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diff --git a/9088-0.txt b/9088-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b0b18d1 --- /dev/null +++ b/9088-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13187 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Thoroughbreds, by W. A. Fraser + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Thoroughbreds + +Author: W. A. Fraser + +Release Date: October, 2005 [EBook #9088] +Posting Date: July 23, 2009 +Last Updated: March 15, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THOROUGHBREDS *** + + + + +Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer + + + + + + + + +THOROUGHBREDS + +by W. A. Fraser + + + +Dedicated to a THOROUGHBRED MY WIFE + + + + + +I + +Less than a hundred miles from the city of Gotham, across broad green +fields, dotted into squares and oblong valleys by full-leafed maple, +and elm, and mulberry, was the village of Brookfield. A hundred years +of expansion in the surrounding land had acted inversely with the little +hamlet, and had pinched it into a hermitical isolation. + +The Brookfieldians had discovered a huge beetle in the amber of their +serene existence; it was really the Reverend Dolman who had unearthed +the monster. The beetle in the amber was horse racing, and the prime +offender, practically the sole culprit, was John Porter. + +By an inconsistent twist of fate he was known as Honest John. His father +before him had raced in old Kentucky to considerable purpose, and with +the full vigor of a man who races for sport; and so to the son John, +in consequence, had come little beyond a not-to-be-eradicated love +of thoroughbreds. To race squarely, honestly, and to the glory of +high-couraged horses was to him as much a matter of religion as the +consistent guardianship of parish morals was to the Reverend George +Dolman. Therefore, two men of strong beliefs were set on opposite sides +of the fence. + +Even in the Porter household, which was at Ringwood Farm, was divided +allegiance. Mrs. Porter was possessed of an abhorrent detestation of +horse racing; also an assertive Christianity. The daughter, Allison, had +inherited the horse taint. The swinging gallop of a striving horse was +to her the obliteration of everything but sunshine, and the smile of +fields, and the blur of swift-gliding hedges, and the driving perfume +of clover-laden winds that passed strong into spread nostrils. For +Alan Porter, the son, there were columns of figures and musty-smelling +bundles of tattered paper money where he clerked in the bank. There had +been great unison in the Porter household over the placing of Alan. In +addition to horse lore, John Porter was a fair judge of human nature, +and, beyond doubt, there was a streak of velvet in Alan which would have +twisted easily in the compressive grip of the race course. + +The Porter family were not the only dwellers of Brookfield who took +part in racing. Philip Crane, the banker, wandering from the respectable +highway of finance, had allowed himself to become interested in race +horses. But this fact was all but unknown in Brookfield, so the full +resentment of the place was effusively tendered to John Porter. + +In his younger days some money had come to Philip Crane. The gambler +spirit, that was his of inheritance, had an instinctive truth as +allied to finance; but, unfortunately for Philip Crane, chance and a +speculative restlessness led him amongst men who commenced with the +sport of kings. With acute precipitancy he was separated from the +currency that had come to him. The process was so rapid that his racing +experience was of little avail as an asset, so he committed the first +great wise act of his life-turned his back upon the race course and +marched into finance, so strongly, so persistently, that at forty he was +wealthy and the banker of Brookfield. + +Twenty years of deliberate reminiscence convinced him that he could +gratify the desire that had been his in those immature days, and +possibly work out a paying revenge. Thus it was that he had got together +a small stable of useful horses; and, of far greater moment, secured a +clever trainer, Dick Langdon. + +Crane's latter-day racing had been successful--he made money at it. +No man was ever more naturally endowed to succeed on the turf than was +Banker Philip Crane. Cold, passionless, more given to deep concentrated +thought than expression, holding silence as a golden gift--even as a +gift of rare rubies--nothing drew from him an unguarded word, no sudden +turmoil quivered his nerve. It was characteristic of the man that he had +waited nearly twenty years to resume racing, which really came as near +to being a passion with him as was possible for anything to be. There is +a saying in England that it takes two years of preparation to win a +big handicap; and these were the lines upon which Philip Crane, by +instinctive adaptation, worked. + +Quite by chance Dick Langdon had come into his hands over a matter of +borrowed money. It ended by the banker virtually owning every horse that +raced in the trainer's name. In addition, two or three horses ran in +Philip Crane's own name. If there had been any distinctive project in +the scheme of creation that gave Dick Langdon to the world, it probably +was that he might serve as the useful tool of a subtle thinker. Now +it did seem that Langdon had come into his own--that he had found his +predestined master. + +John Porter had not been successful; ill fortune had set in, and there +was always something going wrong. Horses would break down, or get beaten +by accident--there was always something. The steady financial drain had +progressed even to an encumbrance on Ringwood. + +Ringwood was simply a training farm, located close to an old disused +race course, for there had been no racing in Brookfield for years. + + * * * * * * + +Inadvertently the Reverend Mr. Dolman had intensified the strained +relationship that existed between the good people who frowned upon all +racing endeavor and those who saw but little sinfulness in John Porter's +way of life. + +The church was in debt--everything in Brookfield was, except the town +pump. The pastor was a nervous, zealous worker, and it occurred to +him that a concert might lighten the financial load. The idea was not +alarmingly original, and the carrying out of it was on conventional +lines: local volunteer talent, and a strong appeal to the people of +Brookfield for their patronage. + +The concert in the little old clap-boarded church, it's sides faded +and blistered by many seasons of tempest and scorching sun, was an +unqualified success up to the fifth number. Nothing could have been more +successful, or even evoked greater applause, than the fourth effort, +“Anchored,” as rendered by the village pride in the matter of baritone +singing; even De Reszke never experienced a more genuine triumph. The +applause gradually fell away, and programmes were consulted preparatory +to a correct readiness for the fifth offering. The programmes confided +that “The Death of Crusader,” by Miss Allis Porter, was the next item. + +In the front row of seats a prim little body, full of a severe +quaintness in every quirk of dress, tilted her head toward a neighbor, +and whispered, “It's that racin' gal of John Porter's.” + +The neighbor answered in a creak meant for a whisper: “I'm right glad +she's took to religion for onct, an' is givin' us somethin' about them +Crusaders. They was in Palestine, you know. She's been away to boardin' +school all winter, an' I guess it'll be a high-falutin' account of the +war.” + +The quaint little old lady jerked her head up and down with +decisive bobbiness. On the third upward bob her eyes opened wide in +astonishment--a small, slim figure in a glaring red coat stood in the +center of the improvised platform. + +From beneath the coat fell away in long graceful lines a black riding +skirt; a dark oval face, set with large wondrous gray eyes--the Porter +eyes--confronted the quaint little old lady. + +“That's the Porter gal,” her neighbor squeaked; “I've seen her a-top +them race horses more'n a hundred times. My! you'd think butter wouldn't +melt in her mouth, she's that prim now.” + +“The coat would melt it,” commented the quaint one. + +Then a clear, soft girlish voice, with just a tremble of apprehensive +nervousness, giving it a lilt like a robin's, said:-- + + + THE RUN OF CRUSADER + + I + + Full weight they had given the gallant big Black--a hundred + and sixty he carried; + And the run for the “Hunt Cup” was over three miles, with + mud-wall and water-jump studded. + The best racing days of the old horse were past--there'd + never been better nor braver + But now once again he must carry the silk I was needing the + help of Crusader. + Could he win at the weight, I whisperingly asked, as I + cinched up the saddle girt' tight; + He snuggled my hand as I gathered the rein, and I laughed + when they talked of defeat. + To the call of the bugle I swung to his back--like a rock was + the strength of his quarters. + At sight of the people he arched his lean neck, and they, + cheered for my King of all Hunters. + + II + + Ten horses would strive for the prize--a big field, and the + pace would be killing. + From the West came Sweet Silver, a gray, gallant, and + fearless in jumping. + A rakish old nag who walked over the sticks, had been sent + for the Cup from Kentucky; + On a bay, Little Jack, who was fast, they had put but a + hundred and thirty. + But I knew that North Star, a big brown--even the Black was + no gamer- + With a pull of ten pounds in the weight, was almost a match + for Crusader. + We made a brave troop, long-striding and strong, with the + pick of cross-country riders, + As we filed past the Stand in stately parade, with its + thousands of eager admirers, + And down to the turn on the lower far side, where a red flag + was flicking the sunlight; + For twice we must circle the green-swarded field, and finish + close under the paddock. + + III + + Just once we lined up; then down cut the flag, and “Go!” + hoarse-voiced the Starter; + And the thunder of hoofs, and the clanking of bits, made + music to me on Crusader. + Quick to the front, like a deer, sped a mare, a chestnut, + making the running; + But I steadied my mount, and took him far back--with his + weight he would need all my nursing. + They took the first hedge like sheep in a bunch, bit to bit, + and stirrups a-jingle; + And so past the Stand to the broad water-jump, where three + went down, in a tangle. + I trailed at the heels of the Silver Gray--but Crusader was + begging for halter + And flew the wide ditch with the swoop of a bird, and on + again, lapped on his quarter. + Then over the Liverpool, racing like mad,--where Sweet + Silver fell fighting for lead, + And his rider lay crushed, white-faced to the sky; and to + miss him Crusader jumped wide. + + IV + + At the bank something struck, and a cloud of white dust hid + the wall as though it were shrouded; + But the big gallant Black took off with a swing--full thirty + feet ere we had landed. + As we rounded the turn I could see Little Jack go up to the + mare that was leading; + Then I let out a wrap, and quickened my pace, to work clear + of those that were tiring. + Once again past the Stand we drove at the ditch that some + would never get over; + And a cheer shook the air as the Bay landed safe; with the + mare on her back in the water. + Then over went North Star--though he pecked, and nearly + emptied his saddle. + As I lifted the Black at his heels, he frothed the Brown's + flank with his nozzle. + + V + + Then down the back stretch, o'er hedge and o'er bank, we + three were racing together; + Till at the next rail the Bay jostled the Brown, and + riderless crashed through the timber. + So we rounded the turn, and into the straight--North Star's + lean flank we were lapping + But we shot to the front when I gave the Black head, and I + saw that the other was stopping. + We raced as one horse at the very last hedge--just a nose in + front was Crusader; + I felt the big Brown bump twice at my side, and knew he was + ready to blunder. + With stirrups a-ding, empty-saddled the Bay, stride for + stride, galloped and floundered. + Just missing his swerve, I called on the Black, and drew out + as he bravely responded. + + VI + + Just the last jump! and Crusader took off twenty feet from + the brush-covered timber. + Then the Bay jumped--too short for his stride--and fell, + with his head on my wither. + Down, down! almost to earth,--brought to his knees in the + struggle, + The Black lost a length, the Brown forged ahead, and I was + half out of the saddle. + How I sat down and rode! how the old horse strove! and the + Brown rolling tired in his gallop. + On, gallant Black! on, my brave pet! We were almost under + the paddock. + Then we nosed the Brown's dank; then we reached to his girt'; + neck and neck I rode at his shoulder. + As we flashed past the post I had won by a head. How they + cheered, “Bravo, Crusader!” + + VII + + But Crusader stopped short; gave a sigh and fell dead; I + stood all alone in the winning. + And a hush came over the clamorous mob; like a babe on his + neck I was sobbing. + He had run his last race; game to the end, his brave heart + broke in the striving. + +The girl's voice faltered and died away to a broken whisper as she told +of the death of Crusader. For a full minute there was a noiseless hush. +The full pathos of the gallant horse's striving had crept into the +hearts that were flesh and blood; and, carried away by their feelings, +the people had forgotten all about their tortured convictions of the +sinfulness of making a horse go faster than a sharp trot. Gradually +into their awakening senses stole a conviction that somehow they were +countenancing the sin of racing. + +Before the complete horror of the situation had mastered the audience, +a strong pair of hands, far back in the church, came together with +an explosive clap. Like the rat-rat-tat of a quick-firing gun was the +appreciative volley of recognition from the solitary applauder. It +went rolling and crackling through the church defiantly, derisively, +appreciatively. Halfway up the aisle a softer pair of hands touched +the rattle with what sounded like a faint echo; then there was +sudden silence. The entire audience turned and looked disparagingly, +discouragingly, at the man who had figuratively risen as a champion +of the scandalous recitation. Resentment had taken hold of the good +Christians. That Crusader had enlisted their sympathies for a few +minutes showed the dangerous subtlety of this “horseracin' business.” + +The rest of the programme might just as well have been eliminated; the +concert, as a concert, would be discussed for all time to come as having +projected “The Death of Crusader.” + +The people flowed from the church full of an expressive contentiousness, +seeking by exuberant condemnation of the sacrilege to square themselves +somehow with their consciences for the brief backsliding. + +Where the church path turned into the road a group of men had drawn +together, attracted by the magnet of discussion. They quite blocked the +pathway, oblivious to everything but their outraged feelings. Like a +great dark blotch in the night the group stood; and presently two +slight gray shadows slipping up the path, coming to the human barricade, +stopped, wavered, and circled out on the grass to pass. The shadows were +Allis Porter and her brother Alan. + +One of the men, overfilled with his exceeding wrath, seeing the girl, +gave expression to a most unchristian opinion of her modesty. The sharp +ears of the boy heard the words of the man of harsh instinct, and his +face flushed hot with resentment. He half turned, bitter reproach rising +to his lips. How could men be so brutish? How could they be so base? To +speak ill of his sister Allis, who was just the purest, sweetest little +woman that ever lived--too brave and true to be anything else but good! + +As he turned he saw something that checked his futile anger. A tall +shadow that had come up the path behind them stretched out an arm, and +he heard the vilifier's words gurgle and die away, as one of the strong +hands that had beat the tattoo of approbation clutched him by the +throat. The boy would have rushed to the assistance of this executive +friend if the girl had not clasped his arm in detention. + +“It's Mortimer!” he cried, as a voice from the strong-armed figure cut +the night air with sharp decision. + +Then the shadowy forms twisted up grotesquely, weaving in and out. There +were voices of expostulation and strong words of anger; but the new +serious business that had materialized had most effectually put a stop +to reflections upon the innocent girl who had so unwittingly offended. + +“It's George Mortimer--he's in our bank,” Alan confided to his sister, +as they moved away. “He's all right--he's strong as a horse; and I bet +Crandal'll have a kink in his neck to-morrow, where George pinched him.” + +“What was it about?” the girl asked. + +“Crandal was jawing about people who own race horses,” the boy answered, +evasively. “It's Crandal, the butcher.” + + + + +II + + +It was the May meeting at Morris Park, and Morris Park is the most +beautiful race course in all America. + +John Porter, walking up the steps of the Grand Stand, heard some one +call him by name. Turning his head, he saw it was James Danby, an owner, +sitting in his private box. Porter turned into the box, and taking the +chair the other pushed toward him, sat down. + +“What about Lucretia?” asked Danby, with the air of an established +friendship which permitted the asking of such questions. + +“She's ready to the minute,” replied Porter. + +“Can she get the five furlongs?” queried Danby. “She's by Assassin, and +some of them were quitters.” + +“She'll quit if she falls dead,” replied the other man, quietly. “I've +worked her good enough to win, and I'm backing her.” + +“That'll do for me,” declared Danby. “To tell you the truth, John, +I like the little mare myself; but I hear that Langdon, who trained +Lauzanne, expects to win.” + +“The mare'll be there, or thereabouts,” asserted her owner; “I never +knew a Lazzarone yet much good as a two-year-old. They're sulky brutes, +like the old horse; and if Lucretia's beat, it won't be Lauzanne that'll +turn the trick.” + +The bell clanged imperiously at the Judges' Stand. Porter pulled out his +watch and looked at it. + +“That's saddling,” he remarked, laconically; “I must go and have a bit +on the mare, and then take a look at her before she goes out.” + +As Porter went down the steps his companion leaned over the rail and +crooked his fingers at a thin-faced man with a blond mustache who had +been keeping a corner of his eye on the box. + +“What are they making favorite, Lewis?” queried Danby, as the thin-faced +man stood beside him. + +“Lucretia.” + +“What's her price?” + +“Two to one.” + +“What's second favorite?” + +“Lauzanne--five to two.” + +“Porter tells me Lucretia is good business,” said Danby, in a tentative +tone. + +“Langdon thinks it's all over bar the shouting; he says Lauzanne +outclasses his field,” retorted Lewis. + +“Langdon's a betting man; Porter's an owner, and a good judge,” objected +Danby; “and he's got a good boy up, too, McKay,” he added, slowly +focusing his field glasses on the jockey board opposite the Stand. + +“Crooked as a dog's hind legs,” snarled Lewis, biting viciously at his +cigar. + +“Bob, it's damned hard to find a straight-legged dog,” laughed Danby. +“And when John Porter starts a horse, there's never anything doing. +Here's six hundred; put' it on the mare--straight.” + +As Lewis pushed his way into the shoving, seething, elbowing crowd in +the betting ring, he was suddenly struck in the chest by something which +apparently had the momentum of an eight-inch shell; but it was only John +Porter, who, in breaking through the outer crust of the living mass, had +been ejected with more speed than was of his own volition. + +Bob smothered the expletive that had risen to his lip when he saw who +the unwitting offender was, and asked, “What are they doin' to the mare +in the ring?” + +“Not much,” answered his assailant, catching his breath; “there's a +strong play on Langdon's horse, and if I didn't know my boy pretty well, +and Lucretia better, I'd have weakened a bit. But she can't lose, she +can't lose!” he repeated in the tone of a