"Don't cry, pa, please! We'll wait
until Don Mike loses all his sheep and cow money and then we'll buy
Panchito for a song."
"Oh, Kay, little girl, that horse is a peach. I think I'd give a
couple of toes for the fun of getting my old trainer Dan Leighton out
here, training this animal quietly up here in the valley where nobody
could get a line on his performances, then shipping him east to
Saratoga, where I'd put a good boy on him, stick him in rotten company
and win enough races to qualify him for the biggest event of the year.
And then! Oh, how I would steal the Derby from John H. Hatfield and
his four-year-old wonder. I owe Hatfield a poke anyhow. We went
raiding together once and the old sinner double-crossed me."
"Who is John H. Hatfield?" Don Mike queried mildly.
"Oh, he's an aged sinner down in Wall Street. He works hard to make
the New Yorkers support his racing stables. Poor old John! All he has
is some money and one rather good horse."
"And you wish to police this Hatfield person, sir?"
"If I could, I'd die happy, Farrel."
"Very well. Send for your old trainer, train Panchito, try him out a
bit at Tia Juana, Lower California, at the meeting this winter, ship
him to Saratoga and make Senor Hatfield curse the day he was born. I
have a very excellent reason for not selling Panchito to you, but never
let it be said that I was such a poor sport I refused to loan him to
you--provided, of course, Kay agrees to this course.
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