"They're getting ready for the start. Are you betting on that runt of a gray?"
CHAPTER FIVE
Conner shook his head almost sadly. "A horse that stands not a hair more than fourteen-three, eighteen years old, with a hundred and eighty pounds up—No, I'm not a fool."
"Which is it—the roan or the bay?" gasped Townsend. "Which d'you say? I'll tell you about the valley after the race. Which hoss, Mr. Connor?"
Thus appealed to, the gambler straightened and clasped his hands behind his back. He looked coldly at the horses.
"How old is that brown yonder—the one the boy is just mounting?"
"Three. But what's he got to do with the race?"
"He's a shade too young, or he'd win it. That's what he has to do with it. Back Haig's horse, then. The roan is the best bet."
"Have you had a good look at Lightnin'?"