Every twist of her sinewy figure bore mute testimony to this; every glance from her wondrous eyes was an eloquent substantiating argument in favor of the life she affected. John Porter looked down at the small, rather dark, upturned face, and a half-amused smile of content came to his lips. “Did you see Lucretia?” he asked. “Isn't she a beauty? Hasn't Dixon got her in the pink of condition?”
“I saw nothing else, father.” She beckoned to him with her eyes, tipped her head forward, and whispered: “Those people behind us have backed Lauzanne. I think they're racing folks.”
The father smiled as an uncultured woman's voice from one row back jarred on his ear. Allis noticed the smile and its provocation, and said, speaking hastily, “I don't mean like you, father—”
“Like us,” he corrected.
“Well, perhaps; they're more like betting or training people, though.” She put her hand on his arm warningly, as a high-pitched falsetto penetrated the drone of their half-whispered words, saying, “I tell you Dick knows all about this Porter mare, Lucretia.”
“But I like her,” a baritone voice answered. “She looks a rattlin' filly.”
“You'll dine off zwieback and by your lonely, Ned, if you play horses on their looks—”
“Or women either,” the baritone cut in.
“You're a fair judge, Ned. But Dick told me to go the limit on Lauzanne, and to leave the filly alone.”
“On form Lucretia ought to win,” the man persisted; “an' there's never anythin' doin' with Porter.”