His wife saw an opening. “But, John dear, you were treated most shamefully last year; a dishonest boy hauled your horse—”
“Pulled, mother,” interposed Allis; “pulled father's horse, you mean.”
“Perhaps, though I fail to see where the difference can be, if the horse ran the other way and your father lost.”
Porter smiled indulgently. “The boy was punished, Helen,” he said. “Dishonesty is not tolerated on the race course.”
“Yes, but something is always happening,” she continued in lament. “It's contrary to the law of the church, John. It seems just like a visitation of divine wrath the way things happen. And you're so sanguine, John; last year you were going to win a big race with Diablo when he threw his leg—”
“Threw a splint, mother,” prompted Allis.
“I thought your father said it was his leg had something the matter with it,” argued Mrs. Porter.
“The splint was on his leg, mother dear.”
“Well, I'm not familiar with racing phrases, I must say, though I should be, goodness knows; I hear little else. And talk of cruelty to animals!” she turned to Mr. Dolman; “they burned the poor beast's leg with hot irons—”
The minister held up his hands in horror.