"
Over at The Dutchman's stall there was a very confindent party. Their
horse would go to the post as fit as any thoroughbred had ever stripped.
Langdon was a great trainer--there was no doubt about that; if there had
been Crane would have discovered it and changed his executive officer.
The tall son of Hanover was lean of flesh, but gross in muscle. He was
as though an Angelo had chiseled with sure hand from his neck, and ribs,
and buttocks all the marble of useless waste, and left untouched in
sinewy beauty layer on layer, each muscle, and thew, and cord. Flat-
boned and wide the black-glossed legs, and over the corded form a silken
skin of dull fire-red. From the big eyes gleamed an expectant delight
of the struggle; not sluggishly indifferent, as was Lauzanne's, but
knowing of the fray and joyous in its welcome.
"He'll win on a tight rein," confided Langdon to Jockey Westley; "he's
the greatest Hanover in the land. There's a dozen races bottled up in
that carcass"--and he slapped the big Bay lovingly on the rump"--but if
you're put to it, Bill, you can call on him fer the full dozen today.
There's nothin' to it but yourself and White Moth."
Carelessly he stepped to the back of the stall, touching Westley as he
passed.
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