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Robin looked wiser.

“Well–the’ may be some surprises tomorrow. You keep your eyes open. Dese heah Yankee hosses don’ always have dey own way—-“

“I try to, but thim sheenies! Tell me what you know?” His voice was a cajoling whisper now. “They says Hurricane’s–or is it Swallow’s–!” He was looking with exaggerated interest at something in his hand, waiting in hopes that Robin would take up the sentence and complete it.

Robin chuckled, and the chuckle was worth what he wanted.

“Swallow ‘s too fat; Hurricane ‘s good, but it ‘s muscle an’ wind an’ de blood what tells in de last mile–blood an’ bottom. You keep yer eye on a dark hoss. Gi’ me meh money.”

The loan-broker still held on to the notes, partly from force of habit, while he asked: “Who ‘s a-ridin’ him!”

But Robin reached for the bills and got them.

“Somebody as knows how to ride,” he said, oracularly. “You ‘ll see to-morrow.”

As he turned away the lender muttered an oath of disappointment The next moment he examined something curiously. Then he put it to his ear, and then in his pocket with a look of deep satisfaction.

“Well, I ‘ll make this anyhow.”

When Robin came out of the shop, for the first time in twenty years he was without his big gold watch. He passed back by the secretary’s office, and paid down the sum necessary to enter a horse in the next day’s steeplechase. The clerk looked toward the door.

“Don’t you know the sun is down?”

“De sun down! ‘Tain’t nothin’ but de cloud. De sun ‘s a quarter of a hour high.” Robin walked to the door.

“What time is it by your watch?”

“Hit ‘s edzactly seven–” His back was to the official.

“Humph!” grunted the clerk. “Don’t you know—-“

“–lackin’ six—-“

“–the sun sets at ten minutes to seven!”

“–lackin ‘ sixteen minutes forty-two seconds and a quarter,” pursued Robin, with head bent as if he were looking at a watch.

“Oh, you be hanged! Your old watch is always slow.”

“My watch? Dis heah watch?” He turned, buttoning his coat carefully. “You know whar dis watch come f’om?” He pressed his hand to his side and held it there.

“Yes, I know. Give me your money. It will help swell Carrier Pigeon’s pile to-morrow.”

“Not unless he can fly,” said Robin.

“What ‘s his name!” The clerk had picked up his pen.

Robin scratched his head in perplexity.

“Le’ me see. I ‘mos’ forgit. Oh, yes.” He gave the name.

“What! Call him ‘J. D.’?”

“Yes, dat ‘ll do.”

So, the horse was entered as “J. D.”

As Robin stepped out of the door the first big drops of rain were just spattering down on the steps from the dark cloud that now covered all the western sky, and before he reached the stable it was pouring.

As he entered the stall the young owner was on his knees in a corner, and before him was an open portmanteau from which he was taking something that made the old man’s eyes glisten: an old jacket of faded orange-yellow silk, and a blue cap–the old Bullfield colors, that had once been known on every course in the country, and had often led the field.

Robin gave an exclamation.

“Le’ me see dat thing!” He seized the jacket and held it up.

“Lord, Lord! I ‘s glad to see it,” he said. “I ain’ see it for so long. It ‘s like home. Whar did you git dis thing, son! I ‘d jest like to see it once mo’ come home leadin’ de field.”

“Well, you shall see it doing that to-morrow,” said the young fellow, boastfully, his face alight with pleasure.

“I declar’ I ‘d gi’ my watch to see it.”

He stopped short as his hand went to his side where the big gold timepiece had so long reposed, and he took it away with a sudden sense of loss. This, however, was but for a second. In a moment the old trainer was back in the past, telling his young master of the glories of the old stable–what races it had run and what stakes it had won.