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never won yet." "But a chap can't lose all the time," Chetwood observed. "And then the Frenches are offering even money against the field. No end sporting of 'em, but risky. That little ex-jockey knows his business?" "I think so. Perhaps you'd like to have a talk with him and see the horse. He's going out now, and we'll go with him, if you care to." "Thanks," Chetwood acknowledged. "That's very decent of you, Mackay. I'd like it very much." CHAPTER XI A HOLD-UP The road to the track, which was nearly a mile beyond the town, was lonely and dark. Most of the way it ran through a wooded flat, and the tree shadows overlay it with denser gloom. But at last they emerged from the trees upon the natural prairie which held track and fair grounds. Along one side was a row of sheds, and here and there a lantern gleamed. Toward one of these lights Dorgan led them. Dave Rennie, reading beside a lantern, nodded silently and, introduced to Chetwood, regarded him with disfavor, as a remittance man, one of the balloon-pants brigade. "Everything all right, Davy?" Dorgan asked. "Quiet now. There was a row down among the sheds a while ago. A pair of drunks mixed it, till we pulled 'em apart." Dorgan picked up the lantern and illuminated a stall at the rear. Chief seemed uneasy, sidling away from the light, snorting and shaking his head. Chetwood moved with him, inspecting him closely. "I should say that he has plenty of staying power," he observed. "At the distance I'd back him rather than any weedy, greyhound stock." "And you'd be a good judge," Dorgan agreed, regarding Chetwood with more respect. Chief blew noisily, shaking his head and rubbing his nose against the feed-box. "How long's he been actin' that way, Dave?" "Maybe an hour. I thought it might be a fly or a bit of foxtail in his feed." "Not a bit of foxtail in his hay or beddin'. Might be a fly. Hold the lantern a minute." He passed his hand over Chief's muzzle, and the horse thrust against his body, twisting and shaking his head. Dorgan examined his ears. "Seems all right. What's worryin' you, old boy?" The horse nosed him again, and exhaled a deep breath. Chetwood uttered an exclamation. "How was his wind to-day when you exercised him?" "Wind? Good. Why?" "No cold--no stoppage of the nostrils?" "No. What you gettin' at?" "Listen to his breathing. There's something about it--not clear--a little, straining wheeze----"
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