Langdon was a consummate trainer, a student of horse character. He knew
that while biniodide of mercury would blister and put right a bowed
tendon, or the firing iron take the life out of a splint, that a much
finer knowledge than this was requisite to get fullhearted work out of
a thoroughbred. Brain must be pitted against brain; so he studied
his horses; and when Diablo came into his hands, possessed of a mind
disease, he worked over him with considerable intelligent patience.
This study of horse character was the very thing that had caused him to
go wrong over Lauzanne. He had not gone quite far enough; had not
waited for time to demonstrate clearly the horse's temperament, but had
recourse to a cocaine stimulant. But with him Lauzanne's case had been
exceptional.
At first there was little encouragement over Diablo, but almost by
accident Langdon discovered that the Black's bad temper was always
fanned into a blaze by the sight of the boy Shandy.
Then came a glint of hope. Diablo took a fancy to Westley, the jockey,
who was experimentally put on his back in the working gallop. After that
Shandy was kept out of the way; Westley took Diablo under his care, and
the big horse began to show a surprising improvement.
Crane had been quite honest in his statement that he thought Diablo a
bad horse. His having been entered by Porter in the “Brooklyn” suggested
the possiability that his former owner must have seen some merit in the
horse. At any rate, he advised Langdon to give Diablo a patient trial.
He really had very little idea that the horse would start in the
Handicap--it seemed improbable. Langdon was also convinced that Porter
had discovered something great in Diablo; that Crane knew this, and had
paid a stiff price for the horse, and to his own ends was keeping it
dark.
As the winter turned into April he intimated to Crane that it was time
for them to decide the placing of the horses, and suggested that they
try them out. Crane had already decided to race The Dutchman this
year in his own name and not in Langdon's. If The Dutchman came up to
expectation they could give him a slow preparation up to Derby time;
they could find out whether Diablo was worth keeping for--well, for
Morris Park or Gravesend, or they could hurry him on a little, and start
him at Aqueduct.
Crane agreed with this reasoning, and it 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, there was a scared Irishman, if you ever
saw one in your life. He threw down the plate, cussin' as only Paddy
can, and swore the brute could run till he'd wore his hoofs off, for all
of him. Well, I takes hold of the Black's head, an' kids him a bit, only
firm-like, and we shod him right enough.”
“He is bad tempered, then?” asked Crane.
“No; just wants a fair deal; that's all. You make him believe you're on
the square, an' he'll do what's right. But he hasn't got no use for any
of the guys that gets a cranky play in on him; he won't stand it. I'm
going to put Westley up on him to-day.”
“What about The Dutchman?”
“Colley'll do. Any kid can ride him, if they sit still. He's just the
easiest-tempered horse ever looked through a bridle; he knows what's
doin' all the time. But Colley ain't no good on Diablo, an' if he can
smell Shandy, that settles it--it's all over. I'll put Westley up; it
takes a man to ride that horse.”
“What about this gallop?” asked Crane; “there'll be spies about trying
to find out things, won't there?”
“Bet yer life, there'll be somebody, sir. It's just like when I was
out in Colorado; you couldn't see a vulture if you traveled forty days,
perhaps, but plant a dead thing anywhere and in an hour the sky simply
rained 'em down. These touts is most like vultures of anything I know;
you've just got to work your stunt to give 'em the go-by, that's all.”
Crane took but an apathetic interest in the matters that held full sway
over the Trainer's mind; looking after these incidents was Langdon's
part of the contract.
That was why they were so strong together. Langdon could do it. Just how
the trial was to benefit them alone, with the inevitable tout at hand,
Crane knew not, neither did he investigate; that was up to the Trainer.
They drove into the paddock. Westley, Colley, and the two stable lads
were there.
“Shall we bring out the horses?” asked Westley, as Langdon sat swinging
a leg loosely over the end of the buggy seat.
“Any of the talent about, Bill?”
“Quite likely, though I haven't seen none.”
