“Pounds? Do you mean in the nature of dollars and cents? Do I understand that his services are so much more valuable than those of any other rider?”
The ill-concealed pride of a father was manifest.
Unable to hide his merriment longer at the dense ignorance displayed by his interrogator, the race-track habitué gave vent to a series of chuckles, ending with spasmodic gasps which threatened to choke him. Finally he said:
“When we say that a horse is so many pounds better than another, we mean that he can pick up so much more weight than another one carries and win out. It’s made by lead carried in the saddle pad. Now, this Darby to-day——”
“Go on, I think I understand,” said the bishop, faintly. “About the Derby——”
“Now, in this here Darby—it’s a mile and a half race—all the horses are three-year-olds, and they carry the same weights.”
“Ah, yes, I see, I see. Then Nowell should win?”—tentatively.
Halloran meditated, frowning deeply.
“Ye seem to take uncommon interest in this jock, sir——” he began.
“You are quite right, Mr. Halloran,” said the bishop. “I—I knew him well some years ago. It was before he became a jockey. His—his mother and father I was well acquainted with.”