“Then Diablo did carry his full weight,” commented Crane, a light breaking in upon him.
“Just about, and carried it like a stake horse, too.”
“And you—”
“Yes; I changed the saddles after Westley weighed. He's a good boy, and don't shoot off his mouth much, but all the same things will out while ridin' boys have the power of speech.”
“It looks as though Diablo had something in him,” said Crane, meditatively.
“He's got the Brooklyn in him. Fancy The Dutchman in at seventy pounds; that's what it comes to. Diablo's got ninety to carry, an' he gave the other twenty pounds to-day. You've got the greatest thing on earth right in your hands now—”
Langdon hesitated for a minute, and then added: “But I guess you knew this all before, or you wouldn't have sent him here.”
“I bought him for a bad horse,” answered Crane, quietly; “but if he turns out well, that's so much to the good. But it's a bit of luck Porter's not having declared him out to save nearly a hundred. He seems to have raced pretty loose.”
“I wonder if he thinks I'm taking in that fairy tale?” thought Langdon. Aloud, he said: “But you'll back him now, sir, won't you? He must be a long price in the winter books.”
“Yes; I'll arrange that,” answered the other, “and I'll take care of you, too. I suppose Westley will take the mount?”