“Well, we'll slip 'em now. Just saddle up careless like, and no
preliminary, mind you. The sharks won't look for a brush till you've
gone around once. Take your mounts down the stretch to the quarter post,
an' then come away the first break; if there's anyone toutin' you off,
they'll think it just a pipe opener, an' won't catch the time. Run out
the mile-an'-a-quarter, make a race of it, but don't go to the bat.
Diablo an' The Dutchman don't need no whip to give us about the best
they've got.”
“All right, sir,” answered Westley. “If I'm a judge, when the Black's
through pullin', he's done racin', 'cause he's a keen one, so there
won't be no call to put the bud to him. If any of the rail birds is
lookin' they'll think we're goin' under a strong wrap, even when we're
all out.”
Lang don nodded his head. He was a man not given to exuberant
appreciation. The boys averred that when Dick Langdon didn't curse at
them they had done pretty well, indeed.
“What's your weight?” he asked of Westley, abruptly.
“I've just tipped the scales at a hundred-and-three in my sweater.”
“One hundred and three,” mused the Trainer, making a mental calculation.
“What's Colley's weight?”
“He's as near a hundred as you can make it.”
“Did you bring over a saddle?”
“Yes; two of 'em; one apiece for the horses.”
“Tell Colley to take one, and some leads, and weigh out a hundred and
twelve. That'll be three pounds above the scale for May, weight for age,
for the three-year-old, The Dutchman. I guess he won't need more'n seven
pounds dead weight, for it's a five-pound saddle, I think. Let me see,
you said a hundred and three, you were.”
“Yes, sir; in the sweater; I can take that off--”
“No; never mind. Take this saddle,” and he lifted one from the buggy;
“it'll just suit Diablo; he's got a herring-bone of a wither, an' this
is high in the tree, an' won't cut him. Here's the cloth an' some
leads; weigh out a hundred and twelve too. Weight for age--Diablo's a
four-year-old; you ought to carry a hundred and twenty-six, but he's not
The Dutchman's class, an' the ycungster'd lose him before they'd gone
half the journey. We'll run 'em at level weights, an' he'll get closer
to The Dutchman, an' the sharks won't have such a fairy tale to tell
about our horse.”
“A hundred and twelve, you said, sir?” queried Westley, as he put the
saddle that Langdon handed him over his left arm, slipped the thin
sheets of lead in his pocket, and stood dangling the linen weight cloth
in his right hand.
“Yes; level weights--a hundred an' twelve pounds.”
“Westley,” the Trainer called as the little man started off, “just bring
the saddle back to me here when you've weighed. I'll put it on Diablo
myself; he's a touchy cuss, and I don't want him ruffled by careless
handlin'.”
“You take considerable trouble over it,” remarked Crane. “One would
think it was a big handicap you meant to capture this morning.”
Langdon started visibly. Was Crane thinking of the Brooklyn? Did this
quiet, clever man sitting at his elbow already know as much as he hoped
to discover in his present gallop?
He answered: “Handicaps is usually won pretty much like this; they're
generally settled before the horse goes to the post for the trip itself.
When he goes through the paddock gate the day of the big race he's
out of his trainer's hands; the man's got no more to do with the race
himself than a kid sittin' up in the grand stand. Here's where I come
in, if we mean to land the Brooklyn,” and he looked searchingly at
Crane, a misleading grin on his lips. But the latter simply joined in
the laugh, doubtingly, perhaps.
“A hundred and twelve, neat,” declared Westley, as he returned, throwing
some loose leads into the buggy. “Colley's gone to saddle The Dutchman.”
“All right,” answered Langdon, getting down from the seat and taking
the saddle. “Go and tell the boy to bring Diablo out of the stall. I'll
saddle him in the open. He generally kicks the boards when I cinch him
up, an' it puts him in a bad humor.”
Langdon started off with the jockey, but turned back, saying, “Oh, Mr.
Crane, I wanted to ask you--”
By this he had reached the buggy, while Westley continued on his way to
the stalls.
