“I would n't mind making a bid for him myself,” said Scanlan, hesitating between his jockeyism and the far deeper game which he was playing.
“Do then, sir, and don't draw him for the race, for he 'll win it as sure as I 'm here. 'T is Jemmy was to ride him; and Miss Mary would n't object to give you the boy, jacket and all, her own colors,—blue, with white sleeves.”
“Do you think so, Barnes? Do you think she'd let me run him in the Martin colors?” cried Scanlan, to whom the project now had suddenly assumed a most fascinating aspect.
“What would you give for him?” asked Barnes, in a business-like voice.
“A hundred,—a hundred and fifty,—two hundred, if I was sure of what you say.”
“Leave it to me, sir,—leave it all to me,” said Barnes, with the gravity of a diplomatist who understood his mission. “Where can I see you to-morrow?”
“I 'll be here about ten o'clock!”
“That will do,—enough said!” And Barnes, replacing the horse-sheet, slowly re-entered the stable; while Scanlan, putting spurs to his nag, dashed hurriedly away, his thoughts outstripping in their speed the pace he went, and traversing space with a rapidity that neither “blood” nor training ever vied with.