"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."

"I don't like that part of it," muttered Porter; "I'm in the black books
now. People have no reason at all--no sense; they've got it into their
heads that dirty job was of my making, and if the filly starts at ten to