When John Porter reached the saddling paddock, his brown mare, Lucretia, was being led around in a circle in the lower corner. As he walked down toward her his trainer, Andy Dixon, came forward a few paces to meet him.
“Are they hammerin' Crane's horse in the ring, sir?” he asked, smoothing down the grass with the toe of one foot, watching this physical process with extreme interest.
“Just what you'd notice,” replied Porter. “Why?”
“Well, I don't like the look of it a little bit. Here's this Lauzanne runs like a dog the last time out—last by the length of a street—and now I've got it pretty straight they're out for the stuff.”
“They'd a stable-boy up on him that time.”
“That's just it,” cried Dixon. “Grant comes to me that day—you know Grant, he works the commission for Dick Langdon—and tells me to leave the horse alone; and to-day he comes and—” he hesitated.
“And what?”
“Tells me to go light on our mare.”
“Isn't Grant broke?” asked Porter, with seeming irrelevance.
“He's close next it,” answered the Trainer.