“I'm afraid the Chestnut's a bad actor,” Dixon said to Allis, after the race. “We'll never do no good with him. If he couldn't beat that lot he's not worth his feed bill.”
“He would have won had I been on his back,” declared the girl, loyally.
“That's no good, Miss; you can't ride him, you see. We've just got one peg to hang our hat on—that's Lucretia.”
Lauzanne's showing in this race was a great disappointment to Allis; she had hoped that his confidence in humanity had been restored. Physically he had undoubtedly improved; his legs had hardened and smoothed down. In fact, his whole condition was perfect.
She still felt that if Redpath had followed her advice and allowed Lauzanne to run his own race he would have won. The race did not shake her confidence in the horse so much as in the possibility of getting any jockey to ride him in a quiescent manner. When it was impossible of Redpath, who was eager to please her, whom else could they look to? They might experiment, but while they were experimenting Lauzanne would be driven back into his old bad habits.
The next morning brought them fresh disaster; all that had gone before was as nothing compared with this new development in their run of thwarted endeavor.
Ned Carter had given Lucretia a vigorous exercise gallop over the Derby course. As Dixon led the mare through the paddock to a stall he suddenly bent down his head and took a sharp look at her nostrils; another stride and they were in the stall. The Trainer felt Lucretia's throat and ears; he put his hand over her heart, a look of anxious dismay on his usually stolid face.
“She coughed a little, sir, when I pulled her up,” volunteered Carter, seeing Dixon's investigation.
“I'm afraid she's took cold,” muttered Dixon. “Have you had her near any horses that's got the influenza?” he asked, looking inquiringly at Carter.
“She ain't been near nothing; I kept her away from everything, for fear she'd get a kick, or get run into.”