Muzada burst out laughing. The horse’s eccentricities were so well-known, that he thought with pleasure how the man he hated was certain to look ridiculous.
“So, Captain, you are going to ride; how much will you bet that you ever get round the course?” said Muzada, talking to Jack in his free and easy way, which I knew made my friend’s blood boil. “Come, you had better put your pride in your pocket, and ride for me,” he added, as it occurred to him that this would annoy Jack.
“Thank you, but it is bad enough that you should own a thoroughbred horse, let alone that a white man should ride for you,” Jack answered with a glance at the other’s dark skin, which was full of meaning.
Muzada looked for a second or two as if he were thinking of hitting Jack, then thinking better of it he pretended not to understand the allusion.
“Well, who would like to back Captain Harman’s mount? I will bet ten to one against Storm Drum, even though this famous gentleman jockey does ride for Pat Brady.”
“How much will you lay it to?” Jack asked.
There was a gleam in Muzada’s eyes as he heard this question.
“To a good deal more than you can afford to pay,” he answered, thinking to himself that Jack was going mad.
The idea of Storm Drum’s having any chance of winning the race seemed too absurd to be entertained for a minute; and Muzada thought that Jack had realised that he was likely soon to become ruined, and had become desperate.
Jack Harman said nothing, and I whispered to him a warning not to do anything rash.