man who is reassuring himself. + +Lewis battled his way along till he stood in front of a bookmaker with +a face cast very much on the lines of a Rubens' cherub; but the +cherub-type ended abruptly with the plump frontispiece of “Jakey” Faust, +the bookmaker. Lewis knew that. “If there's anythin' doin', I'm up +against it here,” he muttered to himself. “What's Lauzanne's price?” he +asked, in an indifferent voice, for the bookmaker's assistant was busy +changing the figures on his list. + +Faust pretended not to hear him. + +“Sure thing!” whispered Lewis to himself. Then aloud he repeated the +question, touching the bookmaker on the elbow. + +The Cherub smiled blandly. “Not takin' any,” he answered, nodding his +head in the pleasant manner of a man who knows when he's got a good +thing. + +“What's Lucretia?” persisted Lewis. + +“Oh! that's it, is it? I'll lay you two to one.” + +The questioner edged away, shaking his head solemnly. + +“Here! five to two--how much--” but Lewis was gone. + +He burrowed like a mole most industriously, regardless of people's +toes, their ribs, their dark looks, and even angry expressions of strong +disapproval, and when he gained the green sward of the lawn, hurried to +his friend's box. + +“Did you get it on?” queried the latter. + +“No; I don't like the look of it. Faust is holding out Lauzanne, and +stretched me half a point about the mare. He and Langdon are in the same +boat.” + +“But that won't win the race,” remonstrated Danby. “Lauzanne is a +maiden, and Porter doesn't often make a mistake about any of his own +stock.” + +“I thought I'd come back and tell you,” said Bob Lewis, apologetically. + +“And you did right; but if the mare wins, and I'm not on, after getting +it straight from Porter, I'd want to go out and kick myself good and +hard. But put it on straight and place; then if Lauzanne's the goods +we'll save.” + +Lewis was gone about four minutes. + +“You're on,” he said, when he returned; “I've two hundred on the +Chestnut for myself.” + +“Lauzanne?” + +“It's booked that way; but I'm backin' the Trainer, Langdon. I went on +my uppers two years ago backing horses; I'm following men now.” + +“Bad business,” objected his stout friend; “it's bad business to back +anything that talks.” + +When John Porter reached the saddling paddock, his brown mare, Lucretia, +was being led around in a circle in the lower corner. As he walked down +toward her his trainer, Andy Dixon, came forward a few paces to meet +him. + +“Are they hammerin' Crane's horse in the ring, sir?” he asked, smoothing +down the grass with the toe of one foot, watching this physical process +with extreme interest. + +“Just what you'd notice,” replied Porter. “Why?” + +“Well, I don't like the look of it a little bit. Here's this Lauzanne +runs like a dog the last time out--last by the length of a street--and +now I've got it pretty straight they're out for the stuff.” + +“They'd a stable-boy up on him that time.” + +“That's just it,” cried Dixon. “Grant comes to me that day--you know +Grant, he works the commission for Dick Langdon--and tells me to leave +the horse alone; and to-day he comes and--” he hesitated. + +“And what?” + +“Tells me to go light on our mare.” + +“Isn't Grant broke?” asked Porter, with seeming irrelevance. + +“He's close next it,” answered the Trainer. + +“Aren't his friends that follow him all broke?” + +“A good many of them have their address in Queer Street.” + +“Look here, Andy,” said the owner, “there isn't a man with a horse in +this stake that doesn't think he's going to win; and when it's all over +we'll see Lucretia's number go up. Grant's a fool,” he added, viciously. +“Didn't he break Fisher-didn't he break every other man that ever stuck +to him?” + +“It's not Grant at all,” replied Dixon, rubbing the palms of his hands +together thoughtfully--a way he had when he wished to concentrate in +concrete form the result of some deep cogitation--“it's Langdon, an' +he's several blocks away from an asylum.” + +“Langdon makes mistakes too.” + +“He cashes in often when he's credited with a mistake,” retorted the +other. + +“Well, I've played the little mare,” asserted Porter. + +“Much, sir?” asked Dixon, solicitously. + +“All I can stand--and a little more,” he added, falteringly; “I needed a +win, a good win,” he offered, in an explanatory voice. “I want to clear +Ringwood--but never mind about that, Andy. The mare's well--ain't she? +There can't be anything doing with McKay--we've only put him up a few +times, but he seems all right.” + +“I think we'll win,” answered the Trainer; “I didn't get anythin' +straight--just that there seemed a deuced strong tip on Lauzanne, +considerin' that he'd never showed any form to warrant it. Yonder he is, +sir, in number five--go and have a look at him.” + +As John Porter walked across the paddock a horseman touched the fingers +of his right hand to his cap. There was a half-concealed look of +interest in the man's eye that Porter knew from experience meant +something. + +“What do you know, Mike?” he asked, carelessly, only half halting in his +stride. + +“Nottin' sir; but dere's somebody in de know dis trip. Yer mare's a good +little filly, w'en she's right, but ye'r up against it.” + +Porter stopped and looked at the horseman. He was Mike Gaynor, a +trainer, and more than once Porter had stood his friend. Mike always had +on hand three or four horses of inconceivable slowness, and uncertainty +of wind and limb; consequently there was an ever-recurring inability to +pay feed bills, so he had every chance to know just who was his friend +and who was not, for he tried them most sorely. + +Porter knew all this quite well; also that in spite of Mike's chronic +impecuniosity he was honest, and true as steel to a benefactor. He +waited, feeling sure that Gaynor had something to tell. + +“There's a strong play on Lauzanne, ain't there, sir?” + +Porter nodded. + +“Sure t'ing! That Langdon's a crook. I knowed him when he was ridin' on +freight cars; now he's a swell, though he's a long sprint from bein' +a gentleman. I got de tip dat dere was a killin' on, an' I axed Dick +Langdon if dere was anyt'ing doin'; an' Dick says to me, says he, +puttin' hot' t'umbs up”--and Mike held both hands out horizontally with +the thumbs stiff and vertical to illustrate this form of oath--“'there's +nottin' doin', Mike,' says he. What d'ye t'ink of that, sir, an' me +knowin' there was?” asked Mike, tragically. + +“It's the biggest tip that always falls down, Gaynor; and they've got to +be pretty swift to beat Lucretia.” + +“That filly's all right; she's worked out well enough to do up that +field of stiffs. I ain't no rail bird, but I've hed me eye on her. But I +ain't doin' no stunt about horses, Mister Porter; I'm talkin' about men. +Th' filly's honest, and ye'r honest sir, but ye don't roide th' mare +yerself, do ye?” + +“You think, Mike--” began Mr. Porter, questioningly; but Gaynor +interrupted him with: “I don't think nothin', sir, an' I ain't sayin' +nothin. I ain't never been before the Stewards yet for crooked work, or +crooked talk; but there's a boy ridin' in dat bunch to-day w'at got six +hundred for t'rowing me down once, see? S'elp me God! he pulled Blue +Smoke to a standstill on me, knowin' that it would break me. That was at +Coney Island, two years ago.” + +“And you don't remember his name, I suppose, Mike?” + +“I don't remember not'in' but that I got it in th' neck. But ye keep yer +eye open, sir. Ye t'ink that none of the b'ys would t'row ye down cause +ye've been good to 'em; but some of 'em are that mean they'd steal th' +sugar from a fly. I know 'em. I hears 'em talk, cause they don't mind +me--t'ink I'm one of th' gang.” + +“Thank you very much, Gaynor; I appreciate your kindly warning; but I +hope you're mistaken, all the same,” said Porter. Then he proceeded on +his way toward stall five, in which was Lauzanne. + +“How are you, Mr. Porter?” + +It was Philip Crane, standing just outside of the stall, who thus +addressed him. “Got something running today?” he continued, with vague +innocence. + +Langdon, just inside the box, chuckled softly. Surely Crane was a past +master in duplicity. + +“I'm starting Lucretia in this race,” replied Honest John. + +“Oh!” Then Crane took Porter gently by the sleeve and drew him half +within the stall. “Mr. Langdon, who trains a horse or two for me, +says this one'll win;” and he indicated the big chestnut colt that the +Trainer was binding tight to a light racing saddle. “You'd better have a +bit on, Mr. Porter,” Crane added. + +“Lucretia carries my money,” answered Porter in loyalty. + +Langdon looked up, having cinched the girth tight, and took a step +toward the two men. + +“Well, we both can't win,” he said, half insolently; “an' I don't think +there's anything out to-day'll beat Lauzanne.” + +“That mare'll beat him,” retorted Porter, curtly, nettled by the other's +cocksureness. + +“I'll bet you one horse against the other, the winner to take both,” + cried Langdon in a sneering, defiant tone. + +“I've made my bets,” said Lucretia's owner, quietly. + +“I hear you had an offer of five thousand for your filly, Mr. Porter,” + half queried Crane. + +“I did, and I refused it.” + +“And here's the one that'll beat her to-day, an' I'll sell him for half +that,” asserted the Trainer, putting his hand on Lauzanne's neck. + +Exasperated by the persistent boastfulness of Langdon, Porter was +angered into saying, “If he beats my mare, I'll give you that for him +myself.” + +“Done!” snapped Langdon. “I've said it, an' I'll stick to it.” + +“I don't want the horse--” began Porter; but Langdon interrupted him. + +“Oh, if you want to crawl.” + +“I never crawl,” said Porter fiercely. “I don't want your horse, but +just to show you what I think of your chance of winning, I'll give you +two thousand and a half if you beat my mare, no matter what wins the +race.” + +“I think you'd better call this bargain off, Mr. Porter,” remonstrated +Crane. + +“Oh, the bargain will be off,” answered John Porter; “if I'm any judge, +Lauzanne's running his race right here in the stall.” + +His practiced eye had summed up Lauzanne as chicken-hearted; the sweat +was running in little streams down the big Chestnut's legs, and dripping +from his belly into the drinking earth spit-spit, drip-drip; his head +was high held in nervous apprehension; his lips twitched, his flanks +trembled like wind-distressed water, and the white of his eye was +showing ominously. + +Langdon cast a quick, significant, cautioning look at Crane as Porter +spoke of the horse; then he said, “You're a fair judge, an' if you're +right you get all the stuff an' no horse.” + +“I stand to my bargain whatever happens,” Porter retorted. + +At that instant the bugle sounded. + +“Get up, Westley,” Langdon said to his jockey, “they're going out.” + +As he lifted the boy to the saddle, the Trainer whispered a few concise +directions. + +“Hold him steady at the post,” he muttered; “I've got him a bit on edge +to-day. Get off in front and stay there; he's feelin' good enough to +leave the earth. This'll be a matter of a couple of hundred to you if +you win.” + +“All out! all out!” called the voice, of the paddock offcial. “Number +one!” then, “Come on you, Wesltey! they're all out.” + +The ten starters passed in stately procession from the green-swarded +paddock through an open gate to the soft harrowed earth, gleaming +pink-brown in the sunlight, of the course. How consciously beautiful +the thoroughbreds looked! The long sweeping step; the supple bend of the +fetlock as it gave like a wire spring under the weight of great broad +quarters, all sinewy strength and tapered perfection; the stretch of +gentle-curved neck, sweet-lined as a greyhound's, bearing a lean, bony +head, set with two great jewels of eyes, in which were honesty and +courage, and eager longing for the battle of strength and stamina, and +stoutness of heart; even the nostrils, with a red transparency as of +silk, spread and drank eagerly the warm summer air that was full of the +perfume of new-growing clover and green pasture-land. + +Surely the spectacle of these lovely creatures, nearest to man in their +thoughts and their desires, and superior in their honesty and truth, was +a sight to gladden the hearts of kings. Of a great certainty it was a +sport of kings; and also most certainly had it at times come into the +hands of highway robbers. + +Some such bitter thought as this came into the heart of John Porter as +he stood and watched his beautiful brown mare, Lucretia, trailing with +stately step behind the others. He loved good horses with all the fervor +of his own strong, simple, honest nature. Their walk was a delight to +him, their roaring gallop a frenzy of eager sensation. There was nothing +in the world he loved so well. Yes--his daughter Allis. But just now +he was thinking of Lucretia--Lucretia and her rival, the golden-haired +chestnut, Lauzanne. + +He passed through the narrow gate leading from the paddock to the Grand +Stand. The gate keeper nodded pleasantly to him and said: “Hope +you'll do the trick with the little mare, sir. I'm twenty years at the +business, and I haven't got over my likin' for an honest horse and an +honest owner yet.” + +There was covert insinuation of suspicion, albeit a kindly one, in the +man's voice. The very air was full of the taint of crookedness; else +why should the official speak of honesty at all? Everyone knew that John +Porter raced to win. + +He crossed the lawn and leaned against the course fence, to take a +deciding look at the mare and the Chestnut as they circled past the +stand in the little view-promenade which preceded the race. + +His trained eye told him that Lauzanne was a grand-looking horse; big, +well-developed shoulders reached back toward the huge quarters until the +small racing saddle almost covered the short back. What great promise of +weight-carrying was there! + +He laughed a little at the irrelevance of this thought, for it was not a +question of weight-carrying at all; two-year-olds at a hundred pounds +in a sprint of only five furlongs. Speed was the great factor to be +considered, and surely Lucretia outclassed the other in that way. The +long, well-ribbed-up body, with just a trace of gauntness in the flank; +the slim neck; the deep chest; the broad, flat canon bones, and the +well-let-down hocks, giving a length of thigh like a greyhound's--and +the thighs themselves, as John Porter looked at them under the tucked-up +belly of the gentle mare, big, and strong, and full of a driving force +that should make the others break a record to beat her. + +From the inquisition of the owner's study Lucretia stood forth +triumphant; neither the Chestnut nor anything else in the race could +beat her. And Jockey McKay--Porter raised his eyes involuntarily, +seeking for some occult refutation of the implied dishonesty of the boy +he had trusted. He found himself gazing straight into the small shifty +eyes of Lucretia's midget rider, and such a hungry, wolfish look of +mingled cunning and cupidity was there that Porter almost shuddered. The +insinuations of Mike Gaynor, and the other things that pointed at a job +being on, hadn't half the force of the dishonesty that was so apparent +in the tell-tale look of the morally, irresponsible boy in whose hands +he was so completely helpless. All the careful preparation of the mare, +the economical saving, even to the self-denial of almost necessary +things to the end that he might have funds to back her heavily when she +ran; and the high trials she had given him when asked the question, and +which had gladdened his heart and brought an exclamation of satisfaction +from his phlegmatic trainer; the girlish interest of his daughter in +the expected triumph--all these contingencies were as less than nothing +should the boy, with the look of a demon in his eyes, not ride straight +and honest. + +Even then it was not too late to ask the Stewards to set McKay down, but +what proof had he to offer that there was anything wrong? The boy's good +name would be blasted should he, John Porter, say at the last minute +that he did not trust him; and perhaps the lad was innocent. Race people +were ready to cry out that a jockey was fixed-that there was something +wrong, when their own judgment was at fault and they lost. + +Suddenly Porter gave a cry of astonishment. “My God!” he muttered, “the +boy has got spurs on. That'll set the mare clean crazy.” + +He turned to Dixon, who was at his elbow: “Why did you let McKay put on +the steels?” + +“I told him not to.” “He's got them on.” + +“They've got to come off,” and the Trainer dashed up the steps to the +Stewards. In two minutes he returned, a heavy frown on his face. + +“Well?” queried Porter. + +“I've made a mess of it,” answered Dixon, sullenly. “It seems there's +hints of a job on, an' the Stewards have got the wrong end of the +stick.” + +“They refused to let the mare go back to the paddock?” queried Porter. + +“Yes; an' one of them said that if trainers would stick closer to their +horses, an' keep out of the bettin' ring, that the public'd get a better +run for their money.” + +“I'm sorry, Andy,” said Porter, consolingly. + +“It's pretty tough on me, but it's worse on you, sir. That boy hadn't +spurs when he weighed, an' there's the rankest kind of a job on, I'll +take me oath.” + +“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. + +The latter started and a frown crossed his brown face. + +“I'm sorry--I'm afraid it's no cinch.” + +“Five to two never is,” laughed his friend. “But she's a right smart +filly; she looks much the best of the lot. Dixon's got her as fit as a +fiddle string. When you're done with that man you might turn him over to +me, John.” + +“The mare's good enough,” said Porter, “and I've played her myself--a +stiffish bit, too; but all the same, if you asked me now, I'd tell +you to keep your money in your pocket. I must go,” he added, his eye +catching the flutter of a race card which was waving to him three seats +up. + +“Here's a seat, Dad,” cried the girl, cheeringly, lifting her coat from +a chair she had kept for her father. + +For an instant John Porter forgot all about Lucretia and her troubles. +The winsome little woman had the faculty of always making him forget his +trials; she had to the fullest extent that power so often found in +plain faces. Strictly speaking, she wasn't beautiful--any man would have +passed that opinion if suddenly asked the question upon first seeing +her. Doubt of the excellence of this judgment might have crept into his +mind after he had felt the converting influence of the blue-gray eyes +that were so much like her father's; in them was the most beautiful +thing in the world, an undoubted evidence of truth and honesty and +sympathy. She was small and slender, but no one had ever likened her +to a flower. There was apparent sinewy strength and vigor in the small +form. Her life, claimed by the open air, had its reward--the saddle is +no cradle for weaklings. Bred in an atmosphere of racing, and surrounded +as she had always been by thoroughbreds, Allis had grown up full of +admiration for their honesty, and courage, and sweet temper. + + + + +III + + +In John Porter's home horse racing had no debasing effect. If a man +couldn't race squarely--run to win every time--he had better quit the +game, Porter had always asserted. He raced honestly and bet openly, +without cant and without hypocrisy; just as a financier might have +traded in stocks in Wall Street; or a farmer might plant his crops and +trust to the future and fair weather to yield him a harvest in return. + +So much of the racing life was on honor--so much of the working out of +it was in the open, where purple-clovered fields gave rest, and health, +and strength, that the home atmosphere was impregnated with moral truth, +and courage, and frankness, in its influence on the girl's development. + +Every twist of her sinewy figure bore mute testimony to this; every +glance from her wondrous eyes was an eloquent substantiating argument +in favor of the life she affected. John Porter looked down at the small, +rather dark, upturned face, and a half-amused smile of content came to +his lips. “Did you see Lucretia?” he asked. “Isn't she a beauty? Hasn't +Dixon got her in the pink of condition?” + +“I saw nothing else, father.” She beckoned to him with her eyes, tipped +her head forward, and whispered: “Those people behind us have backed +Lauzanne. I think