the thighs themselves, as John Porter looked at them under the tucked-up
belly of the gentle mare, big, and strong, and full of a driving force
that should make the others break a record to beat her.

From the inquisition of the owner's study Lucretia stood forth
triumphant; neither the Chestnut nor anything else in the race could
beat her. And Jockey McKay--Porter raised his eyes involuntarily,
seeking for some occult refutation of the implied dishonesty of the boy
he had trusted. He found himself gazing straight into the small shifty
eyes of Lucretia's midget rider, and such a hungry, wolfish look of
mingled cunning and cupidity was there that Porter almost shuddered.
The insinuations of Mike Gaynor, and the other things that pointed at a
job being on, hadn't half the force of the dishonesty that was so
apparent in the tell-tale look of the morally, irresponsible boy in
whose hands he was so completely helpless. All the careful preparation
of the mare, the economical saving, even to the self-denial of almost
necessary things to the end that he might have funds to back her heavily
when she ran; and the high trials she had given him when asked the
question, and which had gladdened his heart and brought an exclamation
of satisfaction from his phlegmatic trainer; the girlish interest of his
daughter in the expected triumph--all these contingencies were as less
than nothing should the boy, with the look of a demon in his eyes, not
ride straight and honest.

Even then it was not too late to ask the Stewards to set McKay down, but
what proof had he to offer that there was anything wrong? The boy's
good name would be blasted should he, John Porter, say at the last
minute that he did not trust him; and perhaps the lad was innocent.
Race people were ready to cry out that a jockey was fixed-that there was
something wrong, when their own judgment was at fault and they lost.