As John Porter walked across the paddock a horseman touched the fingers
of his right hand to his cap. There was a half-concealed look of
interest in the man's eye that Porter knew from experience meant
something.

"What do you know, Mike?" he asked, carelessly, only half halting in his
stride.

"Nottin' sir; but dere's somebody in de know dis trip. Yer mare's a
good little filly, w'en she's right, but ye'r up against it."

Porter stopped and looked at the horseman. He was Mike Gaynor, a
trainer, and more than once Porter had stood his friend. Mike always
had on hand three or four horses of inconceivable slowness, and
uncertainty of wind and limb; consequently there was an ever-recurring
inability to pay feed bills, so he had every chance to know just who was
his friend and who was not, for he tried them most sorely.

Porter knew all this quite well; also that in spite of Mike's chronic
impecuniosity he was honest, and true as steel to a benefactor. He
waited, feeling sure that Gaynor had something to tell.

"There's a strong play on Lauzanne, ain't there, sir?"

Porter nodded.

"Sure t'ing! That Langdon's a crook. I knowed him when he was ridin'
on freight cars; now he's a swell, though he's a long sprint from bein'
a gentleman. I got de tip dat dere was a killin' on, an' I axed Dick