"Egad, Vin, you're never going to take to racing! You've no stables."
"Castor needs none."
"Castor! Oh! By my life, Vincent, he might do. Vastly fine points, gentlemen. Rough-bred; but where you'd find a better—"
"He's pledged already, then," observed Jennings to Paca, smiling.
"Why, who will you run against, sir?" asked Rockwell, interested, despite his ill-humor; for, of all things, he loved the turf.
"Paca's filly, Doris. She's young for my two-year-old; but Will is to enter her for the fall cup, and wants to give her practice."
"Pretty beast, Doris. I stake on her, I think. Are the dates fixed?"
"No, deuce take it! there's the bother. Trevor has no jockey. Castor will carry weight, and there's not a rider in town over four and a half stone. Five would ride him; no less—eh, Vincent?" queried Paca, and Trevor nodded.
There was a short pause, in the midst of which a servant with the wine and sangaree appeared. The room drank with Trevor, and two or three afterwards turned to the pewter mugs which held the planter's favorite beverage. Claude had been listening intently to the talk concerning the race, and, his ear being well accustomed to the colonial accent, he had gathered the gist of all that was said.
"My man, Tom Cree, might know of some fellow who would do for you, Vincent. I think you could trust him if you cared to look about in that way," suggested Paca, after some hesitation.