He laid marked emphasis on the words "be good to him." The trainer
understood. It meant that he was to send The Dutchman to the post half
fit, eased up in his work; then the horse could try, and the jockey
could try, and, in spite of it all, the fast filly of Porter's would
win, and his subtle master, Crane, would have turned the result to his
own benefit. Why should he reason, or object, or counterplot, or do
anything but just follow blindly the dictates of this past master in the
oblique game he loved so well? Crane wanted The Dutchman because he was
a good horse; he also wanted to have a heavy plunge on Lucretia; but
with the son of Hanover in other hands the good thing might not come
off. Somehow Langdon felt miserably inefficient in the presence of
Crane--his self-respect suffered; the other man's mind was so
overmastering, even to detail. The Trainer felt a sudden desire to
right himself in Crane's estimation, give some evidence of ordinary
intelligence, or capability to carry out his mission. "If The Dutchman's
owner was made to think that the horse was likely to break down, throw a
splint, or--"

But Crane interrupted him in his quiet, masterful way, saying: "I know
nothing of horse trading; I simply furnish the money, loan it to you, my
dear Mr. Langdon, and you buy the animal in your own best way. You will
pay for him with a check on my bank." No man could close out an
interview so effectually as Crane. As Langdon slipped away as though he
had been thrust bodily from the room, there was in his mind nothing but
admiration of his master--the man who backed up his delicate diplomacy
with liberal capital.

In spite of what he had said to Langdon, there was little doubt in
Crane's mind but that the son of Hanover was a better horse than