ly bad business," he
mused; "but the public will reason just as Langdon does. And what's bad
for the backers is good for the layers; I must see Faust."

"You had better make a book to beat Lauzanne," Crane said to Jakey
Faust, just before business had commenced in the ring that afternoon.

The Cherub stared in astonishment; his eyes opened wide. That was
nearly the limit of his fat little face's expression, no matter what the
occasion.

"You don't own him now, do you, sir?" he blurted out, with unthinking
candor.

"I do not."

"He's dropped into a soft spot--he rates best in the percentage card."

"Figures sometimes lie," commented Crane.

"Every handicapper tips him to win."

"They're all broke because of their knowledge."

"The books'll mark him up first choice."

"That's why it will be worth while playing the field to beat him."

"He's in with a gang of muts to-day, an' he beat some cracker-jacks last
time out."

"You were hypnotized that day, Mr. Faust; so was the Judge. Lauzanne
didn't beat anything."

"Didn't beat--what the hell--didn't the Chestnut get the verdict?"

"He did; but--" and Crane looked at Faust, with patient toleration of
his lack of perception.

The Cherub waited for an explanation of these contradictory remarks. But
he might have waited indefinitely--Crane had quite finished. The Cherub
raised his little round eyes, that were like glass alleys, green and red
and blue-streaked, to the other's face inquiringly, and encountered a
pair of penetrating orbs peering at him over some sort of a mask--the
face that sustained the eyes was certainly a mask--as expressionless.
Then it came to Jakey Faust that there was nothing left to do but fill
the Lauzanne column in his book with the many bets that would come his
way and make much money.

Crane watched Lauzanne go lazily, sluggishly down to the post for
his race. He knew the horse's moods; the walk of the Chestnut was the
indifferent stroll of a horse that is thinking only of his dinner.

"They've given him nothing," the Banker muttered to himself; "the
heavy-headed brute won't try a yard. But he'll fight the boy when he
tries to ride him out."

The whisky that Dixon had surreptitiously given Lauzanne had been as
inefficacious as so much ginger beer; and in the race Lauzanne drew
back out of the bustle and clash of the striving horses as quickly as
he could. In vain his jockey used whip and spur; Lauzanne simply put his
ears back, sw