within
earshot smiled, for the Tout had been a jockey before his license had
been taken away for crooked work.

"Hello! here it comes," cried Lauzanne's backer, as a fat, red-faced man
came swiftly down from the Stewards' Stand, ran to the betting ring, and
pushing his way through the crowd, called with the roar of a gorilla:
"Al-l-l right! Lauzanne, first! The Dutchman, second! Lucretia, third!
They're al-l-l weighed in!"

A Niagara of human beings poured from the lawn to the ring; they ran as
though the course was on fire and they sought to escape.

"What about Lucretia?" some one asked.

"They've broke McKay," the red-faced crier answered; "suspended him."

"What did I tell you?" sneered the Tout, maliciously; "it's the under
dog gets the worst of it every time."

* * * * * * * * * * *

A Celt, is an outspoken man when the prod of his hot temper has loosened
his tongue, and Mike Gaynor was a Celt in excess.

The injustice that had come to his benefactor, John Porter, had stirred
a tempest in his Irish soul. A fierce exclamation of profane wrath had
gone up from him as he watched the bad start from over the paddock rail.

A misguided retribution led Starter Carson to pass from the Judges'
Stand after the race, along the narrow passage between the Club Stand
and the course, to the paddock gate. There he met Mike, who forthwith
set to flailing him.

"Did ye notice a little mare called Lucretia in that race, Mr.
Carson--did ye see anythin' av her at all down at the post?"

Carson's eyes twinkled uneasily. Years of starting had taught him that
self-control was nine out of ten rules which should govern the Starter's
actions.

"Was there anythin' th' mather wit' yer ancestor's eyes that ye come by,
Mister Carson?"

The Starter made answer with a smile of good-humored tolerance. But Mike
was only warming up; the hot blood was stinging his quick brain, and his
sharp tongue galloped on with unbridled irresponsibility. With the deep
pathos of scorn he continued:

"Ye'r Carson the Stharter--Mister Carson! S'help me, Bob! ye couldn't
sthart a sthreet car down hill wit' bot' brakes off!"

Carson ceased to smile; the smile had passed to other faces, the owners
of which were listening with fiendish delight to the castigation.

Some one touched Mike on the arm, saying, "Come over into the paddock,
Gaynor; you're barkin' up the wrong tree." It was Dixon.

"Bot' t'umbs up! This game's too tough fer me--I'll ship m