"I guess Diablo's about good enough to win a big handicap, if he happened to be in one at a light weight."

"He didn't win to-day."

"He came pretty near it."

"But where would he have been carrying his proper weight?"

"About where he was, I guess."

"You said as a four-year-old he should have had up a hundred and twenty-six, and he carried a hundred and twelve; and, besides, had the best boy by seven pounds on his back."

"Just pa.s.s me that saddle, Mr. Crane," said Langdon, by way of answer.

"No; not that--the one I took off Diablo."

Crane reached down his hand, but the saddle didn't come quite as freely as it should have. "What's it caught in?" he asked, fretfully.

"In itself, I reckon--lift it." "Gad! it's heavy. Did Diablo carry that?

What's in it?"

"Lead-built into it; it's my old fiddle, you know. You're the first man that's had his hand on that saddle for some time, I can tell you."

"Then Diablo did carry his full weight," commented Crane, a light breaking in upon him.

"Just about, and carried it like a stake horse, too."

"And you--"

"Yes; I changed the saddles after Westley weighed. He's a good boy, and don't shoot off his mouth much, but all the same things will out while ridin' boys have the power of speech."

"It looks as though Diablo had something in him," said Crane, meditatively.

"He's got the Brooklyn in him. Fancy The Dutchman in at seventy pounds; that's what it comes to. Diablo's got ninety to carry, an' he gave the other twenty pounds to-day. You've got the greatest thing on earth right in your hands now--"

Langdon hesitated for a minute, and then added: "But I guess you knew this all before, or you wouldn't have sent him here."

"I bought him for a bad horse," answered Crane, quietly; "but if he turns out well, that's so much to the good. But it's a bit of luck Porter's not having declared him out to save nearly a hundred. He seems to have raced pretty loose."

"I wonder if he thinks I'm taking in that fairy tale?" thought Langdon.

Aloud, he said: "But you'll back him now, sir, won't you? He must be a long price in the winter books."

"Yes; I'll arrange that," answered the other, "and I'll take care of you, too. I suppose Westley will take the mount?"

"Surely."

"Well, you can just give him to understand that he'll be looked after if the horse wins."

"It's the Brooklyn, sir, is it?"

"Seems like it."

"I won't say anything about the race to Westley, though."

"I'll leave all that to you. I'll attend to getting the money on; you do the rest."

When Crane had gone, Langdon paid further mental tribute to his master's astuteness. "Now I see it all," he muttered; "the old man just thought to keep me quiet; throw me of the scent till he duplicated the other trial, whenever they pulled it off. Now he's got a sure line on the Black, an' he'll make such a killin' that the books'll remember him for many a day. But why does he keep throwin' that fairy tale into me about buyin' a bad horse to oblige somebody? A man would be a sucker to believe that of Crane; he's not the sort. But one sure thing, he said he'd look after me, an' he will. He'd break a man quick enough, but when he gives his word it stands. Mr. Jakey Faust can look after himself: I'm not goin' to take chances of losin' a big stable of bread-winners by doublin' on the Boss."

Langdon's mental a.n.a.lysis of Crane's motives was the outcome of considerable experience. The Banker's past life was not compatible with generous dealing. His act of buying Diablo had been prompted by newborn feelings of regard for the Porters, chiefly Allis; but no man, much less Langdon, would have given him credit for other than the most selfish motives.

True to his resolve, Langdon utterly refused to share his confidences with Jakey Faust.

"We've tried the horses," he said, "and the Dutchman won, but Crane knows more about the whole business than I do. You go to him, Jake, or wait till he sends for you, an' you'll find out all about it. My game's to run straight with one man, anyway, an' I'm goin' to do it."

That was all Faust could learn. When an occasion offered he slipped a ten-dollar note into Shandy's hand, for he knew the lad was full open to a bribe, but Shandy knew no more than did the Bookmaker. The Dutchman, had won the trial from the Black quite easily, was the extent of his knowledge. As to Diablo himself, Shandy gave him a very bad character indeed.

XXI

Faust was in a quandary. First Crane had confided in him over Diablo, but now his silence seemed to indicate that he meant to have this good thing all to himself.

Then Langdon had promised to cooperate, now he, too, had closed up like a clam; he was as mute as an oyster.

"Crane is dealin' the cards all the time," thought Faust; "but there's some game on, sure."

He determined to back Diablo for himself at the long odds, and chance it.

Two days later Crane received a very illiterate epistle, evidently from a stable-boy; it was unsigned:

"DERE Boss, Yous is gittin it in the neck. de big blak hors he didn't carre the sadel you think the blak hors had on his bak. Yous got de duble cros that time. Der bokie hes axin me wot de blak is good fer der bokie is playin fer to trow yous downe.

"No moar at presen."

This was the wholly ambiguous communication that Crane had found under his door. There was no stamp, neither place nor date written in the letter; nothing but an evident warning from some one, who, no doubt, hoped to get into his good graces by putting him on his guard.

As it happened, Crane had just made up his mind to make his plunge on Diablo while the odds were long enough to make it possible with the outlay of very little capital. He smoked a heavy Manuel Garcia over this new contingency. It did not matter about the saddles. Langdon had confided in him fully. But how had the writer of the ill-spelled missive known of that matter?

Yes, he had better make his bet before these whisperings came to other ears.

But the bookmaker mentioned? That must be Faust. Why was he prowling about among stable lads?

He sent for Faust. When the latter had come, Crane asked Diablo's price for the Brooklyn.

"It's thirty to one now," replied the Bookmaker; "somebody's backin'

him."

Faust's small baby eyes were fixed furtively on Crane's pale, sallow face, as he imparted this information; but he might as well have studied the ingrain paper on the wall; its unfigured surface was not more placid, more devoid of indication, than the smooth countenance he was searching.