuna, blood bay, stands sixteen hands high, such action.” He smote his meager thigh in the abandonment of enthusiasm. “I saw him in Louisville at the training stables--such form!”
“Why, a beautiful roan filly--three years old--Floyd-Rosney gave only three thousand dollars for her, but speedy! And he owned----”
“Who else is on that boat?” reiterated Binnhart raucously. “I don’t want to hear ’bout no horses, without I’m on my shoeing stool,” he added with a sneer.
“Oh, yes, I know, of course.” The jockey felt the bit himself and adapted his pace to the pressure of control. It seems strange to contemplate, but even such a nature as his has its æsthetic element, its aspirations and enthusiasms, its dreams and vicissitudes of hope. All these just now had a string on them, as he would have phrased it, and were dragging in the dust. He had ridden with credit in several events elsewhere, but he was the victim of intemperance and his weak moral endowment offered special material for the fashioning of a cat’s paw. It was said and believed that he had “pulled” more than one horse in a race, and although this was not indisputable, the suspicion barred him from the employ of cautious turfmen. In connection with his frequent intoxication, it had brought him down at last to work as a groom for his daily bread, and what was to him more essential, his daily dram, in a livery stable in the little inland town of Caxton, some ten or twelve miles distant, for there was scant opportunity in view of the stringent laws against gambling to ply his vocation as a jockey in Mississippi.
“Oh, you are talkin’ about the passenger list. The _Cherokee Rose_ has sure got swells aboard. There are Mrs. Dean and Miss Hildegarde Dean. You must have read a deal about _her_ in the society columns of the newspapers. She won hands down in Orleans las’ winter. Reg’lar favorite, an’ distanced the field.”
“I ain’t talkin’ about the wimmen,” said the smith.
“Well, mebbe old Horace Dean ain’t as rich as some, but they are dressed as winners, sure. I seen ’em in a box at the horse-show--I was there with Stanley’s stable--an’ the di’monds Mrs. Dean had on mos’ put out my eyes.”