“I guess Diablo's about good enough to win a big handicap, if he happened to be in one at a light weight.”
“He didn't win to-day.”
“He came pretty near it.”
“But where would he have been carrying his proper weight?”
“About where he was, I guess.”
“You said as a four-year-old he should have had up a hundred and twenty-six, and he carried a hundred and twelve; and, besides, had the best boy by seven pounds on his back.”
“Just pass me that saddle, Mr. Crane,” said Langdon, by way of answer. “No; not that—the one I took off Diablo.”
Crane reached down his hand, but the saddle didn't come quite as freely as it should have. “What's it caught in?” he asked, fretfully.
“In itself, I reckon—lift it.” “Gad! it's heavy. Did Diablo carry that? What's in it?”
“Lead-built into it; it's my old fiddle, you know. You're the first man that's had his hand on that saddle for some time, I can tell you.”