Andy Dixon was first of all 'a careful man. “There are risks enough in racin' without lookin' for them,” he said. “When one has got an absolute lead-pipe cinch, it's two to one against its coming off.” That was another of his conservative aphorisms.
Andy made no big wins, had never been booked as a successful plunger, had never skinned the ring; on the other hand, bringing the scales of equity to a dead level, he had never been forced to ask any man to pay his feed bills for him, nor let an account stand over for a time.
Allis was in good hands, and, what added to the value of the situation, she knew it, and would take Dixon's advice. The Trainer's opinion was borne out by the betting market; Lucretia stood a long way down in the list. Even Diablo, bad horse as he was supposed to be, was at a shorter price; the heavy outlay of his owner, and some intangible rumors having caused the bookmakers to feel inclined to hold him close up against their chests. His work since his trial with The Dutchman had been quite satisfactory. He looked upon Westley, the jockey, as a friend, and strode along in his gallops as though he had never sulked or shown temper in his life.
Favoritism for the Brooklyn was divided between The King, a five-year-old that had won it the year before, and White Moth, a three-year-old, winner of the last year's Futurity. Jockey Redpath had been riding Lucretia in her gallops since she had come to Gravesend. At last Dixon had been singularly fortunate in the matter of jockeys. Redpath was just making his reputation, making it as all jockey reputations are made, by winning races.
This somewhat unstudied factor in racing had loomed large on his mental vision. It might be possible to acquire a reputation in other professions by good fortune or favor. As a jockey, a light weight might possibly make money by dishonest methods, though that itself seemed doubtful, but there was no way to rise to the top of the tree except by riding winners; verily there was one royal road to fame in the field. Knowing all this, Redpath rode to win.
On the 22d Dixon gave Lucretia a good strong three-quarter gallop over the handicap course; on the 23d she had a quiet canter; and on the morning of the 24th, the eventful day, she poked her mouse-brown nozzle over the bar of her stall when Allis came to look at her and seemed to say, “I'll do my part to-day.”
Nothing could have been wished for in Lucretia's appearance that wasn't there, except just the faint suspicion of a sacrifice of strength to speed. But if the frame wasn't there, the good strong heart was; the courage and the gentleness, and the wisdom, and the full glow of perfect health.
For hours the trains had borne to Long Island crowd after crowd of eager, impatient New Yorkers. Lovers of horses, lovers of gambling, pure and simple; holiday makers, and those who wished to see the Brooklyn run out of sheer curiosity; train after train whirled these atoms of humanity to the huge gates of the Gravesend arena, wherein were to battle that day the picked thoroughbreds, old and young.
Even like bees, black-coated and buzzing, the eager ones swarmed from the cars and rehived in the great stand. Betting ring, and paddock, and lawn became alive because of their buzz; tier after tier, from step to roof, the serrated line of whitefaced humanity waited for the grand struggle.
The first race was but a race, that was all. Horses galloped, but did they not gallop other days? It was not the Brooklyn. And also the second was but another race. How slow, and of what little interest were the horses! Verily, neither was it the Brooklyn, and it was the Brooklyn forty thousand pairs of eyes had come to see.