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“That ‘s what I am hoping for,” said the other. “He ‘s used to mud. I have ridden him in it after cattle many a day. He can out-gallop any horse in the State in mud.”

Robin looked at the young man keenly. He showed more shrewdness than he had given him credit for.

“Kin he jump in mud?” he demanded.

“He can jump in anything. He can fly. If you just had let me take him over those fences—-“

Robin changed the subject:

“What ‘s his name? I got to go an’ enter him.”

The boy told him. The old man’s countenance changed, but the other did not see it. He was busy getting a roll of bills–by no means a large one–from his pocket.

“How much is it? I have the money all right.” He proudly unrolled the money, mostly dollar bills. The old negro took the roll and counted the money slowly.

“Is dis—-?” he began, but stopped. After a minute’s thought he went over them again.

“Heah.” He took out about half the money, and handed the rest back. “Wait. I ‘ll tend to it.” He reached for his coat. “Don’t you do nuttin’ to him while I ‘m gone, an’ don’t you lef’ him, not a minute.” He put on his coat and went out.

His path led out from among the stables to the wing of one of the buildings where the superintendent and his staff had their offices. Here a colloquy took place between Robin and the cigar-smoking, dark-skinned clerk in charge, and then Robin left and paid a visit to another kind of official–an official on the main road, just outside the grounds, who kept an establishment which was divided into two departments. One was dignified by the word “Cafe” painted in black letters on the white ground of the painted pane, though on the door was the simple American word “Bar.” Over the door of the other was an attempt to portray three gilded balls. The proprietor of this bifurcated establishment, a man with red hair, a low forehead, a broad chin, and brawny shoulders, a long lip and long arms, rejoiced in the name of Nicholas Crimins, though by most of his customers he was irreverently called by a diminutive of that name. The principal part of his business undoubtedly came from the side of the establishment with the short name; but it was known to the stable-fraternity that on occasion “Old Nick” would make an advance to a needy borrower who was “down on his luck” of at least fifteen per cent, of almost any article’s value. Saddles, bridles, watches, pistols, scarf-pins, and all the indiscriminate belongings of a race-track population were to be found in his “store.” And it was said that he had even been known to take over a stable when the owner found it necessary to leave the State on exceptionally short notice.

Into this odorous establishment old Robin now went and had a brief interview with the proprietor, whose surprise at the old trainer’s proposition was unfeigned. As he knew Robin was not a gambler, the money-lender could set down his request to only one of two causes: either he had lost on a race that day, or he had “points” which made him willing to put up all he could raise on a horse next day. He tried him on the first.

“Had bad luck to-day? I lost a pile myself,” he began insinuatingly. “Thim scoundrels ‘ll bate ivery horse they say a man look at. It ‘s a regular syn-dicate.”

“Nor, I did n ‘t lay a dollar on a hoss to-day,” declared Robin. He looked wise.

It was not that, reflected Mr. Crimins. Then it must be the other. Robin’s look decided him.

“Any news!” he asked confidentially, leaning forward and dropping his husky voice. This meant, generally, had he heard of anything likely to change the chances of next day’s race.

“Ur–who ‘s goin’ to win the steep’!”