they're racing folks.” + +The father smiled as an uncultured woman's voice from one row back +jarred on his ear. Allis noticed the smile and its provocation, and +said, speaking hastily, “I don't mean like you, father--” + +“Like us,” he corrected. + +“Well, perhaps; they're more like betting or training people, though.” + She put her hand on his arm warningly, as a high-pitched falsetto +penetrated the drone of their half-whispered words, saying, “I tell you +Dick knows all about this Porter mare, Lucretia.” + +“But I like her,” a baritone voice answered. “She looks a rattlin' +filly.” + +“You'll dine off zwieback and by your lonely, Ned, if you play horses on +their looks--” + +“Or women either,” the baritone cut in. + +“You're a fair judge, Ned. But Dick told me to go the limit on Lauzanne, +and to leave the filly alone.” + +“On form Lucretia ought to win,” the man persisted; “an' there's never +anythin' doin' with Porter.” + +“Perhaps not;” the unpleasant feminine voice sneered mockingly, with +an ill-conditioned drawl on the “perhaps”; “but he doesn't ride his own +mare, does he?” + +John Porter started. Again that distasteful expression fraught with +distrust and insinuation. There was a strong evil odor of stephanotis +wafted to his nostrils as the speaker shook her fan with impatient +decision. The perfume affected him disagreeably; it was like the +exhalation of some noisome drug; quite in keeping with the covert +insinuation of her words that Dick, as she called him--it must be Dick +Langdon, the trainer of Lauzanne, Porter mused--had given her advice +based on a knowledge quite irrespective of the galloping powers of the +two horses. + +“Did you hear that, father?” Allis whispered. + +He nodded his head. + +“What does it all mean?” + +“It means, girl,” he said, slowly, “that all the trouble and pains I +have taken over Lucretia since she was foaled, two years ago, and her +dam, the old mare, Maid of Rome, died, even to raising the little filly +on a bottle, and watching over her temper that it should not be ruined +by brutal savages of stable-boys, whose one idea of a horse is that +he must be clubbed into submission--that all the care taken in her +training, and the money spent for her keep and entries goes for nothing +in this race, if Jockey McKay is the rascal I fear he is.” + +“You think some one has got at him, Dad?” + +Her father nodded again. + +“I wish I'd been a boy, so that I could have ridden Lucretia for you +to-day,” Allis exclaimed with sudden emphasis. + +“I almost wish you had, Little Woman; you'd have ridden straight +anyway--there never was a crooked one of our blood.” + +“I don't see why a jockey or anybody else should be dishonest--I'm sure +it must take too much valuable time to cover up crooked ways.” + +“Yes, you'd have made a great jock, Little Woman;” the father went on, +musingly, as he watched the horses lining up for the start. “Men think +if a boy is a featherweight, and tough as a Bowery loafer, he's sure +to be a success in the saddle. That's what beats me--a boy of that sort +wouldn't be trusted to carry a letter with ten dollars in it, and on the +back of a good horse he's, piloting thousands. Unless a jockey has the +instincts of a gentleman, naturally, he's almost certain to turn out a +blackguard sooner or later, and throw down his owner. He'll have more +temptations in a week to violate his trust than a bank clerk would have +in a lifetime.” + +“Is that why you put Alan in the bank, father?” + +Porter went on as though he had not heard the daughter's query. “To make +a first-class jock, a boy must have nerves of steel, the courage of a +bulldog, the self-controlling honesty of a monk. You've got all these +right enough, Allis, only you're a girl, don't you see--just a good +little woman,” and he patted her hand affectionately. + +“They're off!” exclaimed the baritone. + +“Not this trip,” objected the falsetto. + +“The spurs--the young fiend!” fiercely ejaculated John Porter. + +“What is it, father?” + +“The boy on Lucretia is jabbing her with the spurs, and she's cutting +up.” + +“That's the fourth false start,” said Ned, the baritone. “I don't think +much of your Lauzanne, he's like a crazy horse.” + +Allis heard the woman's shrill voice, smothered to a hissing whisper, +answer something. Two distinct words, “the hop,” carried to her ears. +There was a long-drawnout baritone, “Oh-h!” then, in the same key, “I +knew Lauzanne was a sluggard, and couldn't make out why he was so frisky +to-day.” + +“Dick's got it down fine”--just audibly from the woman; “Lauzanne'll try +right enough this time out.” + +“The mare's actin' as if she'd a cup of tea, too,” muttered her +companion, Ned. + +This elicited a dry chuckle from the woman. + +Allis pinched her father's arm again, and looked up in his face +inquiringly, as from the seat behind them the jumbled conversation came +to their ears. Porter nodded his head understandingly, and frowned. The +stephanotis was choking his nostrils, and an occasional word was filling +his heart with confirmation of his suspicions. + +“I don't like it,” he muttered to Allis. “They've had four breaks, and +the mare's been left each time. The Chestnut's the worst actor I ever +saw at the post. But I'm thinking he'll leave the race right there, the +way he's cutting up.” + +“My God!” he exclaimed in the next breath. He had startled the girl with +the fierce emphasis he threw into the words; she sprang to her feet in +excitement. + +A bell had clanged noisily, there was the shuffle of thousands of eager +feet; a hoarse cry, “They're off!” went rolling from tier to tier, from +seat to seat, to the topmost row of the huge stand. + +“Lauzanne is off with a flying lead of three lengths, and the mare is +left absolutely-absolutely last. The boy whipped her about just as the +flag fell.” There was the dreary monotone of crushed hope in Porter's +voice as he spoke. + +“Yes, we're out of it, Little Woman,” he continued; and there was almost +a tone of relief, of resignation. Suspense was gone; realization of the +disaster seemed to have steadied his nerves again. Allis attempted to +speak, but her low voice was hushed to a whisper by the exultant cries +that were all about them. + +“Didn't I tell you--Lauzanne wins in a walk!” the falsetto voice was an +exultant squeak of hilarious excitement. + +“You called the turn.” Even Ned's baritone had risen to a false-keyed +tenor; he was standing on his toes, peering over the heads of taller men +in front. + +Allis brushed from her eyes the tears of sympathy that had welled into +them, and, raising her voice, spoke bravely, clinging to the vain hope: +“Lucretia is game, father--she may win yet--the race is not lost till +they're past the post.” + +Then her voice died away, and she kept pleading over and over in her +heart, “Come on Lucretia--come on, brave little mare! Is she gaining, +father--can you see?” + +“She'll never make it up,” Porter replied, as he watched the jumble +of red, and yellow, and black patterned into a trailing banner, which +waved, and vibrated, and streamed in the glittering sunlight, a furlong +down the Course--and the tail of it was his own blue, whitestarred +jacket. In front, still a good two lengths in front, gleamed scarlet, +like an evil eye, the all red of Lauzanne's colors. + +“Where is Lucretia, father?” the girl asked again, stretching her slight +figure up in a vain endeavor to see over the shoulders of those in +front. + +“She had an opening there,” Porter replied, speaking his thoughts more +than answering the girl, “but the boy pulled her into the bunch on the +rail. He doesn't want to get through. Oh!” he exclaimed, as though some +one had struck him in the face. + +“What's wrong? Has she--” + +“It's the Minstrel. His boy threw him fair across Lucretia, and knocked +her to her knees.” He lowered his glasses listlessly. “It's Lauzanne all +the way, if he lasts out. He's dying fast though, and Westley's gone to +the whip.” + +He was looking through his glasses again. Though beaten, his racing +blood was up. “If Lauzanne wins it will be Westley's riding; the Hanover +colt, The Dutchman, is at his quarter. He'll beat him out, for the +Hanovers are all game.” + +“Come on you, Lauzanne!” Even the exotic stephanotis failed to +obliterate the harsh, mercenary intensity of the feminine cry at the +back of Allis. + +“He's beat!” a deep discordant voice groaned. “I knew he was a quitter;” + the woman's companion was pessimistic. + +Like trees of a forest, swayed by strong compelling winds, the people +rocked in excitement, tiptoed and craned eager necks, as they watched +the magnificent struggle that was drawing to a climax in the stretch. +Inch by inch the brave son of Hanover was creeping up on Lauzanne. How +loosely the big Chestnut galloped--rolling like a drunken man in the +hour of his distress. Close pressed to his neck, flat over his wither +lay the intense form of his rider--a camel's hump--a part of the racing +mechanism, unimpeding the weary horse in the masterly rigidity of his +body and legs; but the arms, even the shoulders of the great jockey +thrust his mount forward, always forward--forward at each stride; fairly +lifting him, till the very lurches of Lauzanne carried him toward the +goal. And at his girth raced the compact bay son of Hanover; galloping, +galloping with a stout heart and eager reaching head; straining every +sinew, and muscle, and nerve; in his eye the brave desire, not to be +denied. + +Ah, gallant little bay! On his back was the offspring of unthinking +parents--a pin-head. Perhaps the Evil One had ordained him to the +completion of Langdon's villainy with Lauzanne. At the pinch his +judgment had flown--he was become an instrument of torture; with whip +and spur he was throwing away the race. Each time he raised his arm and +lashed, his poor foolish body swayed in the saddle, and The Dutchman was +checked. + +“Oh, if he would but sit still!” Porter cried, as he watched the equine +battle. + +The stand mob clamored as though Nero sat there and lions had been +loosed in the arena. The strange medley of cries smote on the ears of +Allis. How like wild beasts they were, how like wolves! She closed her +eyes, for she was weary of the struggle, and listened. Yes, they were +wolves leaping at the throat of her father, and joying in the defeat of +Lucretia. Deep-throated howls from full-chested wolves: “Come on you, +Lauzanne! On, Westley, on! The Bay wins! The Dutchman--The Dutchman for +a thousand!” + +“I'll take--” + +But the new voice was stilled into nothingness by the shrill, +reawakening falsetto. “Go on, Westley! Lauzanne wins--wins--wins!” it +seemed to repeat. Allis sank back into her seat. She knew it was all +over. The shuffle of many feet hastening madly, the crash of eager heels +down the wooden steps, a surging, pushing, as the wolf-pack blocked each +passage in its thirstful rush for the gold it had won, told her that the +race was over. + +No one knew which horse had won. Presently a quiet came over the mob +like a lull in a storm. Silently they waited for the winning number to +go up. + +“I believe it's a dead heat,” said Porter; and Allis noted how calm +and restful his voice sounded after the exultant babel of the +hoarse-throated watchers. + +“Where was Lucretia, father?” + +“Third,” he answered, laconically, schooling his voice to indifference. +“I hope it's a dead heat, for if Lauzanne gets the verdict I've got to +take him. I don't want him after that run; they made him a present of +the race at the start, and he only just squeezed home.” + +“Why must you take the horse, father, if you don't want him? I don't +understand.” + +“I suppose there's no law for it--I said I would, that's all. The whole +thing is crooked though; they stole the race from Lucretia and planted +me with a dope horse, and hanged if I don't feel like backing out. Let +Langdon go before the Stewards about the sale if he dare.” + +“Did you give your word that you'd buy the horse, father?” + +“I did; but it was a plant.” + +“Then you'll take him, father. People say that John Porter's word is as +good as his bond; and that sounds sweeter in my ears than if I were to +hear them say that you were rich, or clever, or almost anything.” + +“Lauzanne gets it!” called the eager grating voice behind them. “There +go the numbers, Ned--three, five, ten; Lauzanne, The Dutchman, Lucretia. +I knew it. Dick don't make no mistakes when he's out for blood.” + +“He drew it a bit fine that time,” growled Ned, still in opposition; “it +was the closest sort of a shave.” + +“Hurrah, Lauzanne!” + +Again there was more hurrying of feet as the Chestnut's backers who had +waited in the stand for the Judge's decision, hurried down to the gold +mart. + +“You'll take Lauzanne, father,” Allis said, when the tumult had stilled; +“it will come out right somehow--I know it will--he'll win again.” + +John Porter stood irresolutely for a minute, not answering the girl, +as though he were loath to go close to the contaminating influence that +seemed part and parcel of Lauzanne, and which was stretching out to +envelop him. He was thinking moodily that he had played against a man +who used loaded dice, and had lost through his own rashness. He had +staked so much on the race that the loss would cut cripplingly into his +affairs. + +“I guess you're right, Allis,” he said; “a man's got to keep his word, +no matter what happens. I never owned a dope horse yet, and unless I'm +mistaken this yellow skate is one to-day. I'll take him though, girl; +but he'll get nothing but oats from me to make him gallop.” + +Then Porter went resolutely down the steps, smothering in his heart the +just rebellion that was tempting him to repudiate his bargain. + +As he reached the lawn, a lad swung eagerly up the steps, threw his eye +inquiringly along row after row of seats until it stopped at Allis. Then +he darted to her side. + +“Hello, Sis--been looking for you. Where's Dad?” + +“Gone to get Lauzanne.” + +“Lauzanne!” and the boy's eyes that were exactly like her own, opened +wide in astonishment. + +“Yes; father bought him.” + +“The deuce! I say, Allis, that won't do. Don't you know there's +something wrong about this race? I just saved myself. I backed the +little mare for a V--then I heard something. This Langdon's a deuce of a +queer fish, I can tell you. I wonder Crane has anything to do with him, +for the Boss is straight as they make them.” + +“Did you back Lauzanne then, Alan?” + +“You bet I did; quick, too; and was hunting all over for the gov'nor to +tell him. You see, I know Langdon--he comes to the bank sometimes. He's +that slick he'll hardly say 'Good-day,' for fear of giving something +away.” + +“Then how did you--how did people know there was something wrong?” + +“Oh, a woman, of course--she blabbed. I think she's Dick Langdon's +sister, and--” + +“Hush-hh!” and Allis laid her hand on the boy's arm, indicating with her +eyes the woman in the seat behind. + +“I'd better go and tell father--” + +“You needn't bother; he knows. It's a question of honor. Father said +he'd buy the horse, and he's gone to make good.” + +“I wouldn't; that sort of thing will break a man.” + +“It's a good way to go broke, Alan. Perhaps we'd all be richer if it +wasn't so strong in the Porter blood; but all the same, brother, you do +just as father is doing to-day--always keep your word. I tell you +what it is, boy”--and her face lighted up as she spoke--“father is a +hero--that's what he is; he's just the biggest, bravest man ever lived. +He couldn't do a mean act. How did you get away from the bank, Alan?” + she said, changing the subject; “I didn't know you were coming to-day.” + +“Mortimer was light, and took on my work. He's a good sort.” + +“Does he bet?” + +The boy laughed. “Mortimer bet? That's rich. We call him 'Old Solemnity' +in the bank; but he doesn't mean any harm by it--he just can't help it, +that's all. If he had a stiff ruff about his neck, you could pose him +for a picture of one of those old Dutch burgomasters.” + +“He's doing your work, and you're making fun of him, boy.” + +“You can't make fun of him, at him, or with him; he's a grave digger; +but you can trust him.” + +“That's better.” + +“If I'd killed a man and needed a friend to help me out, I'd go straight +to Mortimer; he's got that kind of eyes. Do you know why he's doing my +work to-day?” + +“Because you're away, I suppose.” + +“Because you recited that doggerel about The Run of Crusader.” + +“Alan! I've never spoken to Mr. Mortimer.” + +“That's why he choked the butcher the night of the concert--I mean--” + +“You're talking nonsense, Alan.” + +“I'm not, I know when a man's interested. Hello. Blest if the Boss isn't +coming this way--there's Crane. See, Allis? I've a notion to tell him +that his trainer is a crook.” + +“No, you won't, Alan--you're too young to gabble.” + +Philip Crane had evidently intended going higher up in the stand, but +his eye lighting on the brother and sister, he stopped, and turned in to +where they were sitting. + +“Good afternoon, Miss Porter.” + +Allis started. Was the stand possessed of unpleasant voices? There was +a metallic ring in Crane's voice that affected her disagreeably. He was +almost a stranger to her; she hardly remembered ever having spoken to +him. + +He turned and nodded pleasantly to Alan, saying, “May I take this seat? +I'm tired. The Cashier let you oft for the day, eh?” he continued. “Came +up to see your father's mare run, I suppose--I'm deuced sorry she was +beaten.” + +“What are they waiting for--why have they taken the horses' numbers down +again? Are they trying to steal the race from Lauzanne now?” It was the +woman's voice behind them, petulantly exclaiming. + +Crane turned in his seat, looked over his shoulder, and raised his hat. + +“The impatient lady is my trainer's sister,” he explained in a modulated +tone to Allis. “A trainer is quite an autocrat, I assure you, and one +must be very careful not to forget any of the obvious courtesies.” + +Allis wondered why he should find it necessary to make any explanation +at all. + +“I want to thank you, Miss Porter, for that reading about Crusader.” + +Allis's eyes opened wide. + +“Yes, I was there,” Crane added, answering the question that was in +them. + +As he said this a man came hurriedly up the steps, spoke to a policeman +on guard, and searched the faces with his eyes. Catching sight of Crane, +he came quickly forward and whispered something in his ear. + +“Excuse me, I must go--I'm wanted,” Crane said to Allis. + +As he turned, the Trainer's sister spoke to him. + +“What's the matter, Mr. Crane--there's something going on up in the +Stewards' Stand?” + +“I fancy there's an objection, though I don't know anything about it,” + he answered, as he went down the steps with the messenger. + +Allis breathed more freely when he had gone. Somehow his presence had +oppressed her; perhaps it was the fierce stephanotis that came in +clouds from the lady behind that smothered her senses. Crane had said +nothing--just an ordinary compliment. Like an inspiration it came to the +girl what had affected her so disagreeably in Crane--it was his eyes. +They were hard, cold, glittering gray eyes, looking out from between +partly closed eyelids. Allis could see them still. The lower lids cut +straight across; it was as though the eyes were peeping at her over a +stone wall. + +“What did I tell you about Crusader?” Alan said, triumphantly. “There's +another.” + +“Alan!” + +“I wondered why Mr. Crane was so deuced friendly; but there's nothing to +get cross about, girl, he's a fine old chap, and got lots of wealth.” + +He leaned forward till he was close to his sister's ear, and added, in +a whisper, “Her ladyship behind, Belle Langdon, is trying to hook him. +Phew!