“Aren't his friends that follow him all broke?”
“A good many of them have their address in Queer Street.”
“Look here, Andy,” said the owner, “there isn't a man with a horse in this stake that doesn't think he's going to win; and when it's all over we'll see Lucretia's number go up. Grant's a fool,” he added, viciously. “Didn't he break Fisher-didn't he break every other man that ever stuck to him?”
“It's not Grant at all,” replied Dixon, rubbing the palms of his hands together thoughtfully—a way he had when he wished to concentrate in concrete form the result of some deep cogitation—“it's Langdon, an' he's several blocks away from an asylum.”
“Langdon makes mistakes too.”
“He cashes in often when he's credited with a mistake,” retorted the other.
“Well, I've played the little mare,” asserted Porter.
“Much, sir?” asked Dixon, solicitously.
“All I can stand—and a little more,” he added, falteringly; “I needed a win, a good win,” he offered, in an explanatory voice. “I want to clear Ringwood—but never mind about that, Andy. The mare's well—ain't she? There can't be anything doing with McKay—we've only put him up a few times, but he seems all right.”
“I think we'll win,” answered the Trainer; “I didn't get anythin' straight—just that there seemed a deuced strong tip on Lauzanne, considerin' that he'd never showed any form to warrant it. Yonder he is, sir, in number five—go and have a look at him.”