“I don't see why a jockey or anybody else should be dishonest—I'm sure it must take too much valuable time to cover up crooked ways.”
“Yes, you'd have made a great jock, Little Woman;” the father went on, musingly, as he watched the horses lining up for the start. “Men think if a boy is a featherweight, and tough as a Bowery loafer, he's sure to be a success in the saddle. That's what beats me—a boy of that sort wouldn't be trusted to carry a letter with ten dollars in it, and on the back of a good horse he's, piloting thousands. Unless a jockey has the instincts of a gentleman, naturally, he's almost certain to turn out a blackguard sooner or later, and throw down his owner. He'll have more temptations in a week to violate his trust than a bank clerk would have in a lifetime.”
“Is that why you put Alan in the bank, father?”
Porter went on as though he had not heard the daughter's query. “To make a first-class jock, a boy must have nerves of steel, the courage of a bulldog, the self-controlling honesty of a monk. You've got all these right enough, Allis, only you're a girl, don't you see—just a good little woman,” and he patted her hand affectionately.
“They're off!” exclaimed the baritone.
“Not this trip,” objected the falsetto.
“The spurs—the young fiend!” fiercely ejaculated John Porter.
“What is it, father?”
“The boy on Lucretia is jabbing her with the spurs, and she's cutting up.”
“That's the fourth false start,” said Ned, the baritone. “I don't think much of your Lauzanne, he's like a crazy horse.”