--but she's loud. But I'm off--I'm going to see what the row is +about.” + + + + +IV + + +When John Porter left the stand, the horses had just cantered back +to weigh in. The jockeys, one after another, with upraised whip, had +saluted the Judge, received his nod to dismount, pulled the saddles +from their steeds, and, in Indian file, were passing over the scales. +As Lucretia was led away, Porter turned into the paddock. He saw that +Langdon was waiting for him. + +“Well, he won, just as I said he would,” declared the latter; “you've +got a good horse cheap. You'd ought to've had a bet down on him, an' won +him out.” + +“He won,” answered Porter, looking straight into the other's shifty +eyes, “but he's a long way from being a good horse--no dope horse is a +good horse.” + +“What're you givin' me?” demanded Langdon, angrily. + +“Just what every blackguard ought to have--the truth.” + +“By God!” the Trainer began, in fierce blasphemy, but John Porter took +a step nearer, and his gray eyes pierced the other man's soul until it +shriveled like a dried leaf, and turned its anger into fear. + +“Oh, if you want to crawl--if you don't want to take Lauzanne--” + +But Porter again interrupted Langdon---“I said I'd take the horse, and +I will; but don't think that you're fooling me, Mr. Langdon. You're a +blackguard of the first water. Thank God, there are only a few parasites +such as you are racing--it's creatures like you that give the sport a +black eye. If I can only get at the bottom of what has been done to-day, +you'll get ruled off, and you'll stay ruled off. Now turn Lauzanne over +to Andy Dixon, and come into the Secretary's office, where I'll give you +a check for him.” + +“Well, we'll settle about the horse now, an' there'll be somethin' +to settle between us, John Porter, at some other time and some other +place,” blustered Langdon, threateningly. + +Porter looked at him with a half-amused, half-tolerant expression on his +square face, and said, speaking in a very dry convincing voice: “I guess +the check will close out all deals between us; it will pay you to keep +out of my way, I think.” + +As they moved toward the Secretary's office, Porter was accosted by his +trainer. + +“The Stewards want to speak to you, sir,” said Dixon. + +“All right. Send a boy over to this man's stable for Lauzanne--I've +bought him.” + +The Trainer stared in amazement. + +“I'll give you the check when I come back,” Porter continued, speaking +to Langdon. + +“There's trouble on, sir,” said Dixon, as they moved toward the +Stewards' box. + +“There always is,” commented Porter, dryly. + +“The Stewards think Lucretia didn't run up to her form. They've had me +up, an' her jock, McKay, is there now. Starter Carson swears he couldn't +get her away from the post--says McKay fair anchored the mare. He fined +the boy fifty dollars at the start.” + +“I think they've got the wrong pig by the ear--why don't they yank +Langdon? he's at the bottom of it. It a pretty rich, Andy, isn't it? +They hit me heavy over the race, and now they'd like to rule me off for +that thief's work,” and he jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the +direction of Langdon. + +“Yes, racin's hell now,” commented Dixon with laconic directness. “It +seems just no use workin' over a good horse when any mut of a crook who +is takin' a turn at plungin' can get at the boy. I believe Boston Bill's +game of gettin' a straight boy to play, an' lettin' the horses go hang, +is the proper racket.” + +“Yes, a good boy is better than a good horse nowadays; but they're like +North Poles--hard to come by.” + +“Some mug give the Stewards a yarn that you'd bought Lauzanne, sir, an' +sez that's why you didn't win with the mare.” + +Porter stopped, and gasped in astonishment. What next? + +“You see,” continued Dixon, apologetically, “I didn't know you was +meanin' to buy that skate, so I says it was all a damned lie.” + +“Things are mixed, Andy, ain't they?” + +“I didn't know, sir.” + +“Of course not--I didn't mention it to you--it was all a fluke. But I +don't blame you, Andy. I'll go and talk to the Stewards--they're all +right; they only want to get at the truth of it.” + +As Porter went up the steps of the Stewards' Stand, he felt how like a +man mounting a scaffold he was, an innocent man condemned to be hanged +for another's crime. + +The investigation had been brought about by a note one of the Stewards +had received. The sender of the missive stated in it that he had backed +Lucretia heavily, but had strong reasons for believing there was a +job on. The backer was a reliable man and asked for a fair run for his +money. The note had come too late--just as the horses were starting--to +be of avail, except as a corroboration of the suspicious features of +the race. Starter Carson's evidence as to McKay's handling of the mare +coincided with the contents of the note. Then there was the fact of +Porter's having bought Lauzanne. The Stewards did not know the actual +circumstances of the sale, but had been told that Lucretia's owner had +acquired the Chestnut before the race. Where all was suspicion, every +trivial happening was laid hold of; and Alan's trifling bet on Lauzanne +had been magnified into a heavy plunge--no doubt the father's money had +been put up by the boy. A race course is like a household, everything is +known, absolutely everything. + +Porter was aghast. Were all the Furies in league against him? He was +more or less a believer in lucky and unlucky days, but he had never +experienced anything quite so bad as this. He, the one innocent man in +the transaction, having lost almost his last dollar, and having been +saddled with a bad horse, was now accused of being the perpetrator +of the villainy; and the insinuation was backed up by such a mass of +circumstantial evidence. No wonder he flushed and stood silent, lost for +words to express his indignation. + +“Speak up, Mr. Porter,” said the Steward, kindly. “Those that lost on +Lucretia are swearing the mare was pulled.” + +“And they're right,” blurted out Porter. “I know what the mare can do; +she can make hacks of that bunch. She was stopped, and interfered with, +and given all the worst of it from start to finish; but my money was +burnt up with the public's. I never pulled a horse in my life, and I'm +too old to begin now.” + +“I believe that,” declared the Steward, emphatically. “I've known you, +John Porter, for forty years, man and boy, and there never was anything +crooked. But we've got to clear this up. Racing isn't what it used to +be--it's on the square now, and we want the public to understand that.” + +“What does the boy say,” asked Porter; “you've had him up?” + +“He says the mare was 'helped;' that she ran like a drunken man--swayed +all over the course, and he couldn't pull her together at all.” + +“Does he mean she was doped?” + +“You've guessed it,” answered the Steward, laconically. + +“That's nonsense, sir; and he knows it. Why, the little mare is as sweet +as a lamb, and as game a beast as ever looked through a bridle. Somebody +got at the boy. I can prove by Dixon that Lucretia never had a grain of +cocaine in her life--never even a bracer of whiskey--she doesn't need +it; and as for the race, I hadn't a cent on Lauzanne.” + +“But your son.” + +“He had a small bet; I didn't know that, even, until they were running.” + +“Did you tell him not to back Lucretia, for he did Lauzanne?” + +“I told him not to bet at all.” + +“And you played the mare yourself?” + +For answer Porter showed the Steward his race programme, on which was +written the wager he had made on Lucretia, and the bookmaker's name. + +“Ask Ullmer to bring his betting sheet,” the Steward said to an +assistant. + +On the sheet, opposite John Porter's badge number, was a bet, $10,000 to +$4,000, in the Lucretia column. + +“Did this gentleman make that bet with you?” the Steward asked of +Ullmer. + +“He carries the number; besides I know Mr. Porter, I remember laying it +to him.” + +“Thank you, that will do. Hit you pretty hard,” he said, turning to +Porter. “And you hadn't a saver on Lauzanne?” + +“Not a dollar.” + +“What about your buying him--is there anything in that story?” + +Porter explained the purchase. The Steward nodded his head. + +“They seem to have been pretty sure of winning, those other people,” + he commented; “but we can't do anything to them for winning; nor about +selling you the horse, I fear; and as far as you're concerned, Lucretia +was supposed to be trying. Who gave your jockey orders?” + +“Dixon. I don't interfere; he trains the horses.” + +“We'd like to have Dixon up here again for a minute. I'm sorry we've +had to trouble you, Mr. Porter; I can see there is not the slightest +suspicion attaches to you.” + +In answer to the Steward's query about the order to McKay, Dixon said: +“I told McKay the boss had a big bet down, and to make no mistake--no +Grand Stand finish for me. I told him to get to the front as soon as he +could, and stay there, and win by as far as he liked. I got the office +that there'd be somethin' doin' in the race, an' I told him to get out +by himself.” + +After Dixon was dismissed, the Stewards consulted for a minute, with the +result that McKay was suspended for the balance of the meeting, pending +a further investigation into his methods. + +* * * * * * * * * * * + +During the carpeting of Porter and Dixon, a sea of upturned faces, +furrowed by lines of anxious interest, had surrounded the Judge's box. +Wave on wave the living waters reached back over the grassed lawn to the +betting ring. An indefinable feeling that something was wrong had crept +into the minds of the waiting people, tense with excitement. + +As the horses had flashed past the post, and, after a brief wait for +decision, Lauzanne's number had gone up, his backers had hastened +eagerly to the money mart, and lined up in waiting rows behind the +bookmakers' stands. There they waited, fighting their impatient souls +into submission, for the brief wait would end in the acquiring of gold. +Why did not the stentorian-voiced crier send through the ring the joyful +cry of “All right!” The minutes went by, and the delay became an age. +A whisper vibrated the throng, as a breeze stirs slender branches, that +the winner had been disqualified--that there had been an objection. +First one dropped out of line; then another; one by one, until all +stood, an army of expectant speculators, waiting for the verdict that +had its birthplace up in that tiny square building, the Stewards' Stand. + +“It's over the pulling of Lucretia,” a man said, simply to relieve his +strained feelings. + +“It was the most barefaced job I ever saw,” declared another; “it's even +betting the stable gets ruled off.” He had backed Porter's mare, and was +vindictive. + +“Not on your life,” sneered a Tout, wolfishly; “a big owner always gets +off. The jock'll get it in the neck if they've been caught.” + +“Why don't they pay?” whined the fourth. “What's the pulling of the mare +got to do with it? The best horse won.” He was a backer of Lauzanne. + +“Bet yer life the bookies won't part till the numbers of the placed +horses an' riders are up on that board again. They've run them down, +don't you see?” chimed in the Tout. + +“I'll take two to one The Dutchman gets it,” said a backer of that +horse. “There's a job on, and they'll both get disqualified. Porter's +kid won ten thousand over Lauzanne, and that's why they stiffened the +mare.” + +“That's what the Public are up against in this game,” sneered the backer +of Lucretia. + +“And the jock'll have to stand the shot; I know how it goes,” asserted +the Tout. + +“You ought to know,” drawled Lauzanne's backer. The racing men within +earshot smiled, for the Tout had been a jockey before his license had +been taken away for crooked work. + +“Hello! here it comes,” cried Lauzanne's backer, as a fat, red-faced man +came swiftly down from the Stewards' Stand, ran to the betting ring, and +pushing his way through the crowd, called with the roar of a gorilla: +“Al-l-l right! Lauzanne, first! The Dutchman, second! Lucretia, third! +They're al-l-l weighed in!” + +A Niagara of human beings poured from the lawn to the ring; they ran as +though the course was on fire and they sought to escape. + +“What about Lucretia?” some one asked. + +“They've broke McKay,” the red-faced crier answered; “suspended him.” + +“What did I tell you?” sneered the Tout, maliciously; “it's the under +dog gets the worst of it every time.” + +* * * * * * * * * * * + +A Celt, is an outspoken man when the prod of his hot temper has loosened +his tongue, and Mike Gaynor was a Celt in excess. + +The injustice that had come to his benefactor, John Porter, had stirred +a tempest in his Irish soul. A fierce exclamation of profane wrath had +gone up from him as he watched the bad start from over the paddock rail. + +A misguided retribution led Starter Carson to pass from the Judges' +Stand after the race, along the narrow passage between the Club Stand +and the course, to the paddock gate. There he met Mike, who forthwith +set to flailing him. + +“Did ye notice a little mare called Lucretia in that race, Mr. +Carson--did ye see anythin' av her at all down at the post?” + +Carson's eyes twinkled uneasily. Years of starting had taught him that +self-control was nine out of ten rules which should govern the Starter's +actions. + +“Was there anythin' th' mather wit' yer ancestor's eyes that ye come by, +Mister Carson?” + +The Starter made answer with a smile of good-humored tolerance. But Mike +was only warming up; the hot blood was stinging his quick brain, and his +sharp tongue galloped on with unbridled irresponsibility. With the deep +pathos of scorn he continued: + +“Ye'r Carson the Stharter--Mister Carson! S'help me, Bob! ye couldn't +sthart a sthreet car down hill wit' bot' brakes off!” + +Carson ceased to smile; the smile had passed to other faces, the owners +of which were listening with fiendish delight to the castigation. + +Some one touched Mike on the arm, saying, “Come over into the paddock, +Gaynor; you're barkin' up the wrong tree.” It was Dixon. + +“Bot' t'umbs up! This game's too tough fer me--I'll ship me plugs to +Gravesend. Whin a straight man like Porther gets a deal av this kind.” + +“Never mind, Mike,” interrupted Dixon; “let it drop.” + +Carson opened his lips to retort, then closed them tight, set his square +jaw firmly, turned on his heel, and walked away. + +“What d' ye think av it, b'ys?” appealed Mike to the others. + +“You're wrong, Gaynor,” declared a thin, tall, hawkfaced man, who was in +his shirt sleeves; “my boy was in that run, and it isn't Carson's fault +at all. It's dope, Mike. Lauzanne was fair crazy with it at the post; +and McKay was dead to the world on the little mare--the Starter couldn't +get him away.” + +“That's right, Mike,” added Dixon; “Carson fined the boy fifty, an' the +Stewards set him down.” + +“Is that straight goods?” asked Gaynor, losing confidence in the justice +of his wordy assault. + +“Yes, you're wrong, Mike,” they all asserted. + +In five minutes Gaynor had found Carson, and apologized with the full +warmth of a penitent Irishman. + + + + +V + + +For a week John Porter brooded over Lucretia's defeat, and, worse still, +over the unjust suspicion of the unthinking public. Touched in its +pocket, the public responded in unsavory references to Lucretia's race. +Porter loved a good horse, and liked to see him win. The confidence +of the public in his honesty was as great a reward as the stakes. The +avowed principle of racing, that it improved the breed of horses, was +but a silent sentiment with him. He believed in it, but not being rich, +raced as a profession, honestly and squarely. He had asserted more than +once that if he were wealthy he would never race a two-year-old. But +his income must be derived from his horses, his capital was in them; and +just at this time he was sitting in a particularly hard streak of bad +luck; financially, he was in a hole; morally, he stood ill with the +public. + +His reason told him that the ill-fortune could not last; he had one +great little mare, good enough to win, an honest trainer--there the +inventory stopped short; his stock in trade was incomplete--he had not a +trusty jockey. In his dilemma he threshed it out with Dixon. + +“How's the mare doing, Andy?” he asked. “What did the race do to her?” + +“She never was better in her life,” the Trainer answered, proudly. Then +he added, to ease the troubled look that was in the gray eyes of his +master, “She'll win next time out, sir--I'll gamble my shirt on that.” + +“Not with another McKay up.” + +“I think she's good enough for the 'Eclipse,' sir, dashed if I don't. I +worked her the distance, and she shaded the time they made last year.” + +“What's the use,” said Porter, dejectedly; “where'll we get a boy?” + +“Oh, lots of the boys are straight.” + +“I know that,” Porter answered, “but all the straight ones are tied hand +and foot to the big stables.” + +“I've been thinkin' it over,” hazarded Dixon, tentatively--“Boston +Bill's got a good lad--there's none of them can put it over him, an' his +boss ain't got nothin' in the 'Eclipse,' I know.” + +“That means the same old game, Andy; we nurse the horse, get him into +condition, place him where he can win, and then turn him over to a +plunger and take the small end of the divide. Boston Bill would back her +off the boards. + +“The stake'd mount up to seven or eight thousand, an' the win would +square the little mare with the public.” + +“And I'd do that, if I didn't land a dollar,” said Porter. “Andy, it +hurt me more to see the filly banged about there in the ruck than it did +giving up the money.” + +The Trainer smiled. With him this was unusual; there was a popular +superstition that he never smiled except when one of his horses won. +But his heart expanded at Porter's words, for he, too, was fond of the +little mare. + +Then Porter spoke again, abruptly, and fast, as though he feared he +might change his mind: “They downed me last trip, Dixon--I guess I'm +getting a bit slow in my paces; and you do just as you like--arrange +with Boston Bill if you think it's good business. He makes a specialty +of winning races--not pulling horses, and we need a win, too, I guess.” + +“Thank you, sir. We'll land that stake; an' p'raps the sharp division'll +take a tumble. I'll bet a dollar they'll go for The Dutchman--he ran a +great race the other day, an' he's in the Eclipse--if they start him. +Lurcetia's right on edge, she's lookin' for the key hole, an' may go +back if we don't give her a race. We'd better get the money for the oat +bill while it's in sight. She oughter be a long price in the bettin', +too,” continued Dixon, meditatively; “the public soon sour on a beaten +horse. You'll have a chance to get even.” + +“I don't like that part of it,” muttered Porter; “I'm in the black books +now. People have no reason at all--no sense; they've got it into their +heads that dirty job was of my making, and if the filly starts at ten to +one, and I win a bit, they'll howl.” + +“You can't make a success of racin', sir, an' run your stable for the +public--they don't pay the feed bill.” + +“Perhaps you're right, Dixon,” answered Porter. + +For immediate financial relief Porter knew that he must look to +Lucretia--no other horse in his stable was ready to win; but more +immediately he must arrange certain money matters with his banker, who +was Philip Crane. To Porter, Crane had been a tolerant financier, taking +the man's honesty liberally as a security; not but what Ringwood +had been called upon as a tangible asset. So that day, following his +conversation with Dixin, the master of Ringwood had an interview with +his banker. It was natural that he should speak of his prospects--his +hopes of winning the Eclipse with Lucretia, and, corroboratively, +mention her good trial. + +“I think that's a good mare of yours, Mr. Porter,” said Crane, +sympathetically. “I only race, myself in a small way, just for the +outdoor relaxation it gives me, you know, so I'm not much of a +judge. The other horse you bought--the winner of the race, I mean, +Lauzanne--will also help put you right, I should say.” + +Porter hesitated, uneasily. He disliked to talk about a man behind his +back, but he knew that Langdon trained for Crane, and longed to give +the banker a friendly word of warning; he knew nothing of the latter's +manipulation of the trainer. + +With a touch of rustic quaintness he said, with seeming irrelevance to +the subject, “Have you ever picked wild strawberries in the fields, Mr. +Crane?” + +“I have,” answered the other man, showing no surprise at the break, for +life in Brookfield had accustomed him to disjointed deals. + +“Did you ever notice that going down wind you could see the berries +better?” + +Crane thought for a moment. “Yes, that's right; coming up wind the +leaves hid them.” + +“Just so,” commented Porter; “and when a man's got a trainer he's nearly +always working up wind with him.” + +“The trainer hides things?” queried Crane. + +“Some do. But the outsiders walking down wind see the berries.” + +And the Banker pondered for a minute, then he