Crane drew from the inner pocket of his coat a leather case, and after a search found Shandy's unsigned letter, and passed it over to the Trainer.
“It's dollars to doughnuts Shandy wrote it. Let me keep this, sir.”
“You're welcome to it,” answered Crane; “you can settle with him. But about the Derby, I have reasons for wishing to win that race, reasons other than the money. I want to win it, bad. Do you understand?”
“I think I do. When you say you want to win a race, you generally want to win it.”
“Yes, I do. But see here, Langdon, just leave their jockey to take orders from his own master, see?”
“I wasn't goin' to put up no game with him, sir.”
“Of course not, of course not. It wouldn't do. He's a straight boy, I think, and just leave him to ride the best he knows how. We've got a better jockey in Westley. Besides, the Brooklyn Handicap has taken a lot out of their mare; they may find that she'll go back after it. I think you'd better get rid of that Shandy serpent; he seems ripe for any deviltry. You can't tell but what he might get at The Dutchman if somebody paid him. If I'm any judge of outlawed human nature, he'd do it. I've got to run down to Brookfield on a matter of business, but shall be back again in a day or so. Just keep an eye on The Dutchman—but I needn't tell you that, of course.”
“That two-year-old I bought at Morris Park is coughin' an' runnin' at the nose; I blistered his throat last night; he's got influenza,” volunteered the Trainer.
“Keep him away from The Dutchman, then.”
“I've got him in another barn; that stuff's as catchin' as measles.”