“I t'ought he would be. But he didn't know ye, Miss Allis—”
Heavens! It was out. Mike's sun-tanned face turned brick-red; he could have bitten off his unruly Irish tongue. The girl stared at him helplessly, her cheeks, that were scarlet, tingling under the hot rush of blood.
“There ye are, an' believe me, I didn't mean it. I was goin' to keep me mouth shut, but I never could do that.”
“You knew then, yesterday?”
“Indade I didn't, an' that's a good sign to ye nobody'll know. But whin I t'ought wit' meself I knowed that Alan couldn't ride Lauzanne the way ye did; an' ye didn't deny ye was him, an' if ye wasn't him ye must be yerself, see?” which more or less lucid explanation seemed to relieve Mike's mind mightily. “I think ye're Jes doin' roight, Miss—Al, I mean; I must get used to that name; s'help me, I believe ye'll win on the Chestnut—that gallop was good enough.”
“Do you think I can do it, Mike, among all those jockeys?”
“Sure thing, ye can, A—Al, me b'y; he won't need no ridin' in yer hands; all ye'll have to do is sit still an' keep him straight. He'll win the race in the stretch, an' there won't be many there to bother—they'll all be beat off. Now, it's a good thing that I do know about this, for I'll just kape close to ye an' kape any wan that's likely to spot ye away, if I have to knock him down.”
Mike had worked himself up to a fine frenzy of projected endeavor; he cast about for further services he could render his admired mistress.
“An' ye know Carson the starter; he's jes the loveliest Irishman; there isn't a b'y on earth could git an inch the best av it from him on a start, not if they was to give him gold enough to weigh a horse down. But I'll jes' tip him the wink that ye'r a gurl, and—”
“Mike, what are you saying? Do you mean to ruin everything?”