was the play of fate. He never talked about these things himself,
almost disliked to think of them. He turned his back on Belle Langdon
and went down the right-hand steps. On the grass sward at the bottom he
stopped for an instant to look across at the jockey board.

Three men had just came out of the refreshment bar under the stand.
They were possessed of many things; gold of the bookmakers in their
pockets, and it's ever-attendant exhilaration in their hearts. One of
them had cracked a bottle of wine at the bar, as tribute to the
exceeding swiftness of Lucretia, for he had won plentifully. At that
particular stage there was nothing left but to talk it over, and they
talked. Crane, avaricious, unhesitating in his fighting, devoid of
sympathy, was not of the eavesdropping class, but as he stood there he
was as much a part of the other men's conversation as though he had been
a fourth member of the brotherhood.

"I tell you none of these trainers ain't in it with a gentleman owner--
when he takes to racin'. When a man of brains takes to runnin' horses
as a profesh, he's gen'rally a Jim Dandy." It was he of the wine-
opening who let fall these words of wise value.

"D'you mean Porter, Jim?" asked number two of the trio.

"Maybe that's his name. An' he put it all over Mister Langdon this
trip."

"As how?" queried the other.

"Last time he runs his mare she's got corns in her feet the whole
journey, an' all the time he owns the winner, Lauzanne, see?--buys him