His eyes were glittering restlessly, and the pupils seemed to be unduly dilated. The whiskey and opium together—probably an unaccustomed combination—were too much for his ill-balanced control. Every indication of his face and his narrow eyes was for secrecy and craft; yet for the moment he was opening up to me, a stranger, like an oyster. Even my inexperience could see that much, and I eagerly took advantage of my chance.
"You are a horseman, then?" I suggested.
"Me a horseman? Say, kid, you didn't get my name. Brower—Artie Brower. Why, I've ridden more winning races than any other man on the Pacific Coast. That's how I got onto old H.H. I rode for him. He knows a good horse all right—the old skunk. Used to have a pretty string."
"He's got at least one good Morgan stallion now," said I. "I've seen him at Hooper's ranch."
"I know the old crock—trotter," scorned the true riding jockey. "Probably old Tim Westmore is hanging around, too. He's in love with that horse."
"Is he in love with Hooper, too?" I asked.
"Just like I am," said the jockey with a leer.
"So you're going to be rich," said I. "How's that?"
He leered at me again, going foxy.
"Don't you wish you knew! But I'll tell you this: old H.H. is going to give me all I want—just because I ask him to."