“Yes, dat 'll do.”
So, the horse was entered as “J. D.”
As Robin stepped out of the door the first big drops of rain were just spattering down on the steps from the dark cloud that now covered all the western sky, and before he reached the stable it was pouring.
As he entered the stall the young owner was on his knees in a corner, and before him was an open portmanteau from which he was taking something that made the old man's eyes glisten: an old jacket of faded orange-yellow silk, and a blue cap—the old Bullfield colors, that had once been known on every course in the country, and had often led the field.
Robin gave an exclamation.
“Le' me see dat thing!” He seized the jacket and held it up.
“Lord, Lord! I 's glad to see it,” he said. “I ain' see it for so long. It 's like home. Whar did you git dis thing, son! I 'd jest like to see it once mo' come home leadin' de field.”
“Well, you shall see it doing that to-morrow,” said the young fellow, boastfully, his face alight with pleasure.
“I declar' I 'd gi' my watch to see it.”
He stopped short as his hand went to his side where the big gold timepiece had so long reposed, and he took it away with a sudden sense of loss. This, however, was but for a second. In a moment the old trainer was back in the past, telling his young master of the glories of the old stable—what races it had run and what stakes it had won.