“Yes, that 's what I say. Such bone and muscle!” she repeated, with pretended gravity.
“Especially the bone!” observed Mr. Newby, in a low tone.
“I shall back him,” she said. She held in her hand a rose which had broken off its stem. She took it and stuck it in a loop in the sheet.
Just then the first bell sounded, and the hostlers began to get the horses ready to appear before the judges, while the riders went off to weigh in, and the crowd began to stream back to the stands. As the group turned away, the young owner took the rose from the loop and, with a shy look around, hid it in the breast of his jacket. His eye followed the white hat till it passed out of the paddock gate.
“Do you really think that horse can win?” asked Mr. Newby of the young lady, as they strolled along. “Because I tell you he can't. I thought you were a sport. Why, look at his hocks! He won't get over the Liverpool.”
“I shall back him,” said she. “What is the Liverpool?”
“Here, I 'll tell you what I 'll do,” said Mr. Newby. “I 'll bet you two to one he does n't win the race.” He winked at the others.
“Very well. I don't approve of betting, but I 'll do it this time just to punish you.”
“Now I 'll bet you two to one he does n't come in second—that boy won't get him over the water-jump.”
“Very well—no, I don't want to take odds. I 'll bet you even. I must be a sport.”