It was not that, reflected Mr. Crimins. Then it must be the other. Robin's look decided him.
“Any news!” he asked confidentially, leaning forward and dropping his husky voice. This meant, generally, had he heard of anything likely to change the chances of next day's race.
“Ur—who 's goin' to win the steep'!”
Robin looked wiser.
“Well—the' may be some surprises tomorrow. You keep your eyes open. Dese heah Yankee hosses don' always have dey own way——”
“I try to, but thim sheenies! Tell me what you know?” His voice was a cajoling whisper now. “They says Hurricane's—or is it Swallow's—!” He was looking with exaggerated interest at something in his hand, waiting in hopes that Robin would take up the sentence and complete it.
Robin chuckled, and the chuckle was worth what he wanted.
“Swallow 's too fat; Hurricane 's good, but it 's muscle an' wind an' de blood what tells in de last mile—blood an' bottom. You keep yer eye on a dark hoss. Gi' me meh money.”
The loan-broker still held on to the notes, partly from force of habit, while he asked: “Who 's a-ridin' him!”
But Robin reached for the bills and got them.