The look of blank astonishment upon that gallant officer's face would have set at rest the doubts of a Pollaky.
“It is not my habit to disclose my customer's secrets,” observed the trainer tartly; “although I may say that, with Master Walter, everything is as safe as wax.”
“Is it so?” quoth Mr Derrick warmly; “then let him come with us and see the Black.—Only mind, Mr Walter Lisgard, I will not have that brother of yours bettered by a fourpenny-piece by anything you may see or hear to-day.”
“My brother never bets upon any race,” answered the captain quietly; “so that promise is easily given.”
“Then come along with me and Mr Chifney,” said the stranger, holding out his hairy hand in token of amity. “You've read a deal about that crack as I've just been looking at; but I dare say, now, you have never so much as heard of this same Manylaws.”
“Not unless you mean the French horse, about which there were a few lines in Bell some time ago—Menelaus.”
“Ay, that's him. But it's called Manylaws” explained Mr Derrick; “for you wouldn't think of calling the Oaks' mare Antigown, I suppose, Antigone. Well, the Black ain't fancied much, I reckon; but he will be, Mr Chifney, eh? He will be?”
“It is my opinion that he will be at very short odds indeed,” returned the trainer; “and many more people will be desirous of paying him a call than do him that honour just at present. This is his stable. He does not look quite such a likely horse as The King, Master Walter, does he? There's bone for you!”
“An ounce of blood is worth a pound of bone, says the proverb,” remarked the captain.
“So far as that goes, although he is a Frenchman,” answered the trainer, “he has Godolphin's blood in his veins. But only look at his ragged hips!”