said, “Whose garden are +the berries in, Mr. Porter, yours or mine?” + +“Well, you've always been a good friend of mine, Mr. Crane,” Porter +answered, evasively. + +“I see,” said the other, meditatively; “I understand. I'm much obliged. +If I thought for an instant that any trainer wasn't dealing perfectly +straightforward with me, I'd have nothing more to do with him--nothing +whatever.” + +Crane sat looking through the open window at John Porter as the latter +went down the street. About his thin-lipped, square-framed mouth hovered +an expression that might have been a smile, or an intense look of +interest, or a touch of avaricious ferocity. The gray eyes peeped over +the wall of their lower lids, and in them, too, was the unfathomable +something. + +“Yes,” he repeated, as though Porter still stood beside him, “if Langdon +tried to deceive me, I'd crush him. Poor old Porter with his story of +the strawberries! If he were as clever as he is honest, he wouldn't have +been stuck with a horse like Lauzanne. I told Langdon to get rid of that +quitter, but I almost wish he'd found another buyer for him. The horse +taint is pretty strong in that Porter blood. How the girl said that +line, + + 'And a hush came over the clamorous mob; + Like a babe on his neck I was sobbing.' + +She's cleverer than her father.” + +Crane sat for an hour. Porter had vanished from the landscape, but still +the Banker's thoughts clung to his personality as though the peeping +eyes saw nothing else. + +From the time of the first loan obtained upon Ringwood, Crane had +coveted the place. It appealed to him with its elm-bordered, sweeping +driveway, leading from gate to old colonial residence. Its thick-grassed +fields and running water made it just the place for a man who tempered +his passion for racing with common sense. And it would pass from +Porter's hands right enough--Crane knew that. Porter might call it ill +luck, but he, Crane the Banker, knew it was the lack of something, the +inability to make money. + +“Made music to me on Crusader.” Yes, that was it. With the Porters it +was jingle of spurs, and stride of the horse. All very fine in theory, +but racing, as he looked at it, was a question of proper odds, and many +other things connected with the betting ring. + +Why did the girl, Allis, with her jingling verse creep into his mind. +Perhaps it was because she was so different from the woman who was +always steeped in stephanotis. Of the one there was only the memory +of an unmodulated voice and oppressive perfume; in truth, of the other +there was not much more--just a pair of big, blue-gray, honest +eyes, that somehow stared at him fearlessly, and withal with a great +sweetness. + +Crane suddenly chuckled in dry disapprobation of himself. Grotesquely +enough, all at once he remembered that he was forty--that very day +forty. He ran his hand over his waistcoat, dipped two fingers into the +pocket and drew out a cigar. Ordinarily the face of an alabaster Buddha +was mobile and full of expression compared with Crane's. His mind worked +behind a mask, but it worked with the clean-cut precision of clockwork. +When his thoughts had crystallized into a form of expression, Crane was +very apt to be exactly right in his deductions. + +Save for the curling smoke that streamed lazily upward from his cigar +one might have thought the banker fast asleep in his chair, so still he +sat, while his mind labored with the quiescent velocity of a spinning +top. He had won a big stake over Lauzanne's victory. The race had helped +beggar Porter, and brought Ringwood nearer his covetous grasp. If Porter +failed to win the Eclipse, his finances would be in a pitiable state; he +might even have to sell his good filly Lucretia. That would be a golden +opportunity. + +From desiring the farm, insensibly Crane drifted into coveting the mare. +He fell to wondering whether The Dutchman might not beat Lucretia. A +question of this sort was one of the few he discussed with Langdon. +Crane had smoked his cigar out, had settled the trend of many things, +and developed the routine for his chessmen. + +“I'll give Porter rope enough, in the way of funds, to tangle himself, +and in the meantime I'll run up to New York and see what Langdon thinks +about The Dutchman,” was the shorthand record of his thoughts as he +threw away the end of his cigar, took his hat, and passed out of the +bank. + +That evening he talked with his trainer. + +“What should win the Eclipse, Langdon?” he asked. + +“Well, I don't know what'll start,” began the Trainer, with diplomatic +caution, running over in his mind the most likely twoyear-olds. + +“Would Porter's mare have a chance?” + +“I think she would. I hear somethin' about a trial she gave them good +enough to win--if I could find out her time--Porter don't talk much, an' +Andy Dixon's like a clam. There's a boy in the stable, Shandy, that I +might pump--” + +“Don't bother, Mr. Langdon; I dislike prying into anybody's business.” + +The Trainer stared, but he didn't know that Porter had told Crane all +about the trial, and so the latter could afford to take a virtuous pose. + +“Has The Dutchman a look in?” continued Crane. + +“On his runnin' he has; he wasn't half fit, an' got as bad a ride as +ever I see in my life. The race ought to be between 'em--I ain't seen no +two-year-olds out to beat that pair.” + +“If I thought The Dutchman would win I'd buy him. I like game horses, +and men, too--that'll take the gaff and try.” + +“I don't know as the owner'd sell him.” + +“Do you remember the buying of Silver Foot, Langdon?” + +“Yes.” + +“He was a good horse.” + +“The best handicap horse in the country, an' he was sold for a +song--seven thousand.” + +“Less than that, the first time,” corrected Crane. + +“Yes, they stole him from old Walters; made him believe the horse was no +good.” + +“Just so,” commented Crane; “I've heard that story,” and his smooth, +putty-like face remained blank and devoid of all meaning, as his eyes +peered vacantly over their lower lids at the Trainer. + +Langdon waited for the other to continue, but the Banker seemed wrapped +up in a retrospect of the Silver Foot deal. + +“I know Billy Smith, that trains The Dutchman,” hazarded Langdon; “he's +a boozer.” + +“I'm glad of that--I mean, that you know Smith,” declared Crane. “I +happen to know the owner--his name is Baker. His racing is what might be +called indiscriminate, and like men of that class he sometimes blunders +upon a good horse without knowing it; and I doubt very much but that if +he knew all about the other race--how bad Lauzanne really is; how the +mare, Lucretia--well--got shut off, and couldn't get through her horses, +say--of course his own trainer, Smith, would have to tell these things, +you understand. In fact, if he knew the exact truth, he might take a +reasonable offer for The Dutchman.” + +Langdon nodded approvingly. He loved his subtle master; cards up his +sleeves tingled his nerves, and loaded dice were a joy for evermore. + +Crane proceeded to unwind the silken cord. “Naturally Smith would hate +to lose a fair horse out of his stable, and would, perhaps, attempt to +thwart any deal; so I think you might remunerate him for his loss.” + +“When Silver Foot was sold, they gave him a bad trial before the sale--” + +“I'm not interested in Silver Foot,” interrupted Crane; “and I shouldn't +like to have anything--well, I don't want my name associated with +anything shady, you understand, Langdon? You are to buy The Dutchman as +cheap as you can, and run him as your own horse in the Eclipse. I +think Porter's mare will win it, so we needn't lose anything over The +Dutchman.” + +Langdon started. With all his racing finesse he was a babe. The smooth, +complacent-faced man in front of him made him realize this. + +“But,” he gasped, “there was a row over Lauzanne's race. If The Dutchman +runs in my name, an' a lot o' mugs play him--it's dollars to doughnuts +they will--an' he gets beat, there'll be a kick. I can't take no chances +of bein' had up by the Stewards.” + +“Wait a bit,” replied Crane, calmly. “Supposing Porter's mare worked +five and a half furlongs in 1.07, how would she go in the Eclipse?” + +“She'd win in a walk; unless The Dutchman was at his best when he might +give her an argument.” + +“Well, if I thought The Dutchman could beat the mare, I'd make him win, +if he never carried the saddle again,” declared Crane, almost fiercely. +Then he interrupted himself, breaking off abruptly. Very seldom indeed +it was that Crane gave expression to sentiment; his words were simply +a motor for carrying the impact of his well-thought-out plans to the +executive agents. “It will be doing Porter a good turn to-to-that is, if +Lucretia wins. I fancy he needs a win. Bad racing luck will hardly stop +the mare this time--not twice in succession you know, Langdon,” and he +looked meaningly at his jackal. “You buy The Dutchman, and be good to +him.” + +He laid marked emphasis on the words “be good to him.” The trainer +understood. It meant that he was to send The Dutchman to the post half +fit, eased up in his work; then the horse could try, and the jockey +could try, and, in spite of it all, the fast filly of Porter's would +win, and his subtle master, Crane, would have turned the result to his +own benefit. Why should he reason, or object, or counterplot, or do +anything but just follow blindly the dictates of this past master in the +oblique game he loved so well? Crane wanted The Dutchman because he was +a good horse; he also wanted to have a heavy plunge on Lucretia; but +with the son of Hanover in other hands the good thing might not come +off. Somehow Langdon felt miserably inefficient in the presence +of Crane--his self-respect suffered; the other man's mind was so +overmastering, even to detail. The Trainer felt a sudden desire to +right himself in Crane's estimation, give some evidence of ordinary +intelligence, or capability to carry out his mission. “If The Dutchman's +owner was made to think that the horse was likely to break down, throw a +splint, or--” + +But Crane interrupted him in his quiet, masterful way, saying: “I know +nothing of horse trading; I simply furnish the money, loan it to you, my +dear Mr. Langdon, and you buy the animal in your own best way. You +will pay for him with a check on my bank.” No man could close out an +interview so effectually as Crane. As Langdon slipped away as though he +had been thrust bodily from the room, there was in his mind nothing but +admiration of his master--the man who backed up his delicate diplomacy +with liberal capital. + +In spite of what he had said to Langdon, there was little doubt in +Crane's mind but that the son of Hanover was a better horse than +Lucretia. A sanguine owner--even Porter was one at times--was so apt +to overrate everything in his own stable, especially if he had bred the +animal himself, as Porter had Lucretia. To buy The Dutchman and back him +on such short ownership to beat Lucretia would have been the policy of +a very ordinary mind indeed; he would simply be fencing, with rapiers of +equal length, with John Porter. + +Crane had attained to his success by thinking a little deeper than other +men, going a little beyond them in the carefulness of his plans. He +knew intuitively--in fact Porter's unguarded conversation had suggested +it--that Lucretia's owner meant to win himself out of his difficult +position by backing the little mare heavily for the Eclipse, expecting +to get his money on at good odds. By owning The Dutchman Crane could +whipsaw the situation; forestall Porter in the betting by backing +Lucretia down to a short price himself, and have Jakey Faust lay with +a full vigor against the Hanover colt. He would thus confine Porter to +stake money, and Ringwood would still lie chained to his bank by the +golden links he had forged on the place. + +Almost insensibly, side by side with this weed of villainy there was +growing in Crane's mind a most peculiar flower of sentiment, a love +blossom. Strive as he would--though the apathy of his rebellion somewhat +startled him--Crane could not obliterate from his thoughts the wondrous +gray eyes of Allis Porter. Even after Langdon was gone, the atmosphere +of the room still smirched by unholy underplay, thoughts of the girl +came to Crane, jostling and elbowing the evil conceptions of his +restless mind. Grotesquely incongruous as it was, Crane was actually +in love; but the love flower, pure enough in itself, had rooted in +marvelous ground. His passion was absolutely love, nothing else--love at +first sight. But he was forty, and the methods of that many years must +still govern his actions. Instinctively he felt that he must win the +girl by diplomacy; and Crane's idea of diplomacy was to get a man +irrevocably in his power. If John Porter were indebted to him beyond +redemption, if he practically owned Ringwood, why should he not succeed +with Allis? All his life he had gone on in just that way, breaking men, +for broken men were beyond doubt but potter's clay. + +Langdon bought The Dutchman. What methods he employed Crane took no +pains to discover; in fact, stopped Langdon abruptly when he sought to +enlarge on the difficulties he had overcome in the purchase. The price +was the only item that interested Crane--seven thousand dollars; that +included everything--even the secret service money. + +The horse acquired, Crane had one more move to make; he sent for Jakey +Faust, the Bookmaker. Faust and Crane had a reciprocal understanding. +When the Bookmaker needed financial assistance he got it from the +Banker; when Crane needed a missionary among the other bookmakers, Faust +acted for him. + +“I want to back Lucretia for the 'Eclipse,”' Crane said to the +bookmaker. + +“Lucretia,” ejaculated Faust. “She'll have a rosy time beatin' Dutchy on +their last race. They'll put a better boy up on the colt next time, an' +he ought to come home all by himself” “Yes, a fairish sort of a jock +will have the mount I think-Westley's a good enough boy.” + +“Westley?” came wonderingly from Faust. + +“Yes; Langdon owns The Dutchman now.” + +The Cherub pursed his fat round lips in a soft whistle of enlightenment. +It had staggered him at first that Crane, for whose acumen he had a +profound respect, should have intended such a hazardous gamble; now he +saw light. + +“Then my book is full on the Porter mare?” he said, inquiringly. Crane +nodded his head. + +“An' I lay against the Hanover colt?” + +Again Crane nodded. + +“It's not bookmaking,” continued Faust. + +“I'm not a bookmaker,” retorted Crane. “And see here, Faust,” he +continued, “when you've got my money on the Porter mare--when and how I +leave to you--I want you to cut her price short--do you understand? Make +her go to the post two to one on, if you can; don't forget that.” + +“If the mare goes wrong?” objected Faust. + +“I don't think she will, but you needn't be in a hurry--there's plenty +of time.” + +“What's the limit?” asked Faust. + +“I want her backed down to even money at least,” Crane answered; +“probably ten thousand will do it. At any rate you can go that far.” + +Then for a few days Langdon prepared his new horse for the Eclipse +according to his idea of Crane's idea; and Dixon rounded Lucretia to +in a manner that gladdened John Porter's heart. They knew nothing of +anything but that Lucretia was very fit, that they had Boston Bill's +jockey to ride straight and honest for them, and that with a good price +against the mare they would recoup all their losses. + + + + +VI + + +The day of the race when John Porter went into the betting ring he was +confronted with even money about his mare. If he had read on the ring +blackboard a notice that she was dead, he would not have been more +astonished. He fought his way back to the open of the paddock without +making a bet. + +“Even money!” ejaculated Dixon when his owner told him of the ring +situation, “why, they're crazy. Who's doin' it?” + +“Not the public,” declared Porter, “for I was there just after the first +betting. It must be your friend Boston Bill that has forestalled us; +nobody else knew of the mare's trial.” + +“Not on your life, Mr. Porter; Boston plays fair. D'ye think he could +live at this game if he threw down his friends?” + +“But nobody else even knew that we'd got a good boy for the mare.” + +“It don't make no difference,” curtly answered Dixon; “it's a million +dollars to a penny whistle that Boston hasn't a dollar on yet. Our +agreement was that he'd send in his commission when they were at the +post, an' his word's like your own, sir, as solid as a judge's decision. +It's some one else. There's somebody behind that damned Langdon--he's +not clever enough for all this. D'you know that The Dutchman's runnin' +in Langdon's name to-day?” + +“He is?' + +“Yes; he's supposed to own him.” + +“But what's that got to do with Lucretia's price?” + +“It means that we're goin' to be allowed to win. The other day they +laid against her, an' she got beat; to-day they're holdin' her out, so I +suppose she'll win, but somebody else gets the benefit.” + +“Gad! that Langdon must be a crook,” muttered Porter. “I'm going to +speak to my friend Crane about him again. No honest man should have +horses in his stable.” + +“That they shouldn't,” asserted Dixon. “But we've got our own troubles +to-day. From what I see of this thing, I'd rather back the mare at even +money than I would if she was ten to one. If I'm any judge we're being +buncoed good and plenty.” + +“I think you're right Dixon. I'll go back and have a good bet down on +her at evens.” + +But in five minutes Lucretia's owner was back in the paddock with the +cheerful intelligence that the mare was now three to five. + +“I wouldn't back 'Salvator' among a lot of cart horses at that price,” + commented Dixon; “leave it alone, an' we'll go for the Stake. We're +up against it good and hard; somebody seems to know more about our own +horse than we do ourselves.” + +“I think myself that the gods are angry with us, Dixon,” said Porter +moodily; “and the mortals will be furious, too, whichever way the race +goes. They've backed the little mare at this short price no doubt, an' +if she's beaten they'll howl; if she wins they'll swear my money was on +to-day, and that I pulled her in her last race.” + +John Porter sat in the Grand Stand with his usual companion, Allis, +beside him, as The Dutchman, Lucretia, and the other Eclipse horses +passed down the broad spread of the straight Eclipse course to the +five-and-a-half furlong post. + +Though Porter had missed his betting, he intuitively felt the joy of an +anticipated win. Only a true lover of thoroughbreds can know anything of +the mad tumult of exultation that vibrates the heart strings as a +loved horse comes bravely, gallantly out from the surging throng of his +rivals, peerless and king of them all, stretching his tapered neck with +eager striving, and goes onward, past the tribunal, first and alone, the +leader, the winner, the one to be cheered of the many thousands wrought +to frenzy by his conquest. + +“Surely Lucretia will win to-day, father--don't you think so?” asked +Allis; “I feel that she will.” + +“She's got a big weight up,” he answered. “She's a little bit of a +thing, and it may drive her into the ground coming down the Eclipse +hill. I expect they'll come at a terrible jog, too; they don't often +hang back on that course.” + +Now that the betting worry and the labor of getting an honest boy were +over--that the horses had gone to the post, and that the race rested +with Lucretia herself, Porter's mind had relaxed. Even at the time +of the very struggle itself tension had gone from him; he was in a +meditative mood, and spoke on, weighing the chances, with Allis as +audience. + +“But they'll have to move some to beat the little mare's trial--they'll +make it in record time if they head her, I think.” + +“Isn't the horse that beat her the other day in, too, father?” + +“The Dutchman-yes, but I fancy his owner is backing my mare.” + +“Father!” + +“It wouldn't make any difference, though; she'd beat him anyway. If I'm +any judge, he's short.” + +Allis felt a rustle at her elbow as though someone wished to pass +between the seats. The faintest whiff of stephanotis came to her on the +lazy summer air. Involuntarily she turned her head and looked for the +harsh-voiced woman who had been verily steeped in the aggressive odor +the day of Lauzanne's triumph. Two burly men sat behind her. They, +surely, did