"We've got to stand to it, Andy."

"That we have; we've just got to take our medicine like little men.
Even if we make a break an' take McKay off there isn't another good boy
left. If he jabs the little mare with them steels she'll go clean
crazy."

"It's my fault, Andy. I guess I've saved and petted her a bit too much.
But she never needed spurs--she'd break her heart trying without them."


"By God!" muttered Dixon as he went back to the paddock, "if the boy
stops the mare he'll never get another mount, if I can help it. It's
this sort of thing that kills the whole business of racing. Here's a
stable that's straight from owner to exercise boy, and now likely to
throw down the public and stand a chance of getting ruled off ourselves
because of a gambling little thief that can spend the income of a
prince. But after all it isn't his fault. I know who ought to be
warned off if this race is fixed; but they won't be able to touch a hair
of him; he's too damn slick. But his time'll come--God knows how many
men he'll break in the meantime, though."

As John Porter passed Danby's box going up into the stand, the latter
leaned over in his chair, touched him on the arm and said, "Come in and
take a seat"

"I can't," replied the other man, "my daughter is up there somewhere."

"I've played the mare," declared Danby, showing Porter a memo written in
a small betting book.