Makhotin's Gladiator, a chestnut horse five vershoks high, — was there, and he was more curious to see Gladiator than to see his own racer; but he knew that, according to the etiquette of the races, he could not have him brought out, or even ask questions about him. As he passed along the corridor the groom opened the door of the second stall at the left, and Vronsky saw a powerful chestnut with white feet. He knew it was Gladiator; but with the delicacy of a man who turns away from an open letter which is not addressed to him, he instantly turned away and walked toward Frou Frou's stall.
"That horse belongs to Ma,... k.... mak, .... I never can pronounce his name," said the Englishman, over his shoulder, and pointing to Gladiator's stall with a huge finger, the nail of which was black with dirt.
"Makhotin's? Yes; he is my only dangerous rival."
"If you would mount him, I would bet on you," said the Englishman.
"Frou Frou has more nerve, this one stronger," said Vronsky, smiling at the jockey's praise.
"In hurdle-races, all depends on the mount, and on pluck."
Pluck — that is, audacity and coolness — Vronsky knew that he had in abundance; and, what was far more important, he was firmly convinced that no one could have more of this pluck than he had.
"You are sure that a good sweating was not necessary?"
"Not at all," replied the Englishman. "Please not speak so loud, the horse is restive," he added, jerking his head toward the closed stall in front of which they were standing. They could hear the horse stamping on the straw.
He opened the door, and Vronsky entered a box-stall feebly lighted by a little window. A dark bay horse, muzzled, was nervously prancing up and down on the fresh straw. As he gazed into the semi-obscurity of the stall, Vronsky in spite of himself took in at one general observation all the points of his favorite horse. Frou Frou was a horse of medium size, and not faultless
