“He never was no class,” objected Dixon.
“If ye'd see him gallop the day he run away, ye'd think he had class,” said Mike. “Bot' tumbs up! ye'd a t'ought it was the flyin' Salvator.”
“Well, we'll soon know all about it,” declared Dixon. “There's the saddlin' bell. Have you weighed out, Redpath? Weight all right, ninety-two pounds?”
“All right, sir. It was a close call to make it, though; there was a few ounces over.”
“All the better; it's a hot day, an' if they're long at the post it'll take them spare ounces out of you, I fancy.”
Dixon held up his finger to the boy that was leading Lucretia, and nodding his head toward the stall led the way.
“We're number seven, Mike,” said Allis, looking at the leather tag which carried the figure on Jockey Redpath's right arm.
“'There's luck in odd numbers, said Rory O'Moore,'” quoted Mike.
“I've a superstitious dread of seven,” the girl said; “it's the one number that I always associate with disaster—I don't mind thirteen a bit.”
“We'll break the bad luck seven to-day,” asserted little Redpath, bravely.