"
Porter stopped and looked at the horseman. He was Mike Gaynor, a
trainer, and more than once Porter had stood his friend. Mike always
had on hand three or four horses of inconceivable slowness, and
uncertainty of wind and limb; consequently there was an ever-recurring
inability to pay feed bills, so he had every chance to know just who was
his friend and who was not, for he tried them most sorely.
Porter knew all this quite well; also that in spite of Mike's chronic
impecuniosity he was honest, and true as steel to a benefactor. He
waited, feeling sure that Gaynor had something to tell.
"There's a strong play on Lauzanne, ain't there, sir?"
Porter nodded.
"Sure t'ing! That Langdon's a crook. I knowed him when he was ridin'
on freight cars; now he's a swell, though he's a long sprint from bein'
a gentleman. I got de tip dat dere was a killin' on, an' I axed Dick
Langdon if dere was anyt'ing doin'; an' Dick says to me, says he,
puttin' hot' t'umbs up"--and Mike held both hands out horizontally with
the thumbs stiff and vertical to illustrate this form of oath--"'there's
nottin' doin', Mike,' says he. What d'ye t'ink of that, sir, an' me
knowin' there was?" asked Mike, tragically.
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