“Where was Lucretia, father?”
“Third,” he answered, laconically, schooling his voice to indifference. “I hope it's a dead heat, for if Lauzanne gets the verdict I've got to take him. I don't want him after that run; they made him a present of the race at the start, and he only just squeezed home.”
“Why must you take the horse, father, if you don't want him? I don't understand.”
“I suppose there's no law for it—I said I would, that's all. The whole thing is crooked though; they stole the race from Lucretia and planted me with a dope horse, and hanged if I don't feel like backing out. Let Langdon go before the Stewards about the sale if he dare.”
“Did you give your word that you'd buy the horse, father?”
“I did; but it was a plant.”
“Then you'll take him, father. People say that John Porter's word is as good as his bond; and that sounds sweeter in my ears than if I were to hear them say that you were rich, or clever, or almost anything.”
“Lauzanne gets it!” called the eager grating voice behind them. “There go the numbers, Ned—three, five, ten; Lauzanne, The Dutchman, Lucretia. I knew it. Dick don't make no mistakes when he's out for blood.”
“He drew it a bit fine that time,” growled Ned, still in opposition; “it was the closest sort of a shave.”
“Hurrah, Lauzanne!”