“I'll take fifteen to one,” declared Dixon.
“Can't lay it; some of the talent—men as doesn't make no mistake, is takin' twelve to one in my book fast as I open my mouth.”
“I want fifteen,” replied Dixon, doggedly. “Surely the owner is entitled to a shade the best of it.”
“What's the size of your bet?” queried the Cherub.
“If you lay me fifteen, I'll take it to a thousand.”
“But you want it ag'in' the stable, an' you've two in; with two horses twelve is a long price.”
“I'm takin' it against the stable just because it's the usual thing to couple it in the bettin. It's a million to one against Lauzanne's starting if Lucretia keeps well.”
Faust gave a little start and searched Dixon's face, furtively. The Trainer's stolid look reassured him, and in a most sudden burst of generosity he said: “Well, I'll stretch a point for you, Dixon. Your boss is up ag'in' a frost good and hard. I'll lay you fifteen thousand to one ag'in' the stable, an' if Lauzanne wins you'll buy me a nice tiepin.”
His round, fat sides heaved spasmodically with suppressed merriment at the idea of Lauzanne in the Brooklyn Derby.
“They must have a pretty good opinion of The Dutchman,” Dixon thought, as he moved away after concluding the bet. “I'm naturally suspicious of that gang, when they get frisky with their money. It's a bit like I've heard about the Sultan of Turkey always givin' a present to a man before cutting his head off.”