not affect perfumery. Higher up the stand her eye +searched--four rows back sat the woman Alan had said was Langdon's +sister. There was no forgetting the flamboyant brilliancy of her +apparel. But the almost fancied zephyr of stephanotis was mingling +with the rustle at her elbow; she turned her head inquiringly in that +direction, and Crane's eyes peeped at her over the stone wall of their +narrow lids. He was standing in the passage just beyond her father, now +looking wistfully at the vacant seat on her left. + +“Good afternoon, Miss Porter--how are you, Porter? May I sit here with +you and see Lucretia win?” + +“Come in, come in!” answered Porter, frankly. + +“I was sitting with some friends higher up in the stand, when I saw you +here, and thought I'd like to make one of the victorious party.” + +Allis knew who the friends were; the clinging touch of stephanotis had +come with him. The discrepancy in Crane's sentiments jarred on Allis. +That other day this woman had been his trainer's sister, recognized for +politic purposes; to-day he had been sitting with “friends.” + +Topping the rail in the distance, just where the course kinked a little +to the left, Allis could see the blur of many colored silks in the +sunlight. Then it seemed to flatten down almost level with the rail, as +the horses broadened out to the earth in racing spread and the riders +clung low to the galloping colts, for they had started. + +“There they come,” said Crane. “What's in the lead, Porter?” Porter +did not answer. A man could have counted thirty before he said, “The +Dutchman's out in front--a length, and they're coming down the hill like +mad.” + +Allis felt her heart sink. Was it to be the same old story--was there +always to be something in front of Lucretia? + +“Where is your mare?” Crane asked. + +His own glass lay idly in his lap. Though he spoke of the race, it was +curious that his eyes were watching the play of Allis's features, as +hope and Despair fought their old human-torturing fight over again in +her heart. + +“Now she's coming!” Porter's voice made Crane jump; he had almost +forgotten the race. To the close-calculating mind it had been settled +days before. The Dutchman would not win, and Lucretia was the best of +the others--why worry? + +They were standing now--everybody was. + +“Now, my beauty, they'll have to gallop,” Porter was saying. They were +close up, and Crane could see that Lucretia had got to the bay colt's +head, and he was dying away. He smiled cynically as he watched Westley +go to the whip on The Dutchman, with Lucretia half a length in the lead. +Most certainly Langdon was an excellent trainer; The Dutchman was just +good enough to last into second place, and Lucretia had won handily. +What a win Crane had had! + +A little smothered gasp distracted his momentary thought of success, +and, turning quickly, he saw tears in a pair of gray eyes that were set +in a smiling face. + +“Like a babe on his neck I was sobbing,” came back to Crane out of the +poem Allis had recited. + +“I congratulate you, Miss Porter,” he said, raising his hat. Then he +turned, and held out his hand to her father, saying: “I'm glad you've +won, Porter--I thought you would. The Dutchman quit when he was +pinched.” + +“It wasn't the colt's fault--he was short,” said Porter. “I shouldn't +like to have horses in that man's stable--he's too good a trainer for +me.” + +There was a marked emphasis on Porter's words; he was trying to give +Crane a friendly hint. + +“You mean it's a case of strawberries?” questioned Crane. + +“Well I know it takes a lot of candles to find a lost quarter,” remarked +Porter, somewhat ambiguously. Then he added, “I must go down to thank +Dixon; I guess this is his annual day for smiling.” + +“I'm coming, too, father,” said Allis; “I want to thank Lucretia, and +give her a kiss, brave little sweetheart.” + +After Allis and her father had left Crane, he sat for a minute or two +waiting for the crowd of people that blocked the passageway after each +race to filter down on the lawn. The way seemed clearer presently, +and Crane fell in behind a knot of loud-talking men. The two of large +proportions who had sat behind Allis, were like huge gate posts jammed +there in the narrow way. As he moved along slowly he presently had +knowledge of a presence at his side--a familiar presence. Raising his +eyes from a contemplation of the heels in front of him, he saw Belle +Langdon. She nodded with patronizing freedom. + +“I lost you,” she said. + +“I was sitting with some friends here,” he explained. + +“Yes, I saw her,” she commented pointedly. + +At that instant one of the stout men in front said, with a bear's snarl, +“Well that's the worst ever; I've seen some jobs in my time, but this +puts it over anything yet.” + +“Didn't you back the little mare?” a thin voice squealed. It was the +'Pout. + +“Back nothin'! The last time out she couldn't untrack herself; an' today +she comes, without any pull in the weight, and wins in a walk from The +Dutchman; and didn't he beat her just as easy the other day?” + +Belle Langdon looked into Crane's face, and her eyes were charged with +a look of reciprocal meaning. Crane winched. How aggressively obnoxious +this half-tutored girl, mistress of many gay frocks, could make herself! +There was an implied crime-partnership in her glance which revolted him. +Dick Langdon must have talked in his own home. Crane's conscience--well, +he hardly had one perhaps, at least it was always subevident; to put +it in another way, the retrospect of his manipulated diplomacy never +bothered him; but this gratuitous sharing in his evil triumph was +disquieting. The malicious glitter of the girl's small black eyes +contrasted strongly with the honest, unaffected look that was forever in +the big tranquil eyes of Allis. + +They were just at the head of the steps, and the Tout was saying to the +fat expostulator: “I could have put you next; I steered a big bettor +on--he won a thousand over the mare. I saw Boston's betting man havin' +an old-time play, an' I knew it was a lead-pipe cinch. He's a sure thing +bettor, he is; odds don't make no difference to him, the shorter the +better--that's when his own boy's got the mount.” + +“It's all right to be wise after the race,” grunted the fat man. + +“G'wan! the stable didn't have a penny on Lucretia last time; an' what +do you suppose made her favorite to-day?” queried the Tout, derisively. +“It took a bar'l of money,” he continued, full of his own logical +deductions, “an' I'll bet Porter cleaned up twenty thousand. He's a +pretty slick cove, is old 'Honest John,' if you ask me.” + +The girl at Crane's side cackled a laugh. “He's funny, isn't he?” she +said, nodding her big plumed hat in the direction of the man-group. + +“He's a talkative fool!” muttered the Banker, shortly. “The steps are +clear on the other side, Miss Langdon, you can get down there. I've got +to go into the paddock; you'll excuse me.” + +Being vicious for the fun of the thing had never appealed to Crane; he +raced as he did everything else--to win. If other men suffered, that +was the play of fate. He never talked about these things himself, almost +disliked to think of them. He turned his back on Belle Langdon and went +down the right-hand steps. On the grass sward at the bottom he stopped +for an instant to look across at the jockey board. + +Three men had just came out of the refreshment bar under the stand. They +were possessed of many things; gold of the bookmakers in their pockets, +and it's ever-attendant exhilaration in their hearts. One of them +had cracked a bottle of wine at the bar, as tribute to the exceeding +swiftness of Lucretia, for he had won plentifully. At that particular +stage there was nothing left but to talk it over, and they talked. +Crane, avaricious, unhesitating in his fighting, devoid of sympathy, was +not of the eavesdropping class, but as he stood there he was as much +a part of the other men's conversation as though he had been a fourth +member of the brotherhood. + +“I tell you none of these trainers ain't in it with a gentleman +owner--when he takes to racin'. When a man of brains takes to runnin' +horses as a profesh, he's gen'rally a Jim Dandy.” It was he of the +wine-opening who let fall these words of wise value. + +“D'you mean Porter, Jim?” asked number two of the trio. + +“Maybe that's his name. An' he put it all over Mister Langdon this +trip.” + +“As how?” queried the other. + +“Last time he runs his mare she's got corns in her feet the whole +journey, an' all the time he owns the winner, Lauzanne, see?--buys him +before they go out. Then Langdon thinks The Dutchman's the goods, an' +buys him at a fancy price--gives a bale of long goods for him--I've got +it straight that he parted with fifteen thousand. Then the gentleman +owner, Honest John, turns the trick with Lucretia, an' makes The +Dutchman look like a sellin' plater.” + +“I guess Langdon'll feel pretty sick,” hazarded number three. + +“I'd been watchin' the game,” continued the wine man, “an' soon's I saw +a move to-day from the wise guys in the ring, I plumped for the mare +'toot sweet.”' + +What an extraordinary thing manipulation was, Crane mused, as he +listened; also how considerable of an ass the public was in its +theoretical wisdom. + +Then the three men drifted away to follow some new toy balloon of +erratic possibilities, and Crane wound through the narrow passage which +led to the paddock. There he encountered Langdon. + +“He didn't run a very good horse, sir,” began the Trainer. + +“I thought otherwise,” replied Crane, measuring the immediate vicinity +of listeners. + +“I had to draw it a bit fine,” declared Langdon, with apologetic +remonstrance. + +“Running second is always bad business, except in a selling race,” + retorted his master. + +“I've got to think of myself,” growled Langdon. “If he'd been beat off, +there'd been trouble; the Stewards have got the other race in their crop +a bit yet.” + +“I'm not blaming you, Langdon, only I was just a trifle afraid that you +were going to beat Porter's mare. He's a friend of mine, and needed a +win badly. I'm not exactly his father confessor, but I'm his banker, +which amounts to pretty much the same thing.” + +“What about the horse, sir,” asked the Trainer. + +“We'll see later on. Let him go easy for the present.” + +“I wonder what he meant by that,” Langdon mused to himself, as Crane +moved away. “He don't make nobody a present of a race for love.” + Suddenly he stumbled upon a solution of the enigma. “Well, I'm damned +if that wasn't slick; he give me the straight tip to leave Porter to +him--to let him do the plannin'; I see.” + + + + +VII + + +Porter was an easy man with his horses. Though he could not afford, +because of his needs, to work out his theory that two-year-olds should +not be raced, yet he utilized it as far as possible by running them at +longer intervals than was general. + +“I'll start the little mare about once more this season,” he told Dixon. +“The babes can't cut teeth, and grow, and fight it out in punishing +races on dusty hay and hard-shelled oats, when they ought to be picking +grass in an open field. She's too good a beast to do up in her young +days. The Assassins made good three-year-olds, and the little mare's +dam, Maid of Rome, wasn't much her first year out--only won once--but as +a three-year-old she won three out of four starts, and the fourth year +never lost a race. Lucretia ought to be a great mare next year if I lay +her by early this season. She's in a couple of stakes at Gravesend and +Sheepshead, and we'll just fit her into the softest spot.” + +“What about Lauzanne?” asked the Trainer, “I'm afraid he's a bad horse.” + +“How is he doing?” + +“He's stale. He's a bad doer--doesn't clean up his oats, an' mopes.” + +“I guess that killing finish with The Dutchman took the life out of him. +That sort of thing often settles a soft-hearted horse for all time.” + +“I don't think it was the race, sir,” Dixon replied; “they just pumped +the cocaine into him till he was fair blind drunk; he must a' swallowed +the bottle. I give him a ball, a bran mash, and Lord knows what all, an' +the poison's workin' out of him. He's all breakin' out in lumps; you'd +think he'd been stung by bees.” + +“I never heard of such a thing,” commented Porter. “A man that would +dope a two-year-old ought to be ruled off, sure.” + +“I think you oughter make a kick, sir,” said Dixon, hesitatingly. + +“I don't. When I squeal, Andy, it'll be when there's nothing but +the voice left. I bought a horse from a man once just as he stood. +I happened to know the horse, and said I didn't want any +inspection--didn't want to see him, but bought him, as I say, just as +he stood. When I went to the stable to get him he wasn't worth much, +Andy--he was dead. Perhaps I might have made a kick about his not +standing up, but I didn't.” + +“Well, sir, I'm thinkin' Lauzanne's a deuced sight worse'n a dead horse; +he'll cost more tryin' to win with him.” + +“I dare say you're right, but he can gallop a bit.” + +“When he's primed.” + +“No dope for me, Andy. I never ran a dope horse and never will--I'm too +fond of them to poison them.” + +“I'll freshen him up a bit, sir, and we'll give him a try in a day or +two. Would you mind puttin' him in a sellin' race?--he cost a bit.” + +“He couldn't win anything else, and if anybody wants to claim him they +can.” + +“I thought of starting Diablo in that mile handicap; he's in pretty +light. He's about all we've got ready.” + +“All right, Dixon,” Porter replied. “It may be that we've broke our bad +luck with the little mare.” + +They were standing in the paddock during this conversation. It was in +the forenoon; Dixon had come over to the Secretary's office to see about +some entries before twelve o'clock. When the Trainer had finished his +business, the two men walked across the course and infield to Stable 12, +where Dixon had his horses. As they passed over the “Withers Course,” as +the circular track was called, Dixon pointed to the dip near the lower +far turn. + +“It's a deuced funny thing,” he said, speaking reminiscently, “but that +little hollow there settles more horses than the last fifty yards of +the finish; it seems to make the soft ones remember that they're runnin' +when they get that change, an' they stop. I bet Diablo'll quit right +there, he's done it three or four times.” + +“He was the making of a great horse as a two-year-old, wasn't he, Andy?” + +“They paid a long price for him, if that's any line; but I think he +never was no good. It don't matter how fast a horse is if he won't try.” + +“I've an idea Diablo'll be a good horse yet,” mused Porter. “You can't +make a slow horse gallop, but there's a chance of curing a horse's +temper by kind treatment. I've noticed that a squealing pig generally +runs like the devil when he takes it into his head.” + +“Diablo's a squealing pig if there ever was one,” growled Dixon. + +They reached the track stable, and, as if by a mutual instinct, the two +men walked on till they stood in front of Lauzanne's stall. + +“He's a good enough looker, ain't he?” commented Dixon, as he dipped +under the door bar, went into the stall, and turned the horse about. +“He's the picture of his old sire, Lazzarone,” he continued, looking the +horse over critically; “an' a damned sight bigger rogue, though the +old one was bad enough. Lazzarone won the Suburban with blinkers on his +head, bandages on his legs, an' God knows what in his stomach. He was +second in the Brooklyn that same year. I've always heard he was a mule, +an' I guess this one got it all, an' none of the gallopin'.” + +“How does he work with the others?” queried Porter. + +“Runs a bit, an' then cuts it--won't try a yard. Of course he's sick +from the dope, an' the others are a bit fast for him. If we put him in a +sellin' race, cheap, he'd have a light weight, an' might do better.” + +Porter walked on to Lucretia's stall, and the trainer continued in a +monologue to Lauzanne: “You big slob! you're a counterfeit, if there +ever was one. But I'll stand you a drink just to get rid of you; I'll +put a bottle of whisky inside of your vest day after to-morrow, an' if +you win p'raps somebody'll buy you.” + +Lauzanne did not answer-it's a way horses have. It is doubtful if his +mind quite grasped the situation, even. That neither Dixon, nor +Langdon, nor the jockey boys understood him he knew--not clearly, +but approximately enough to increase his stubbornness, to rouse his +resentment. They had not even studied out the pathology of his descent +sufficiently well to give him a fair show, to train him intelligently. +They remembered that his sire, Lazzarone, had a bad temper; but they +forgot that he was a stayer, not 'given to sprinting. Even Lauzanne's +dam, Bric-a-brac, was fond of a long route, was better at a +mile-and-a-half than five furlongs. + +Lauzanne knew what had come to him of genealogy, not in his mind so +much as in his muscles. They were strong but sluggish, not active but +non-tiring. Langdon had raced Lauzanne with sprinting colts, and when +they ran away from him at the start he had been unequal to the task of +overhauling them in the short two-year-old run of half-a-mile. Then the +wise man had said that Lauzanne's courage was at fault; the jockeys +had called it laziness, and applied the whip. And out of all this +uselessness, this unthinking philosophy, the colt had come with a soured +temper, a broken belief in his masters--“Lauzanne the Despised.” + +Porter's trust that his ill luck had been changed by a win was a faith +of short life, for Diablo was most emphatically beaten in his race. + +And then came the day of forlorn hope, the day of Lauzanne's disgrace, +inasmuch as it de-graduated him into the selling-platter class. + +Bad horse as Langdon knew Lauzanne to be, it occurred to him that Porter +had planned a clever coup. He had an interview with Crane over the +subject, but his master did not at all share the Trainer's belief. + +“What price would Lucretia, or The Dutchman, be in with the same lot?” + Langdon asked, argumentatively. + +“About one to ten,” Crane replied. “But the Chestnut's beating them had +no bearing on this race. From what I see of Mr. Dixon, I don't at all +class him with you as a trainer--he hasn't the same resource.” + +Langdon stood silent, sullenly turning over in his mind this doubtful +compliment. + +“I'm not sure,” continued the Banker, “but that having stuck Porter with +Lauzanne, you shouldn't give him a hint about--well, as to what course +of preparation would make Lauzanne win a race for him. The ordinary diet +of oats is hardly stimulating enough for such a sluggish animal.” + +Langdon frowned. If Crane had not been quite so strong, quite so full of +unexpressed power, he would have rebelled at the assertion that he had +stuck Porter; but he answered, and his voice struggled between asperity +and deprecation, “There ain't no call for me to give that stable any +pointers; Porter put it to me pretty straight that the horse had been +helped.” + +“And what did you say?” blandly inquired Crane. + +“Told him to go to hell.” + +This wasn't exactly truthful as we remember the interview, but its +terseness appealed to Crane, and he smiled as he said: “Porter probably +won't take your advice, Langdon; he's stubborn enough at times. And even +if he does know that--that--Lauzanne' requires special treatment, he +won't indulge him--he's got a lot of old-fashioned ideas about racing. +So you see Lauzanne is a bad betting proposition.” + +After Langdon had left Crane's thoughts dwelt on the subject they had +just discussed. + +“From a backer's point of view Lauzanne is certainly bad business,” he +mused; “but the public will reason just as Langdon does. And what's bad +for the backers is good for the layers; I must see Faust.” + +“You had better make a book to beat Lauzanne,” Crane said to Jakey +Faust, just before business had commenced in the ring that afternoon. + +The Cherub stared in astonishment; his eyes opened wide. That was +nearly the limit of his fat little face's expression, no matter what the +occasion. + +“You don't own him now, do you, sir?” he blurted out, with unthinking +candor. + +“I do not.” + +“He's dropped into a soft spot--he rates best in the percentage card.” + +“Figures sometimes lie,” commented Crane. + +“Every handicapper tips him to win.” + +“They're all broke because of their knowledge.” + +“The books'll