The conclave of riders and the betting public had gathered at the farther end of the street, and it included the majority of Lukin. Only the center of the street was left religiously clear, and in this space half a dozen men led horses up and down with ostentatious indifference, stopping often to look after cinches which they had already tested many times. As Connor came up he saw a group of boys place their wagers with a stakeholder—knives, watches, nickels and dimes. That was a fair token of the spirit of the crowd. Wherever Connor looked he saw hands raised, brandishing greenbacks, and for every raised hand there were half a dozen clamorous voices.
"Quite a bit of sporting blood in Lukin, eh?" suggested Townsend.
"Sure," sighed Connor. He looked at the brandished money. "A field of wheat," he murmured, "waiting for the reaper. That's me."
He turned to see his companion pull out a fat wallet.
"Which one?" gasped Townsend. "We ain't got hardly any time."
Connor observed him with a smile that tucked up the corners of his mouth.
"Wait a while, friend. Plenty of time to get stung where the ponies are concerned. We'll look them over."
Townsend began to chatter in his ear: "It's between Charlie Haig's roan and Cliff Jones's Lightning—You see that bay? Man, he can surely get across the ground. But the roan ain't so bad. Oh, no!"
"Sure they are."
The gambler frowned. "I was about to say that there was only one horse in the race, but—" He shook his head despairingly as he looked over the riders. He was hunting automatically for the fleshless face and angular body of a jockey; among them all Charlie Haig came the closest to this light ideal. He was a sun-dried fellow, but even Charlie must have weighed well over a hundred and forty pounds; the others made no pretensions toward small poundage, and Cliff Jones must have scaled two hundred.