“You're right, Mike,” concurred the little man; “I'd rather ride the mare for her than White Moth, or The King, or any of the favorites for their owners.”
“An' the ould man lyin' there at home on his back, eh, Redpath? He's as good as gold hisself; that's where the girl gets it; not sayin' a word ag'in Mrs. Porter; she don't understand, that's all. But ye'll put up the ride of your life, me b'y, won't ye?”
“Mike'll stand by ye,” affirmed Gaynor. “Say, b'y,” and he turned and looked squarely into the eyes of the little man, “I know if they beats ye to-day, 'twon't be yer fault 'cause why?”--and he put his hand on Redpath's shoulder--“'cause ye'r like many another man, sweet on the young Missis. Now, now, now stop that!” and he held up his finger warningly, as the other raised his voice in mild protest; “it's to yer credit. It'll do ye no good in wan way, av coorse, for, as ye say, she'll never know it.” Redpath had not made the statement Mike attributed to him, but the latter was giving him a kindly pointer. “But it'll do ye no harm. The likin' av a good woman will sometimes make a man av a scoundrel, but ye'r a long way from bein' that, me b'y; so it'll do ye tons av good. There's the bugle; go an' mount, an' I'll watch how ye get on; an' good luck to ye.”
Regally, one after another, in stately file, the turf kings, decked out with the silken jackets that rested a-top--crimson, and gold, and blue, and white, and magpie, passed through the paddock gate to the newly smoothed course. Very modest and demure number seven, the little brown mare, looked beside the strong-muscled giants, bright bay, golden chestnut, and raven-wing black, that overshadowed her in the procession that caught the forty thousand pairs of eyes. Something of this thought came to Allis, sitting in the stand. What a frail little pair they were, both of them, and to be there battling for this rich prize that was so hardly fought for, by strong men athirst for gold, and great horses a-keen for the gallop!
Ah, there was Diablo, the very number Allis had said carried no dread for her, thirteen. What a strange coincidence! What a cruel twist of fate it would be if he were to win!--he looked equal to it. A man sitting at Allis's elbow suddenly cried in a voice enthused into the joyous treble of a boy's: “Look at that big Black; isn't he a beaut? Number thirteen. That's a hoodoo number, if you like; it's enough to give a backer cold feet.”