What an extraordinary thing manipulation was, Crane mused, as he listened; also how considerable of an ass the public was in its theoretical wisdom.
Then the three men drifted away to follow some new toy balloon of erratic possibilities, and Crane wound through the narrow passage which led to the paddock. There he encountered Langdon.
“He didn't run a very good horse, sir,” began the Trainer.
“I thought otherwise,” replied Crane, measuring the immediate vicinity of listeners.
“I had to draw it a bit fine,” declared Langdon, with apologetic remonstrance.
“Running second is always bad business, except in a selling race,” retorted his master.
“I've got to think of myself,” growled Langdon. “If he'd been beat off, there'd been trouble; the Stewards have got the other race in their crop a bit yet.”
“I'm not blaming you, Langdon, only I was just a trifle afraid that you were going to beat Porter's mare. He's a friend of mine, and needed a win badly. I'm not exactly his father confessor, but I'm his banker, which amounts to pretty much the same thing.”
“What about the horse, sir,” asked the Trainer.
“We'll see later on. Let him go easy for the present.”