Down in the betting ring men of strong voices bellowed words of money odds, and full-muscled shoulders pushed and carried heads about that were intent on financial businesses. But what of that? It was not the Brooklyn, it was gambling.
Out in the paddock a small brown mare of gentle aspect, with big soft eyes, full of a dreamy memory of fresh-shooting grass, walked with easy stride an elliptical circle. Her fetlocks fair kissed the short grass in an unstable manner, as though the joints were all too supple. Inside of the circle stood Allis Porter and a man square of jaw and square of shoulder, that was Andy Dixon. Presently to them came Mike Gaynor.
“We're gittin' next it now, Miss Allis; we'll soon know all about it.”
“We're all ready, Mike,” said Dixon, with square solemnity. “When they've beat the little mare they'll be catchin' the judge's eye.”
“There's nothing left now, Mike, but just a hope for a little luck,” added the girl.
“Ye'r talking now, Miss Allis. Luck's the trick from this out. The little mare'll have a straight run this trip. Here's the b'y comin' now, and a good b'y he is.”
A little man in blue jacket and white stars joined them, saluting Miss Allis with his riding whip. “Are you going to win, Redpath?” asked the girl.
“I'm going to try, Miss. She's a sweet mare to ride, but it's a big field. There's some boys riding that ought to be in the stable rubbing horses.”
“You'll have to get out in front,” said Dixon, speaking low; “your mare's too light to stand crowdin', an' even if you have to take her back for a breather after you've gone half the journey, she'll come again, for she's game.”
“Them Langdon fellows thinks they've got a great chance wit' our cast-off, Diablo,” volunteered Mike. “I had a peep at him in the stall, an' he's lookin' purty fit.”