hey're
runnin' under a double wrap. Now we'll see a ding-dong finish, if the
Black doesn't show a streak of yellow. Dutchy's got him," he added, as
through his glasses he saw them swing into the straight, neck and neck.

"Clever Mr. Westlev!" for Diablo's rider, having the rail and the lead,
had bored out slightly on the turn, so as not to cramp the uncertain
horse he rode, and carried The Dutchman wide.

Up the straight they came, the boys helping their mounts with leg and
arm; the Black holding his own with a dogged persistence that quite
upset Langdon's prognostication of cowardice.

To the watchers it was as exciting as a stake race. The stamina that
Langdon had said would stand The Dutchman in good stead over the mile
and a half Handicap course now showed itself. First he was level with
the Black, then gradually, stride by stride, he drew away from Diablo,
and finished a short length in front.

"A great trial," cried the Trainer, gleefully, holding out his watch for
Crane's inspection. "See that!" pointing to the hand he had stopped as
the Bay's brown nozzle flashed by the post; "two-nine on this course!
Anything that beats that pair, fit and well, a mile and a quarter on a
fast track'll have to make it in two-five, an' that's the record."

"It looks good business for the Derby, Langdon."

"Yes, it does. That's the first showing I've had from the colt as
a three-year-old; but I knew he had it in him. Hanover was a great
horse--to my mind we never had his equal in America--but this
youngster'll be as good as his daddy ever was. I don't think you ought
to start him, sir, till the Derby, if you're set on winnin' it."

He had moved up to the gate as he talked, and now opened it, waiting for
the boys to come back. They had eased down the horses gradually after
the fierce gallop, turned them about and were trotting toward the
paddock, where stood the two men. Langdon took Diablo by the bridle rein
and led him in toward the stalls.

"How did he shape under you, Westley?" he asked, as the boy slipped from
the saddle.

"I wouldn't ask to ride a better horse. I thought I had the colt beaten,
sure; but my mount seemed to tire a little at the finish. He didn't toss
it up, not a bit of it; ran as game as a pebble; he just tired at the
finish. I think a mile is his journey. He held The Dutchman safe at a
mile."

"I guess you're right, Westley; a mile's his limit. At level weights
with the three-year-old, which means