Thoroughbreds Part 27

On the day that Langdon had said he would try Diablo and The Dutchman, Crane went down to Gravesend. When he got to the Trainer's house he found the latter waiting for him.

"I sent the horses over with the boys," Langdon said; "if you'll just wait a minute, I'll have a buggy hitched up and we'll drive over."

A stable-boy brought the trap to the door in a few minutes, and Langdon, telling Crane to get in, disappeared into the house, returning presently with two saddles, which he placed in the buggy.

"A couple of favorite saddles of mine," he explained, "they're like old fiddles that great players carry about under their arms an' sleep with, an' never let no one but themselves touch."

"Are you that particular with these?" asked Crane by way of conversation, not feeling at all interested in what he considered a fad of the Trainer's.

"Yes; I mostly handle 'em myself. They cost a bit. I had 'em made to order. The boys is that careless, they'd smash anything."

As they jogged along, Langdon kept up a monologue dissertation on the merits of the two horses. "It's a good day for a gallop," and he flicked the driving beast's quarter with the whip; "there's not much wind, an'

the air's a bit sharp. They'll be on their mettle, the both of 'em, more 'specially Diablo. I had his plates changed. 'Pears to me he hadn't been shod in three moons; I'll bet the smith took an inch off his toes." Then he broke off to chuckle awhile.

Crane was not skilled in the anatomy of a horse, beyond as it worked out in winning races and money. That a horse had toes had never quite come into his knowledge, and Langdon's gurgle of mirth he put down to a suspicion that the Trainer was taking a rise out of him in what he had said.

"I was thinking of Paddy Caramagh when he shod Diablo the other day. I think you've heard Pat swear. He holds the belt for cussin' in this part of the country. Well, he let it all out of him before he'd finished with the Black. Ha, ha, ha, ha! I can hear him still, with the sweat running off his face like oats spilling from a feed bag. I says to Paddy, 'Rub his nose a bit,' for I could see it was more nervousness with the horse than sheer deviltry. 'With what?' says Paddy, 'the hammer? Be gor!

You're right, though,' says he, and with that he tries to put a twister on Diablo's nose. Holy mother! Diablo reached for him, and lifted the s.h.i.+rt clean off his back. Say, there was a scared Irishman, if you ever saw one in your life. He threw down the plate, cussin' as only Paddy can, and swore the brute could run till he'd wore his hoofs off, for all of him. Well, I takes hold of the Black's head, an' kids him a bit, only firm-like, and we shod him right enough."

"He is bad tempered, then?" asked Crane.

"No; just wants a fair deal; that's all. You make him believe you're on the square, an' he'll do what's right. But he hasn't got no use for any of the guys that gets a cranky play in on him; he won't stand it. I'm going to put Westley up on him to-day."

"What about The Dutchman?"

"Colley'll do. Any kid can ride him, if they sit still. He's just the easiest-tempered horse ever looked through a bridle; he knows what's doin' all the time. But Colley ain't no good on Diablo, an' if he can smell Shandy, that settles it--it's all over. I'll put Westley up; it takes a man to ride that horse."

"What about this gallop?" asked Crane; "there'll be spies about trying to find out things, won't there?"

"Bet yer life, there'll be somebody, sir. It's just like when I was out in Colorado; you couldn't see a vulture if you traveled forty days, perhaps, but plant a dead thing anywhere and in an hour the sky simply rained 'em down. These touts is most like vultures of anything I know; you've just got to work your stunt to give 'em the go-by, that's all."

Crane took but an apathetic interest in the matters that held full sway over the Trainer's mind; looking after these incidents was Langdon's part of the contract.

That was why they were so strong together. Langdon could do it. Just how the trial was to benefit them alone, with the inevitable tout at hand, Crane knew not, neither did he investigate; that was up to the Trainer.

They drove into the paddock. Westley, Colley, and the two stable lads were there.

"Shall we bring out the horses?" asked Westley, as Langdon sat swinging a leg loosely over the end of the buggy seat.

"Any of the talent about, Bill?"

"Quite likely, though I haven't seen none."

"Well, we'll slip 'em now. Just saddle up careless like, and no preliminary, mind you. The sharks won't look for a brush till you've gone around once. Take your mounts down the stretch to the quarter post, an' then come away the first break; if there's anyone toutin' you off, they'll think it just a pipe opener, an' won't catch the time. Run out the mile-an'-a-quarter, make a race of it, but don't go to the bat.

