CHAPTER II.
A DEVIL’S LAUGH.
As a bright red streak on the horizon foretold the coming of a beautiful day in early spring, Neil Emory galloped along the dusty road to the race-course, and, turning in at its gates, drew rein at the door of his trainer’s tent.
“Has that boy come?” he asked, as his horse was led off by the groom.
“I think so. I’ll ask Joe.”
In a few moments the man returned, saying that both the blacksmith and the boy had been waiting quite a while.
Emory walked out towards the track, where a few shade trees stood, just inside of the low fence. The trainer went to call the blacksmith, who came from behind the stables, followed by a rather slim boy, who stopped to chunk at some chickens pecking in the saw-dust. The youngster stood a little apart, ten or twelve yards off, and threw clods of earth at them, laughing a trifle when one was struck.
“Is that the lad?” asked Emory.
“Yes, sir,” replied the blacksmith, a broad-shouldered, dark-haired specimen of humanity.
“What is your name?” asked Emory, taking out his note-book. “I want to know it and the boy’s, too, for this is a business transaction, and I am offering a pretty large reward to the fellow who rides this race—a couple of thousand for the run and a hundred dollars for every race he wins.”
“My name is Jess Peleg; the lad we call Jack.”