Shandy's escapade with Diablo had brought a new trouble to Mike Gaynor.
The boy had been discharged with a severe reprimand from Mr. Porter, and a punctuation mark of disapproval from the Trainer's horn-like hand. He had departed from Ringwood inwardly swearing revenge upon everybody connected with that place; against Diablo he was particularly virulent.
Mike tried to secure a boy in the Brookfield neighborhood to ride Diablo in his work, but Shandy's evil tongue wagged so blatantly about the horse's bad temper that no lad could be found to take on in the stables. Ned Carter might have ridden Diablo at work, but the big Black was indeed a horse of many ideas. He had taken a notion to gallop kindly while accompanied by Lucretia and Lauzanne; worked alone he sulked and was as awkward as a broncho of the plains. Also he disliked Carter—seemed to associate his personality with that of Shandy's.
Mike's discontent over the hitch spread to John Porter. It was too bad; the horses had been doing so well. For three days Diablo had no gallop. On the fourth Porter determined to ride the horse himself; he would not be beaten out by an ungrateful whelp like Shandy. In his day he had been a famous gentleman jock, and still light enough to ride work.
“I don't like the idea, sor; it's not good enough,” remonstrated Mike.
But his master was obdurate. If Allis rode Lauzanne, why shouldn't he ride Diablo?
Gaynor would have ridden the horse himself rather than have his master do so, but he had a bad leg. Once upon a time it had been crushed against the rail. Somebody must ride Diablo; the horse, naturally highstrung, was becoming wild with nervousness through being knocked out of his work.
For three days after his discharge Shandy sat brooding with the low cunning of a forest animal over his fancied ill-treatment. More than once he had received money from Langdon for touting off to him Porter's stable matters; now in his unreasoning bitterness he contrasted Langdon and Porter.
“Dick's white, he is, an' I'll go git a job from him. I gits half eat by that crazy skate, an' fired without a cent fer it. God drat 'em!” he muttered; “I'll get even, or know why. They'll put Ned up on Diablo, will they? The sneak! He split on me fer beltin' the Black, I know, damn him! They ain't got another boy an' they won't git one. I'll fix that stiff, Carter, too; then they won't have no boy.”
He drank beer, and as it irritated his ferret mind a devilish plot came into his being and took possession of him—a plot easy of execution because of his familiarity with the Ringwood stables.