Diablo an' The Dutchman don't need no whip to give us about the best they've got."

"All right, sir," answered Westley. "If I'm a judge, when the Black's through pullin', he's done racin', 'cause he's a keen one, so there won't be no call to put the bud to him. If any of the rail birds is lookin' they'll think we're goin' under a strong wrap, even when we're all out."

Lang don nodded his head. He was a man not given to exuberant appreciation. The boys averred that when d.i.c.k Langdon didn't curse at them they had done pretty well, indeed.

"What's your weight?" he asked of Westley, abruptly.

"I've just tipped the scales at a hundred-and-three in my sweater."

"One hundred and three," mused the Trainer, making a mental calculation.

"What's Colley's weight?"

"He's as near a hundred as you can make it."

"Did you bring over a saddle?"

"Yes; two of 'em; one apiece for the horses."

"Tell Colley to take one, and some leads, and weigh out a hundred and twelve. That'll be three pounds above the scale for May, weight for age, for the three-year-old, The Dutchman. I guess he won't need more'n seven pounds dead weight, for it's a five-pound saddle, I think. Let me see, you said a hundred and three, you were."

"Yes, sir; in the sweater; I can take that off--"

"No; never mind. Take this saddle," and he lifted one from the buggy; "it'll just suit Diablo; he's got a herring-bone of a wither, an' this is high in the tree, an' won't cut him. Here's the cloth an' some leads; weigh out a hundred and twelve too. Weight for age--Diablo's a four-year-old; you ought to carry a hundred and twenty-six, but he's not The Dutchman's cla.s.s, an' the ycungster'd lose him before they'd gone half the journey. We'll run 'em at level weights, an' he'll get closer to The Dutchman, an' the sharks won't have such a fairy tale to tell about our horse."

"A hundred and twelve, you said, sir?" queried Westley, as he put the saddle that Langdon handed him over his left arm, slipped the thin sheets of lead in his pocket, and stood dangling the linen weight cloth in his right hand.

"Yes; level weights--a hundred an' twelve pounds."

"Westley," the Trainer called as the little man started off, "just bring the saddle back to me here when you've weighed. I'll put it on Diablo myself; he's a touchy cuss, and I don't want him ruffled by careless handlin'."

"You take considerable trouble over it," remarked Crane. "One would think it was a big handicap you meant to capture this morning."

Langdon started visibly. Was Crane thinking of the Brooklyn? Did this quiet, clever man sitting at his elbow already know as much as he hoped to discover in his present gallop?

He answered: "Handicaps is usually won pretty much like this; they're generally settled before the horse goes to the post for the trip itself.

When he goes through the paddock gate the day of the big race he's out of his trainer's hands; the man's got no more to do with the race himself than a kid sittin' up in the grand stand. Here's where I come in, if we mean to land the Brooklyn," and he looked searchingly at Crane, a misleading grin on his lips. But the latter simply joined in the laugh, doubtingly, perhaps.

"A hundred and twelve, neat," declared Westley, as he returned, throwing some loose leads into the buggy. "Colley's gone to saddle The Dutchman."

"All right," answered Langdon, getting down from the seat and taking the saddle. "Go and tell the boy to bring Diablo out of the stall. I'll saddle him in the open. He generally kicks the boards when I cinch him up, an' it puts him in a bad humor."

Langdon started off with the jockey, but turned back, saying, "Oh, Mr.

Crane, I wanted to ask you--"

By this he had reached the buggy, while Westley continued on his way to the stalls.

"It's a fine day, sir," continued Langdon, finis.h.i.+ng his sentence, and exchanging the saddle held in his hand for the one that was in the buggy.

"Going to put the other on?" asked Crane.

"Yes; I fancy Diablo will like this better. Touchy brutes, these race horses; got to humor 'em. Come on over to the stalls--the horse'll stand."

Diablo was being led around in a small circle by his boy. He was a magnificent creature, sixteen and a half hands high, and built on the same grand scale; perhaps a bit leggy for the huge barrel that topped the limbs; that was what caused him to go wrong in his younger days. His black skin glistened in the noonday sun.