mark him up first choice.” + +“That's why it will be worth while playing the field to beat him.” + +“He's in with a gang of muts to-day, an' he beat some cracker-jacks last +time out.” + +“You were hypnotized that day, Mr. Faust; so was the Judge. Lauzanne +didn't beat anything.” + +“Didn't beat--what the hell--didn't the Chestnut get the verdict?” + +“He did; but--” and Crane looked at Faust, with patient toleration of +his lack of perception. + +The Cherub waited for an explanation of these contradictory remarks. But +he might have waited indefinitely--Crane had quite finished. The Cherub +raised his little round eyes, that were like glass alleys, green and red +and blue-streaked, to the other's face inquiringly, and encountered a +pair of penetrating orbs peering at him over some sort of a mask--the +face that sustained the eyes was certainly a mask--as expressionless. +Then it came to Jakey Faust that there was nothing left to do but fill +the Lauzanne column in his book with the many bets that would come his +way and make much money. + +Crane watched Lauzanne go lazily, sluggishly down to the post for +his race. He knew the horse's moods; the walk of the Chestnut was the +indifferent stroll of a horse that is thinking only of his dinner. + +“They've given him nothing,” the Banker muttered to himself; “the +heavy-headed brute won't try a yard. But he'll fight the boy when he +tries to ride him out.” + +The whisky that Dixon had surreptitiously given Lauzanne had been as +inefficacious as so much ginger beer; and in the race Lauzanne drew +back out of the bustle and clash of the striving horses as quickly as +he could. In vain his jockey used whip and spur; Lauzanne simply put his +ears back, switched his tail, and loafed along, a dozen lengths behind +his field. + +In the straight he made up a little of the lost ground, but he was +securely out of the money at the finish. Fate still sat and threw the +dice as he had for many moons--a deuce for John Porter, and a six for +Philip Crane. + + + + +VIII + + +It was late autumn; the legitimate racing season had closed. In August +Porter had taken his horses back to Ringwood for the winter. + +When a man strives against Fate, when realization laughs mockingly +at his expectations, there comes to him a time when he longs for a +breathing spell, when he knows that he must rest, and wait until the +wheel of life, slow-turning, has passed a little through the groove +of his existence. John Porter had been beaten down at every point. +Disastrous years come to all men, whether they race horses or point the +truthful way, and this year had been but a series of disappointments to +the master of Ringwood. After Lucretia's win in the Eclipse, Porter +did not land another race. Lucretia caught cold and went off. He tried +Lauzanne twice again, but the Chestnut seemed thoroughly soured. Now +he was back at Ringwood, a dark cloud of indebtedness hanging over +the beautiful place, and prospect of relief very shadowy. If Lucretia +wintered well and grew big and strong she might extricate him from +his difficulties by winning one or two of the big races the following +summer. About any of the other horses there was not even this much of +promise. + +Thoroughly distrusting Lauzanne, embittered by his cowardice, Porter +had given him away--but to Allis. Strangely enough, the girl had taken +a strong liking to the son of Lazzarone; it may have been because of +the feeling that she was indirectly responsible for his presence +at Ringwood. Allis Porter's perceptions had been developed to an +extraordinary degree. All her life she had lived surrounded by +thoroughbreds, and her sensitive nature went out to them, in their +courage and loyalty, in a manner quite beyond possibility in a +practical, routine-following horseman. To her they were almost human; +the play of their minds was as attractive and interesting as the +development of their muscles was to a trainer. When the stable had been +taken back to Ringwood, she had asked for Lauzanne as a riding horse. + +“I'm going to give him away,” her father had replied; “I can't sell +him--nobody would buy a brute with such a reputation.” This word brought +to Porter's mind his chief cause of resentment against the Chestnut. +The public having got into its head that Porter was playing coups, +generously suggested that he was pulling Lauzanne to get him in some big +handicap light. + +“I won't feed such a skate all winter,” he declared angrily, after a +little pause. + +“Well, give him to me, father,” the girl had pleaded; “I am certain that +he'll make good some day; you'll see that he'll pay you for keeping your +word.” + +As Allis rode Lauzanne she discovered many things about the horse; +that instead of being a stupid, morose brute, his intelligence was +extraordinary, and, with her at least, his temper perfect. + +Allis's relationship with her father was unusual. They were chums; in +all his trouble, in all his moments of wavering, buffeted by the waves +of disaster, Allis was the one who cheered him, who regirt him in +his armor:--Allis, the slight olive-faced little woman, with the big, +fearless Joan-of-Arc eyes. + +“You'll see what we'll do next summer, Dad,” she said cheerily. “You'll +win with Lucretia as often as you did with her mother; and I'll win with +Lauzanne. We'll just keep quiet till spring, then we'll show them.” + +Langdon's horses, so silently controlled by Philip Crane, Banker, had +been put in winter quarters at Gravesend, where Langdon had a cottage. +Crane's racing season had been as successful as the Master of +Ringwood's had been disastrous. He had won a fair-class race with The +Dutchman--ostensibly Langdon's horse--and then, holding true to his +nature, which was to hasten slowly, threw him out of training and +deliberately planned a big coup for the next year. The colt was engaged +in several three-year-old stakes, and Crane set Langdon to work to find +out his capabilities. As his owner expected, he showed them in a severe +trial gallop the true Hanover staying-power. + +Although Crane had said nothing about it at the time, he had his eye on +the Eastern Derby when he commissioned Langdon to purchase this gallant +son of Hanover. It was a long way ahead to look, to lay plans to win a +race the following June, but that was the essence of Crane's existence, +careful planning. He loved it. He was a master at it. And, after all, +given a good stayer, such as he had in The Dutchman, the mile-and-a-half +run of the Derby left less to chance than any other stake he could have +pitched upon; the result would depend absolutely upon the class and +stamina of the horses. No bad start could upset his calculations, no +little interference in the race could destroy his horse's chance if he +were good enough to win. The Dutchman's races as a two-year-old would +not warrant his being made a favorite, and Langdon, properly directed, +was clever enough to see that The Dutchman was at a comfortable price +for betting purposes. + +Many things had crowded into this year of Crane's life. The bank, doing +but a modest business always, was running so smoothly that it required +little attention from the owner. This was one reason why he had thrown +so much subtle energy into his racing; its speculation appealed to him. +The plucking he had received as a moneyed youth rankled in his heart. +The possession of such a faithful jackal as Langdon carried him to +greater lengths than he would have gone had the obnoxious details been +subject to his own execution. Though conscienceless, he was more or less +fastidious. Had a horse broken down and become utterly useless, he would +have ordered him to be destroyed without experiencing any feeling of +compassion--he would have dismissed the matter entirely from his mind +with the passing of the command; but rather than destroy the horse +himself, he probably would have fed him. And so it was with men. If they +were driven to the wall because of his plans, that was their own look +out; it did not trouble Philip Crane. + +Porter he had known simply in a business way. From the first he had felt +that Ringwood would pass out of its owner's possession, and he had begun +to covet it. The Lauzanne race had been Langdon's planning altogether. +Crane, cold-blooded as he was, would not have robbed a man he had +business dealings with deliberately. He had told his trainer to win, +if possible, a race with Lauzanne, and get rid of him. That Langdon's +villainous scheme had borne evil fruit for John Porter was purely a +matter of chance selection. There was a Mephistophelean restitution in +not striving to wrest the Eclipse from Lucretia with The Dutchman. + +And now, in this year, had come the entirely new experience of an +affection--his admiration for Allis Porter. It conflicted with every +other emotion that governed his being. All his life he had been +selfish--considering only Philip Crane, his mind unharrassed by anything +but business obstacles in his ambitious career. Love for this quiet, +self-contained girl, unadorned by anything but the truth, and honesty, +and fearlessness that were in her big steadfast eyes, had come upon him +suddenly and with an assertive force that completely mastered him. By +a mere chance he had heard Allis give her recitation, “The Run of +Crusader,” in the little church at Brookfield. Crane was not an +agnostic, but he had interested himself little in church matters; and +the Reverend Dolman's concert, that was meant to top down many weeds +of debt that were choking the church, had claimed him simply because an +evening in Brookfield had come to hang heavily on his hands. Now when +the Reverend Dolman received Philip Crane's check for fifty dollars the +next day, to be applied to the church encumbrance, he sought to allay +his surprise by attributing the gift to his own special pleading that +evening, of course backed up by Providence. If anybody had stated that +the mainspring of the gift had been the wicked horse-racing poem of +their denunciation he would have been scandalized and full of righteous +disbelief. It is quite likely that even Crane would have denied that +Allis's poem had inspired him to the check; but nevertheless it had. + +The world of feeling and sympathy and goodness that had hung in her +voice had set a new window in his soul slightly ajar--so slightly ajar +that even now, months afterward, the lovelight was only beginning to +stream through. When love comes to a man at forty he is apt to play the +game very badly indeed; he turns it into a very anxious business, and +moves through the light-tripping measure with the pedantic dignity of +a minuet dancer. But Philip Crane was not given to making mistakes; he +knew that, like Crusader, “His best racing days (in the love stakes) +were over”--especially where the woman was but a girl. So he sat down +and planned it all out as he planned to win the Brooklyn Derby months +later. And all the time he was as sincerely in love as if he had +blundered into many foolishness; but his love making was to be +diplomatic. Even now all the gods of Fate stood ranged on his side; +Allis's brother was in his bank, more or less dependent upon him; +Ringwood itself was all but in the bank; he stood fairly well with John +Porter, and much better with Allis's mother, for already he had begun to +ingratitate himself with Mrs. Porter. He would cast from the shoulders +of the Reverend Dolman a trifle more of the load he was carrying. He +would send the reverend gentleman another check. + +Why he should think it necessary to prepare his suit with so much +subtlety he hardly knew; in all reason he should be considered a fair +match for Allis Porter. He was not a bad man as the world understood +him; he did not profess Christianity, but, on the other hand, his life +was extremely respectable; he did not drink; he was not given to +profane language; even in racing his presence seemed to lend an air of +respectability to the sport, and it was generally supposed that he raced +purely for relaxation. In truth, it seemed to him that his marriage with +Allis would be a deuced good thing for the Porters. + +In actuality there were just two things that stood in the way--two +things which his position and wealth could not obviate--his age, and the +Porter pride. If Porter had not been dubbed “Honest John” early in life, +he might have been saddled with “Proud Porter” later on. The pride +had come up out of old Kentucky with all the other useless things--the +horse-racing, and the inability to make money, and the fancy for keeping +a promise. Something whispered to Crane that Allis would never come to +him simply out of love; it might be regard, esteem, a desire to please +her parents, a bowing to the evident decree of fate. Perhaps even the +very difficulty of conquest made Crane the more determined to win, and +made him hasten slowly. + + + + +IX + +As a rule few visitors went to Ringwood. + +John Porter had been too interested in his horses and his home life to +care much for social matters. Mrs. Porter was a home-body, too, caring +nothing at all for society--at best there was but little of it in +Brookfield--except where it was connected with church work. Perhaps that +was one reason why Allis had grown so close into her father's life. It +was a very small, self-contained household. + +Mike Gaynor had become attached to the staff at Ringwood this winter as +a sort of assistant trainer to Porter. Dixon only trained the Ringwood +horses during the racing season, Porter always supervising them in +winter quarters. Perhaps it was Porter's great cloud of evil fortune +which had cast its sinister influence over Mike because of his sympathy +for the master of Ringwood; certain it is that the autumn found him +quite “on his uppers,” as he graphically described his financial +standing. An arrangement was made by which Mike's disconsolate horses +were fed at Ringwood, and he took care of both strings. This delighted +Allis, for she had full confidence in Gaynor's integrity and good sense. + +The early winter brought two visitors to Ringwood--Crane, who came quite +often, and Mortimer, who went out to the farm a couple of times with +Alan. + +George Mortimer might be described as an angular young man. His face, +large-featured, square-jawed, and bold-topped by broad forehead, +suggested the solemnity Alan had found so trying. Of course a young man +of his make-up was sure to have notions, and Mortimer's mind was knotted +with them; there seemed no soft nor smooth places in his timber. That +was why he had reasoned with the butcher by energetically grasping his +windpipe the evening that worthy gentleman had expressed himself so +distastefully over Allis Porter's contribution to the Reverend Dolman's +concert. Perhaps a young man of more subtle grace would have received +some grateful recognition for this office, but the matter had been quite +closed out so far as Mortimer was concerned; Alan tried to refer to it +afterward, but had been curtly stopped. + +George Mortimer's chief notion was that work was a great thing, +seemingly the chief end of man. Another notion almost equally +prominent--he had derived it from his mother--was, that all forms +of gambling were extremely bad business. First and foremost in this +interdiction stood horse racing. The touch of it that hung like a small +cloud over the Brookfield horizon had inspired Mrs. Mortimer, as it had +other good people of the surrounding country, with the restricted +idea that those who had to do with thoroughbred horses were simply +gamblers--betting people. Her home was in Emerson, a dozen miles from +Brookfield. + +Quite paradoxically, if Allis Porter had not given “The Run of +Crusader”--most certainly a racing poem--in the little church, this +angular young man with stringent ideas about running horses probably +would have never visited Ringwood. Something of the wide sympathy that +emanated from her as she told of the gallant horse's death struck into +his strong nature, and there commenced to creep into his thoughts at +odd intervals a sort of gratuitous pity that she should be inextricably +mixed up with race horses. His original honesty of thought and the +narrowness of his tuition were apt to make him egotistically sure +that the things which appealed to him as being right were incapable of +variation. + +At first he had liked Alan Porter, with no tremendous amount of +unbending; now, because of the interest Allis had excited in him, the +liking began to take on a supervisory form, and it was not without a +touch of irritation in his voice that Alan informed his sister that he +had acquired a second father, and with juvenile malignity attributed the +incumbrance to her seductive influence. + +With all these cross purposes at work it can be readily understood that +Mortimer's visits to Ringwood were not exactly rose-leaved. In truth, +the actors were all too conventionally honest, too unsocialized, to +subvert their underlying motives. Allis, with her fine intuition, would +have unearthed Mortimer's disapprobation of racing--though he awkwardly +strove to hide it--even if Alan had not enlarged upon this point. This +knowledge constrained the girl, even drove her into rebellion. She took +his misunderstanding as a fault, almost as a weakness, and shocked +the young man with carefully prepared racing expressions; reveled with +strange abandon in talks of gallops, and trials, and work-outs, and +breathers; threw ironmouthed horses, pullers, skates, and divers other +equine wonders at his head until he revolted in sullen irritation. In +fact they misunderstood each other finely; in truth their different +natures were more in harmony two miles apart, the distance that lay +between the bank and Ringwood. + +By comparison Crane's visits to Ringwood were utopianly complacent. +Strangely enough, Mrs. Porter, opposed to racing as she was, came +quite readily under the glamor of his artistic unobtrusiveness. He had +complete mastery over the science of waiting. His admission to the good +lady of a passing interest in horses was an apology; there seemed such +an utter absence of the betting spirit that the recreation it afforded +him condoned the offense. + +There was this difference between the two men, the old and the young: +Crane knew exactly why he went there, while Mortimer had asked himself +more than once, coming back from Ringwood feeling that he had been +misunderstood--perhaps even laughed at--why he had gone there at all. +He had no definite plan, even desire; he was impelled to it out of some +unrecognized force. It was because of these conditions that the one +potter turned his images so perfectly, and the other formed only poor, +distorted, often broken, dishes of inferior clay. + +It stood in the reason of things, however, that Mortimer, in spite of +his uncompromising attitude toward racing, should be touched by its +tentacles if he visited at Ringwood. + +His first baptism came with much precipitancy on the occasion of his +fourth visit to the Porters. He had driven out with Alan to spend his +Saturday afternoon at Ringwood. An afternoon is not exactly like an +evening in the matter of entertaining a guest; something must be done; +cigars, or music, or small chatter are insufficient. If one is on +the western slope of life's Sierra perhaps a nap may kill the time +profitably enough, but this was a case where a young man had to +be entertained, a young man difficult of entertainment under the +circumstances. + +Alan had some barbarous expedition of juvenile interest on hand; the +unearthing of a woodchuck, or it might have been a groundhog, in a back +field; but Allis would not become a party to the destruction of animal +life for the sport of the thing. She had a much better programme +mapped out for Mortimer. Some way she felt that if he could see +the thoroughbred horses in their stalls, could come to know them +individually, casually though it might be, he would perhaps catch a +glimmer of their beautiful characters. So she asked Mr. Mortimer to go +and have a look at her pets. Alan would none of it; he was off to his +woodchuck or groundhog. + +“I'm glad you don't want to go and kill anything,” she said, turning +gratefully to Mortimer when he refused Alan's invitation, saying that +he preferred to look at the horses. “I'll show you Diablo, and Lucretia, +and Lauzanne the Despised--he's my horse, and I'm to win a big race +with him next year. Gaynor is down at the