His reason told him that the ill-fortune could not last; he had one
great little mare, good enough to win, an honest trainer--there the
inventory stopped short; his stock in trade was incomplete--he had not a
trusty jockey. In his dilemma he threshed it out with Dixon.
"How's the mare doing, Andy?" he asked. "What did the race do to her?"
"She never was better in her life," the Trainer answered, proudly. Then
he added, to ease the troubled look that was in the gray eyes of his
master, "She'll win next time out, sir--I'll gamble my shirt on that."
"Not with another McKay up."
"I think she's good enough for the 'Eclipse,' sir, dashed if I don't. I
worked her the distance, and she shaded the time they made last year."
"What's the use," said Porter, dejectedly; "where'll we get a boy?"
"Oh, lots of the boys are straight."
"I know that," Porter answered, "but all the straight ones are tied hand
and foot to the big stables."
"I've been thinkin' it over," hazarded Dixon, tentatively--"Boston
Bill's got a good lad--there's none of them can put it over him, an' his
boss ain't got nothin' in the 'Eclipse,' I know."
"That means the same old game, Andy; we nurse the horse, get him into
condition, place him where he can win, and then turn him over to a
plunger and take the small end of the divide.
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