“Is that what you get the five hundred for?” asked Allis, a sudden suspicion forcing itself upon her.
“Say, what d' you take me fer, a flat car? But she's sick, ain't she? An' you jes' take care of the Chestnut now, an' I'll give you a hundred out of my five, God bli' me if I don't.”
As he spoke Shandy looked hastily about to see that no one was listening, then he continued: “If you give me the double cross an' peach, I'll split yer head open.” His small eyes blazed with venomous fury. “Besides, it won't do no good, my word's as good as yours. But I'll give you the hundred, s'help me God! I will, if you don't ride the Chestnut out. Mum's the word,” he added, bolting suddenly, for Dixon had entered the paddock with his horses.
With the horses also came Mike Gaynor. While their blankets were being taken off and saddles adjusted, he came over to Allis. There was a suppressed twinkle of subverted knowledge in his weatherbeaten eyes.
“Good mornin', Al,” he said, nodding in a very dignified manner, and putting a strong accent on the name.
Now Mike had determined to keep from the girl the fact that he had penetrated her disguise. With proper Irish gallantry, crude as it might be in its expression, but delicate enough in its motive, he reasoned that his knowledge might make her uncomfortable.
“I see that fly-by-night divil Shandy talkin' to ye as I come in. What new mischief is he up to now?”
“He ain't got no gall, has he? That come from headquarters; it's Langdon put him up to that.”
“I t'ought he would be. But he didn't know ye, Miss Allis--”
Heavens! It was out. Mike's sun-tanned face turned brick-red; he could have bitten off his unruly Irish tongue. The girl stared at him helplessly, her cheeks, that were scarlet, tingling under the hot rush of blood.
“There ye are, an' believe me, I didn't mean it. I was goin' to keep me mouth shut, but I never could do that.”
“Indade I didn't, an' that's a good sign to ye nobody'll know. But whin I t'ought wit' meself I knowed that Alan couldn't ride Lauzanne the way ye did; an' ye didn't deny ye was him, an' if ye wasn't him ye must be yerself, see?” which more or less lucid explanation seemed to relieve Mike's mind mightily. “I think ye're Jes doin' roight, Miss--Al, I mean; I must get used to that name; s'help me, I believe ye'll win on the Chestnut--that gallop was good enough.”