Fred M. White

“ The two men watched him with admiration.
“The finest colt in England and the best three-year-old to-day,” Gryde exclaimed. “But he isn’t going to be Rialto or Bar Sinister any longer. Your lads haven’t seen him stripped, you say, so they haven’t a notion what he is like. Now then, you boast that you can ‘fake’ a horse better than any man in England. Let us see you get rid of those white stockings and star, in fact turn the finely trained Rialto into the half wound Confetti—the Confetti who is to land me such a coup over the Silverpool Cup.”
Gunter chuckled hoarsely. ”

“ The favourite is firmly established at even money, so if I were you I should not back the colt.”
Mayne nodded carelessly. It was not for him to suggest that some rascality was afloat. He had known in his time racing dukes with no more inherent morality than dustmen. “It’s all the same to me,” he said, “as long as I get the money. By the way, on the day following the Clarendon, the cup is run for at Silverpool. Haven’t you got something starting there?”
“A horse of my own breeding,” the Duke responded. “Confetti. No chance, I fear. The odds are forty to one against. ”

“ First I find a horse so like Rialto that I exchange one for the other without fear of detection. Even the Grand Clarendon defect is naturally accounted for. I make a pile of money laying against Rialto—a certainty this. Then the real Rialto, artistically faked, runs as Confetti. This means still more money. And as the Duke is safely out of the way, where he is likely to see no English papers, with friends who don’t know a horse from a halter, that avenue of detection is closed. The rest of my money I can safely draw on Monday, and then “Mr. Smith’s” place will know him no more. ”

“ I’ve got a colt entered for the Royal Clarendon Stakes at Oldmarket—run-off next week, you know—but I shall have to forfeit. Bar Sinister can beat any horse in the race bar the favourite—ay, and even beat Rialto too, if wound up.”
“Come, my friend, you are not so poor as all that.”
Mayne smiled into his glass. Good wine develops the philosophical side of a man’s nature. It also taps the well-springs of confidence. ”

“ But I still continue to have a bit of blood about me. It isn’t every man who can boast of having bred and run two Derby winners.”
“The old Godolphin blood, I presume?” suggested the Duke.
Mayne nodded. There was a bond of union between himself and his host. All he knew about the latter he had gleaned that day from the Almanach de Gotha. The exclusive volume in question recorded the fact that de Cavour was an enthusiast where racing was concerned. In a hazy kind of way, he wondered what so great a man was doing in Mornington.
“You race still?” the Duke asked. ”

“ As the latter swept past the stand in the preliminary canter, Sir George looked a little uneasy; so did his companions.
“Is that horse really fit, Julyan?” asked one.
“I should have said emphatically yes on Monday,” Julyan replied. “So you notice the difference, eh? Seems short, and inclined to lather. ”