The Trainer stared in amazement.
“I'll give you the check when I come back,” Porter continued, speaking to Langdon.
“There's trouble on, sir,” said Dixon, as they moved toward the Stewards' box.
“There always is,” commented Porter, dryly.
“The Stewards think Lucretia didn't run up to her form. They've had me up, an' her jock, McKay, is there now. Starter Carson swears he couldn't get her away from the post—says McKay fair anchored the mare. He fined the boy fifty dollars at the start.”
“I think they've got the wrong pig by the ear—why don't they yank Langdon? he's at the bottom of it. It a pretty rich, Andy, isn't it? They hit me heavy over the race, and now they'd like to rule me off for that thief's work,” and he jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Langdon.
“Yes, racin's hell now,” commented Dixon with laconic directness. “It seems just no use workin' over a good horse when any mut of a crook who is takin' a turn at plungin' can get at the boy. I believe Boston Bill's game of gettin' a straight boy to play, an' lettin' the horses go hang, is the proper racket.”
“Yes, a good boy is better than a good horse nowadays; but they're like North Poles—hard to come by.”
“Some mug give the Stewards a yarn that you'd bought Lauzanne, sir, an' sez that's why you didn't win with the mare.”
Porter stopped, and gasped in astonishment. What next?