“It's a fine day, sir,” continued Langdon, finishing his sentence,
and exchanging the saddle held in his hand for the one that was in the
buggy.
“Going to put the other on?” asked Crane.
“Yes; I fancy Diablo will like this better. Touchy brutes, these race
horses; got to humor 'em. Come on over to the stalls--the horse'll
stand.”
Diablo was being led around in a small circle by his boy. He was a
magnificent creature, sixteen and a half hands high, and built on the
same grand scale; perhaps a bit leggy for the huge barrel that topped
the limbs; that was what caused him to go wrong in his younger days. His
black skin glistened in the noonday sun.
“That's what I call the mirror of health,” said Langdon, in an unwonted
burst of poetic eloquence, as he passed his hand across the horse's
ribs. Then feeling that somehow he had laid himself open to a suspicion
of gentleness, added, “He's a hell of a fine looker; if he could gallop
up to his looks he'd make some of the cracks take a back seat.”
Even Diablo had resented either the mellifluous comparison or the rub
of Langdon's hand, for he lashed out furiously, with a great farreaching
leg that nearly caught Crane unawares.
“Your polite language seems to be as irritating to him as the
blacksmith's oaths,” ejaculated Crane, as he came back from the hasty
retreat he had beaten.
“It's only play. Good horses is of two kinds when you're saddlin' 'em.
The Dutchman there'll hang his head down, and champ at the bit, even
if you bury the girt' an inch deep in his belly; he's honest, and knows
it's all needed. That's one kind; and they're generally the same at the
post, always there or thereabouts, waitin' for the word 'go.' An' they
race pretty much the same all the time. If you time 'em a mile in 1:40
at home, they'll do it when the colors is up, an' the silk a-flappin'
all about 'em in the race.
“Whoa! Hold still, you brute! Steady, steady! Whoa!” This to Diablo, for
while talking he had adjusted the weight cloth with the gentleness of a
cavalier putting a silk wrap about his lady love's neck, and had put a
fold of soft woolen cloth over the high-boned wither.
“Stand out in front of him and hold his head down a bit;” this to the
boy. Then as he slipped the saddle into place and reached underneath
for the girths, he continued his address to Crane on the peculiarity of
racers.
“Now this is a horse of another color, this one; he ain't takin' things
easy at no stage of the game. He objects to everything, an' some day
that'll land him a winner, see? He'll get it into his head that the
other horses want to beat him out, an' he'll show 'em a clean pair of
heels; come home on the bit, pullin' double. Whoa, boy! Steady, steady,
old man!” Then he ceased talking, for he had taken the girth strap
between his teeth, and was cinching up the big Black with the firm pull
of a grizzly. Diablo squirmed under the torture of the tightening web on
his sensitive skin, and crouched as though he would fall on the Trainer.
“Yes, sir;” continued Langdon, as he ran the stirrups up under the
saddle flap out of the way, and motioned to the boy to lead Diablo
about. “Yes, sir; this fellow's different. He's too damn sensitive.
At the post he's like as not to act like a locoed broncho, an' get one
blamed for having 'juiced' him, but he don't need no dope; what he needs
is steadying. If he gets away in front, them long legs of his will
take some catchin'. He's the kind that wins when the books are layin' a
hundred to one against him. But the worst of it is with his sort, like
as not the owner hasn't a penny on them; but the public'll howl; they'll
call it in-an'-out runnin'; an' the scribblers'll get their paper to
print a notice that the stable ought to be ruled off; an' all the time
you're breakin' your heart trying to get him to give his true--Hello!
there's Colley out on The Dutchman; mount your horse, Westley--wait,
you don't need no spurs; yes, carry a whip, an' give the guys that is
watchin' a stage play with it; but don't hit the Black. We'll just see
what he'll do himself, this trip,” he added, addressing Crane.
Taking Westley's small-booted foot in his hand, he lifted the lad to
Diablo's back, and led the horse out through a gate to the course.