"What did I tell you?" sneered the Tout, maliciously; "it's the under
dog gets the worst of it every time."

* * * * * * * * * * *

A Celt, is an outspoken man when the prod of his hot temper has loosened
his tongue, and Mike Gaynor was a Celt in excess.

The injustice that had come to his benefactor, John Porter, had stirred
a tempest in his Irish soul. A fierce exclamation of profane wrath had
gone up from him as he watched the bad start from over the paddock rail.

A misguided retribution led Starter Carson to pass from the Judges'
Stand after the race, along the narrow passage between the Club Stand
and the course, to the paddock gate. There he met Mike, who forthwith
set to flailing him.

"Did ye notice a little mare called Lucretia in that race, Mr. Carson--
did ye see anythin' av her at all down at the post?"

Carson's eyes twinkled uneasily. Years of starting had taught him that
self-control was nine out of ten rules which should govern the Starter's
actions.

"Was there anythin' th' mather wit' yer ancestor's eyes that ye come by,
Mister Carson?"

The Starter made answer with a smile of good-humored tolerance. But Mike
was only warming up; the hot blood was stinging his quick brain, and his
sharp tongue galloped on with unbridled irresponsibility. With the deep