was decided to give the two
horses a home trial.

On the day that Langdon had said he would try Diablo and The Dutchman,
Crane went down to Gravesend. When he got to the Trainer's house he
found the latter waiting for him.

"I sent the horses over with the boys," Langdon said; "if you'll just
wait a minute, I'll have a buggy hitched up and we'll drive over."

A stable-boy brought the trap to the door in a few minutes, and Langdon,
telling Crane to get in, disappeared into the house, returning presently
with two saddles, which he placed in the buggy.

"A couple of favorite saddles of mine," he explained, "they're like old
fiddles that great players carry about under their arms an' sleep with,
an' never let no one but themselves touch."

"Are you that particular with these?" asked Crane by way of
conversation, not feeling at all interested in what he considered a fad
of the Trainer's.

"Yes; I mostly handle 'em myself. They cost a bit. I had 'em made to
order. The boys is that careless, they'd smash anything."

As they jogged along, Langdon kept up a monologue dissertation on the
merits of the two horses. "It's a good day for a gallop," and he flicked
the driving beast's quarter with the whip; "there's not much wind, an'
the air's a bit sharp. They'll be on their mettle, the both of 'em, more
'specially Diablo. I had his plates changed. 'Pears to me he hadn't been
shod in three moons; I'll bet the smith took an inch off his toes." Then
he broke off to chuckle awhile.

Crane was not skilled in the anatomy of a horse, beyond as it worked out
in winning races and money. That a horse had toes had never quite come
into his knowledge, and Langdon's gurgle of mirth he put down to a
suspicion that the Trainer was taking a rise out of him in what he had
said.

"I was thinking of Paddy Caramagh when he shod Diablo the other day. I
think you've heard Pat swear. He holds the belt for cussin' in this part
of the country. Well, he let it all out of him before he'd finished with
the Black. Ha, ha, ha, ha! I can hear him still, with the sweat running
off his face like oats spilling from a feed bag. I says to Paddy, 'Rub
his nose a bit,' for I could see it was more nervousness with the horse
than sheer deviltry. 'With what?' says Paddy, 'the hammer? Be gor!
You're right, though,' says he, and with that he tries to put a twister
on Diablo's nose. Holy mother! Diablo reached for him, and lifted the
shirt clean off his back. Say,