Part 16 (1/2)

”That's hard on me, Mike,” expostulated Allis. ”You see, Lauzanne goes better with me in the saddle than any of the boys,” she explained to Mortimer.

”The divil or angels, I was going to say, Miss, when ye interrupted me,”

gallantly responded Mike.

Diablo's head was tied high in a corner of the stall, for Shandy, the boy, was hard at work on him with a double hand of straw, rubbing him down. The boy kept up a peculiar whistling noise through his parted lips as he rubbed, and Diablo snapped impatiently at the halter-shank with his great white teeth as though he resented the operation.

Mortimer gazed with enthusiasm at the s.h.i.+ning black skin that glistened like satin, or watered silk. Surely there was excuse for people loving thoroughbreds. It was an exhilaration even to look at that embodiment of physical development. It was an animate statue to the excellence of good, clean living. Somehow or other Mortimer felt that though the living creature before him was only a horse, yet nature's laws were being adhered to, and the result was a reward of physical perfection and enjoyment of life. He began to feel that a man, or even a woman--it was the subtle presence of the woman at his side that made him involuntarily interject this clause into his inaudible thoughts--yes, even a woman of high moral attributes might find the most healthy form of interested amus.e.m.e.nt in watching the superb development of horses that were destined for no other purpose than to race and beget sons and daughters of the same wondrous stamina and courage and speed. His detestation of racing had been in reality an untutored prejudice; he had looked upon but one phase of the question, and that quite casually, as it introduced itself into his life by means of sensational betting incidents in the daily papers. To him all forms of betting were highly disastrous--most immoral. But here, like a revelation, came to him, in all its fascination, the perfect picture of the animal, which he was forced to admit stood next to man in its adornment of G.o.d's scheme of creation.

As Shandy swept his wisp of straw along the sensitive skin of Diablo's stomach, the latter shrunk from the tickling sensation, and lashed out impatiently with a powerful hind leg as though he would demolish his tormentor.

”He's not cross at all just,” explained Mike; ”he's bluffin', that's all. Shure a child could handle him if they'd only go the right way about it.”

Then he leaned over and whispered in an aside to the visitors--”Bot'

t'umbs up!” (this was Mike's favorite oath). ”Diablo hates that b'y an'

some day he'll do him up, mark my words.”

”Here, Shandy,” he cried, turning to the rubber, ”loose the Black's head an' turn him 'round.”

Mortimer almost shrank with apprehension for the boy, for Diablo's ears were back on his flat, tapering neck, and his eyes looking back at them, were all white, save for the intense blue-s.h.i.+mmered pupil. To Mortimer that look was the incarnation of evil hatred. But the boy unsnapped the halter-shank without hesitation, and Diablo, more inquisitive than angry, came mincingly toward them, nodding his head somewhat defiantly, as much as to say that the nature of the interview would depend altogether upon their good behavior.

”See that!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Mike, a pleasant smile of satisfaction rippling the furrows of his face; ”see how he picks out the best friend the stable's got.”

Diablo had stretched his lean head down, and was trying to nibble with gentle lip the carrot Allis held half hidden behind her skirt. There was none of Lucretia's timidity in Diablo's approach; it was full of an a.s.sumption of equality, of trust in the intentions of the stranger who had come with the mistress he hart faith in.

”They're all like that when Miss Allis is about,” explained Mike; ”there never would be a bad horse if the stable-b'ys worked the same way. Tie him up, Shandy,” he added. ”Even the jockeys spoil their mounts,” Gaynor continued in a monotone; ”the horse'll gallop better for women any time--they treat thim gentler, that's why.”

”Most interesting,” hazarded Mortimer, feeling some acknowledgment of Mike's information was due.

”It's the trut'. Miss Allis'd take Lauzanne, or the Black, or the little mare, an' get a better race out av thim than any jock I've seen ridin'

hereabout.”

”Mike,” exclaimed Allis, ”you flatter me; you almost make me wish that I were a jockey.”

”Well, bot' t'umbs up! Ye'd av made a good un, Miss, an' that's no disrespect to ye, I'm sayin'.”

Mortimer smiled condescendingly. Allis's quick eye caught his expression of amused discontent; it angered her. Mike's praise had been practically honest. To him a good jockey was the embodiment of courage and honesty and intelligence; but she knew that to Mortimer it simply meant a phase of life he considered quite outside the pale of recognized respectability. Somehow she felt that Mike's encomium had lowered her perceptibly in the opinion of this man whom she herself affected to look upon with but toleration.

They visited all the other stalls, eight of them, and listened to Mike's eulogies on the inmates. Coming down the other side of the pa.s.sage, the last occupied box stall contained Lauzanne.

”Miss Porter'll tell ye about this wan,” said Mike, diplomatically.

”He's shaped like a good horse, an' his sire, old Lazzarone, landed many a purse, an' the 'Suburban,' too--won it on three legs, fer he was clean gone in his pins, I'll take me oath to that. He was a good horse--whin he liked. Perhaps Lauzanne'll do the same some day, fer all I know.”

There was such a tone of doubt in the Trainer's voice that even Mortimer noticed it. Neither was there much praise of the big Chestnut; evidently Mike did not quite approve of him, though hesitating to say so in the presence of his mistress.

”Yes, Lauzanne is my horse,” volunteered Allis. ”I even ride him in all his work now, since he took to eating the stable-boy.”