stables; and I'll give you a +tip”--Mortimer winced--“if you want to stand well in with Mike, let him +suspect that you're fond of horses.” + +At the stable door they met Mike Gaynor. Mike usually vacillated between +a condition of chronic anger at somebody or something, and an Irish +drollery that made people who were sick at heart laugh. Allis was as +familiar with his moods as she was with the phases of Lauzanne's temper. +On Mike's face was a map of disaster; the disaster might be trivial or +great. That something was wrong the girl knew, but whether it was that a +valuable horse was dead, or that a mouse had eaten a hole in a grain +bag she could only discover by questioning Gaynor, for there were never +degrees of expressed emotion in Mike's facile countenance; either a deep +scowl or a broad grin were the two normal conditions. + +“What's the matter, Mike?” questioned Allis. + +“Mather, is it?” began Gaynor, “it's just this, Miss Allis; if yer +father thinks I'm goin' to stand by an' see good colts spiled in their +timper just because a rapscallion b'y has got the evil intints av ould +Nick himself, thin he's mistook, that's all.” + +“Who is it Mike--Shandy?” + +“That's him, Miss. He's the divil on wheels, bangin' thim horses about +as though he was King Juba.” + +Allis saw that Gaynor was indeed angry. + +“I'll speak to father about him, Mike,” she answered; “I won't have the +horses abused.” + +“Mark my words, Miss Allis, Diablo'll take it out of his hide some +day. The b'y'll monkey wit' him once too often, then there'll be no b'y +left.” + +“May we see the horses, Mike--are they having their lie-down, or +anything?” + +“Not yet, Miss; they're gettin' the rub-down now; don't ye hear Diablo +bastin' the boords av his stall wid that handy off hind-foot av his?” + +“There's a filly for yer life,” exclaimed the Trainer, rapturously, +as he opened gently the door of Lucretia's box stall. “There's the +straightest filly iver looked through a halter,” he continued, putting +his arm with the gentleness of a woman over the brown mare's beautiful +neck. “Come here, ould girl,” he said, coaxingly, as he drew the +haltered head toward the visitors. + +Mortimer looked with interest at the big, comfortable box stall, +littered a foot deep with bright, clean, yellow straw. How contented and +at home the mare appeared! It seemed almost a complete recompense, this +attentive care, for the cruelty he imagined race horses suffered. + +“You don't tie her up?” he asked. + +“Tie her up!” ejaculated Mike, a fine Celtic scorn in his voice; “I'd +rather tie up a wife--if I had one,” he added by way of extenuation. +“No man would tie up a mare worth tin thousand dollars if she's worth a +cent, an' take chances av her throwin' hersilf in the halter; av coorse +she's hitched fer a bit after a gallop while she's havin' a rub-down, +but that's all.” + +Lucretia's black nozzle came timidly forward, and the soft, velvety +upper lip snuggled Allis's cheek. + +“She knows ye, Miss,” said Mike. “That's the way wit' horses--they're +like children; they know friends, an' ye can't fool thim. Now she's +sizin' ye up, Mister,” as Lucretia sniffed suspiciously at Mortimer's +chin, keeping a wary eye on him. “She'll know if ye like horses or not, +an' I'd back her opinion agin fifty min's oaths.” + +Allis watched with nervous interest the investigation. She almost felt +that if Lucretia liked her companion--well, it would be something less +to dislike in him, at all events. Lucretia seemed turning the thing over +in her mind, trying to think it out. There was some mystery about this +new comer. Evidently she did not distrust him entirely, else she would +have put her ears back a trifle and turned away with a little impatient +warning shake of her delicate head. She always turned in that cross +manner from Shandy, the stable boy. She had also discovered that the +visitor was not completely a horseman; she did not investigate his +pockets, nor put her head over his shoulder, as she would have done +with Mr. Porter or Mike, or even with one who was a stranger, as was +Mortimer, had she felt the unmistakable something which conveyed to her +mind that he was of the equine brotherhood. + +“Lucretia has found you out,” said Allis, presently. “You do like +horses; she knows it.” + +“Oh, I like animals, I don't deny,” Mortimer answered, “but I know very +little about them--nothing about race horses.” + +Mike frowned and looked disparagingly at the visitor. “He must be a +quare duck,” he muttered to himself. That a man should know nothing of +thoroughbreds was perfectly inexplicable to Gaynor. He knew many racing +men whose knowledge of horseflesh was a subject for ridicule, but then +they never proclaimed their ignorance, rather posed as good judges than +otherwise. + +But with startling inconsistency Mike explained: “There's many like ye, +sir, only they don't know it, that's all; the woods is full av thim. +Would ye like to give the filly a carrot, Miss?” he added, turning to +Allis. “I'll bring some.” + +When he returned Allis gave one to Lucretia, then they passed to the +next stall. + +“That's a useful horse,” explained the Trainer; “he's won some races in +his 'time.” + +“What's his name?” asked Mortimer. + +“Game Boy. He's by the Juggler. Ye remember him, don't ye?” + +Mortimer was forced to confess that he didn't quite remember Juggler. + +“That's strange,” commented Mike, turning the big bay about with evident +pride; “he won the 'Belmont,' at Jerome Park, did the ould Juggler. Ye +must av heerd av that.” + +Mortimer compromised by admitting that he had probably forgotten it. + +“Well, I haven't,” declared Mike, reproachfully. “If Game Boy stands a +prep this summer ye'll hear from him,” he confided to Mortimer, as they +left the stall. “Jist remember Game Boy; see, ye can't forget--a big bay +wit' a white nigh fore leg, an' a bit rat-tailed. Yes, Game Boy's all +right,” monologued Mike; “but here's a better; this is Diablo. He must +have tabasco in his head, fer he's got the divil's own timper. But he +can gallop a bit; he can go like a quarterhorse, an' stay till the cows +come home; but he's like Lauzanne acrost yonder, he's got a bee in his +bonnet an' it takes a divil to ride him.” + +“That's hard on me, Mike,” expostulated Allis. “You see, Lauzanne goes +better with me in the saddle than any of the boys,” she explained to +Mortimer. + +“The divil or angels, I was going to say, Miss, when ye interrupted me,” + gallantly responded Mike. + +Diablo's head was tied high in a corner of the stall, for Shandy, the +boy, was hard at work on him with a double hand of straw, rubbing him +down. The boy kept up a peculiar whistling noise through his parted lips +as he rubbed, and Diablo snapped impatiently at the halter-shank with +his great white teeth as though he resented the operation. + +Mortimer gazed with enthusiasm at the shining black skin that glistened +like satin, or watered silk. Surely there was excuse for people loving +thoroughbreds. It was an exhilaration even to look at that embodiment +of physical development. It was an animate statue to the excellence +of good, clean living. Somehow or other Mortimer felt that though the +living creature before him was only a horse, yet nature's laws were +being adhered to, and the result was a reward of physical perfection and +enjoyment of life. He began to feel that a man, or even a woman--it was +the subtle presence of the woman at his side that made him involuntarily +interject this clause into his inaudible thoughts--yes, even a woman +of high moral attributes might find the most healthy form of interested +amusement in watching the superb development of horses that were +destined for no other purpose than to race and beget sons and daughters +of the same wondrous stamina and courage and speed. His detestation of +racing had been in reality an untutored prejudice; he had looked upon +but one phase of the question, and that quite casually, as it introduced +itself into his life by means of sensational betting incidents in the +daily papers. To him all forms of betting were highly disastrous--most +immoral. But here, like a revelation, came to him, in all its +fascination, the perfect picture of the animal, which he was forced to +admit stood next to man in its adornment of God's scheme of creation. + +As Shandy swept his wisp of straw along the sensitive skin of Diablo's +stomach, the latter shrunk from the tickling sensation, and lashed out +impatiently with a powerful hind leg as though he would demolish his +tormentor. + +“He's not cross at all just,” explained Mike; “he's bluffin', that's +all. Shure a child could handle him if they'd only go the right way +about it.” + +Then he leaned over and whispered in an aside to the visitors--“Bot' +t'umbs up!” (this was Mike's favorite oath). “Diablo hates that b'y an' +some day he'll do him up, mark my words.” + +“Here, Shandy,” he cried, turning to the rubber, “loose the Black's head +an' turn him 'round.” + +Mortimer almost shrank with apprehension for the boy, for Diablo's ears +were back on his flat, tapering neck, and his eyes looking back at them, +were all white, save for the intense blue-shimmered pupil. To Mortimer +that look was the incarnation of evil hatred. But the boy unsnapped +the halter-shank without hesitation, and Diablo, more inquisitive than +angry, came mincingly toward them, nodding his head somewhat defiantly, +as much as to say that the nature of the interview would depend +altogether upon their good behavior. + +“See that!” ejaculated Mike, a pleasant smile of satisfaction rippling +the furrows of his face; “see how he picks out the best friend the +stable's got.” + +Diablo had stretched his lean head down, and was trying to nibble with +gentle lip the carrot Allis held half hidden behind her skirt. There +was none of Lucretia's timidity in Diablo's approach; it was full of an +assumption of equality, of trust in the intentions of the stranger who +had come with the mistress he hart faith in. + +“They're all like that when Miss Allis is about,” explained Mike; “there +never would be a bad horse if the stable-b'ys worked the same way. Tie +him up, Shandy,” he added. “Even the jockeys spoil their mounts,” Gaynor +continued in a monotone; “the horse'll gallop better for women any +time--they treat thim gentler, that's why.” + +“Most interesting,” hazarded Mortimer, feeling some acknowledgment of +Mike's information was due. + +“It's the trut'. Miss Allis'd take Lauzanne, or the Black, or the little +mare, an' get a better race out av thim than any jock I've seen ridin' +hereabout.” + +“Mike,” exclaimed Allis, “you flatter me; you almost make me wish that I +were a jockey.” + +“Well, bot' t'umbs up! Ye'd av made a good un, Miss, an' that's no +disrespect to ye, I'm sayin'.” + +Mortimer smiled condescendingly. Allis's quick eye caught his expression +of amused discontent; it angered her. Mike's praise had been practically +honest. To him a good jockey was the embodiment of courage and honesty +and intelligence; but she knew that to Mortimer it simply meant a +phase of life he considered quite outside the pale of recognized +respectability. Somehow she felt that Mike's encomium had lowered her +perceptibly in the opinion of this man whom she herself affected to look +upon with but toleration. + +They visited all the other stalls, eight of them, and listened to Mike's +eulogies on the inmates. Coming down the other side of the passage, the +last occupied box stall contained Lauzanne. + +“Miss Porter'll tell ye about this wan,” said Mike, diplomatically. +“He's shaped like a good horse, an' his sire, old Lazzarone, landed many +a purse, an' the 'Suburban,' too--won it on three legs, fer he was clean +gone in his pins, I'll take me oath to that. He was a good horse--whin +he liked. Perhaps Lauzanne'll do the same some day, fer all I know.” + +There was such a tone of doubt in the Trainer's voice that even Mortimer +noticed it. Neither was there much praise of the big Chestnut; evidently +Mike did not quite approve of him, though hesitating to say so in the +presence of his mistress. + +“Yes, Lauzanne is my horse,” volunteered Allis. “I even ride him in all +his work now, since he took to eating the stable-boy.” + +“And you're not afraid?” asked Mortimer. + +For answer the girl slipped quietly into the stall, and going up beside +the Chestnut, who was standing sulkily with his head in the corner of +his box, took him by the ear and turned him gently around. + +“He's just a quiet-mannered chap, that's all,” she said. “He's a +big, lazy, contented old boy,” and she laid her cheek against his +fawn-colored nozzle. “You see,” she explained, “he's got more brains +than any of the other horses, and when he's abused he knows it.” + +“But he's grateful when he's kindly treated,” commented Mortimer. + +“Yes; that's why I like horses better than men.” + +“Oh!” the exclamation slipped from Mortimer's lips. + +“Most men, I mean,” she explained. “Of course, father, and Alan, and--” + she hesitated; “you see,” she went on to explain, “the number of my men +friends is limited; but except these, and Mike, and Mr. Dixon, I like +the horses best.” + +“I almost believe you're right, Miss Porter,” concurred Mortimer; “I've +known men myself that I fancy were much worse than even Diablo.” + +“Mike thinks Lauzanne is a bad horse,” the girl said, changing the +subject, “but he'll win a big race this coming season. You just keep +your eye on Lauzanne. Here's your carrot, old chap,” she said, stroking +the horse's neck, “and we must go if we're to have that drive. Will you +hitch the gray to the buggy for us, Mike?” she asked of Gaynor, as they +came out of the stable, “we'll wait here.” + +As Mike started off there came to their ears a sound of turmoil from +Diablo's box; impatient kicks against the boards from the horse, and +smothered imprecations from the boy. + +“Hear that fiend!” the girl exclaimed, and there was wrath in her voice. + +“He does seem a bad horse,” concurred Mortimer. + +“I didn't mean Diablo; it's the boy. It's all his evil doing. Oh, +I've only one glove,” she exclaimed. “I know where it is, though; that +mischievous rascal, Lauzanne, nibbled it from the front of my jacket; I +saw him do it, but forgot to pick it up.” + +“Allow me, Miss Porter; I'll get it for you.” + +“No; please don't!” with emphasis. As he started back, she laid a +detaining hand on his arm. “I'd much prefer to go myself; Lauzanne +distrusts strangers and might make trouble.” + +As the girl entered the stable, Mortimer sauntered on in the direction +Mike had gone. + +Allis opened the door of Lauzanne's stall, passed in, and searched in +the straw for the lost glove. + + + + +X + + +The noise of strife in Diablo's box had increased. There came the sound +of blows on the horse's ribs; a muttered oath, and suddenly a scream of +terror from the boy, drowned in an instant by the ferocious battlecry +of the enraged stallion. Mortimer, thirty yards away, heard it, and felt +his heart stand still; he had never heard anything so demoniac in his +life. He turned in such haste that his foot slipped on the frozen earth, +and he fell heavily. + +At the first sound of blows Allis had started angrily toward Diablo's +box. She was at the door when Shandy's cry of terror rang out. For an +instant the girl hesitated; what she saw was enough to make a strong man +quail. The black stallion was loose; with crunching jaws he had fastened +on the arm of Shandy, in the corner of the stall, and was trying to pull +the boy down that he might trample him to death. But for a second she +faltered; if ever quick action were needed, it was now. + +“Back--back, Diablo! back!” she cried, as pushing past the black demon +she brought her hunting-crop down with full force between his ears. + +Whether it was the sound of his mistress's voice, or the staggering +blow, Diablo dropped the boy like a crushed rat, and, half rearing, +looked viciously at the brave girl. + +“Quick! through the hay window!” commanded Allis, standing between +Shandy and the horse, and drawing the whip back over her left shoulder, +ready to give it to Diablo full in the throat should he charge again. + +Cowed, the boy clambered through the opening. Enraged at the sight of +his assailant's escape, the horse gave another scream of defiance and +sought with striking forefeet and spread jaws to pull down this new +enemy. Not until then had Allis thought of calling for help; her one +idea had been for the boy's safety. + +Like a flash the full peril of the situation dawned upon her; perhaps +her life would be given for the boy who well deserved his punishment. +She had seen two stallions fight, and knew that their ferocious +natures, once roused, could only be quelled by a force stronger than she +possessed. Yes, surely she would be killed-her young life trampled +out by the frenzied animal. Incoherently but altogether these thoughts +filled her mind; also the knowledge that Mike was beyond hearing. + +“Help, Mortimer!” she called. + +He heard it as he reached the stable door. Even then he would have been +too late had not other rescue come more quickly. + +In rushing from Lauzanne's stall Allis had left the door swinging on its +hinges. At the first cry of defiance from the black stallion Lauzanne +had stretched high his head and sent back, with curled nostril, an +answering challenge. Then with ears cocked he had waited for a charge +from his natural enemy. When the mingled call of his mistress and +Diablo's bugle note came to him he waited no longer, but rushed across +the passage and seized the black horse by the crest just as he was +overpowering the girl. + +It was at that instant Mortimer reached the scene--in his hand a stable +fork he had grabbed as he raced down the passage. Even Lauzanne's +attack, though it gave Allis a respite, would not have saved her life; +the madly fighting horses would have kicked and trampled her to death. + +“My God! Back, back, you devils!” And pushing, crowding, hugging the +side of the stall, Mortimer fought his way to the girl. + +Once Diablo's hoof shot out and the man's left arm, snapping like a +pistol, dropped useless at his side. His brain reeled with the shock. +The oddly swinging arm, dangling like a doll's, with the palm turned +backward, seemed to fascinate him. Why was he there? What was he doing? +Why was he hammering the horses over the head with a stable fork held +tightly in his right hand? He hardly knew; his mind was clouded; he +was fighting by instinct, and always crowding along the wall toward the +farther corner. The girl had quite faded from his sight. Somehow he felt +that he must drive the horses back, back, out of the stall. + +Allis, too, was fighting; bringing the crop down with cutting force over +the withers, neck, head, any part of the plunging mass in front of her. +She could escape now through the opening where the boy had gone; but was +not Mortimer in the same position she had been? She had seen him drop +to his knees when Diablo lashed out; he must be sorely hurt; now he was +reeling like a drunken man as he fought the mad brutes. + +“This way,” she panted, catching him by the coat, and pulling him toward +the window. + +Ah, that was it! He saw her now. It steadied his senses. It was the +girl, and she had called him--“Mortimer!” + +“Back,” he yelled irrelevantly, in answer, cutting Diablo across the +face with the fork. It was pandemonium. + +“Get through the window!” the girl screamed in his ear. “Quick! Now!” + and she pushed him toward it. + +“You--first--back, you devils!” and he pressed away from her, closer to +the horses, thrusting and striking with the steel-pointed fork. + +The horses were giving way; Diablo was fighting half through the door, +weakening before the onslaught of the powerful chestnut. Even in battle, +as in a race, the stamina of the Lazzarone blood was telling; the +bulldog courage of the strain was strong upon Lauzanne, now that he was +roused. + +“Quick! You can get out!” again called the girl. + +“You first!” + +This drear, repetition was the only expression Mortimer's numbed senses +were equal to; but he fought with the ferocity of a tiger--his wound but +enraged him. + +They could both escape, Allis knew, if she could bring Mortimer to +understand; but they must do it quick, if at all. It was useless. He +seemed conscious of but the one idea that he must drive the fighting +animals out into the passage to save her. She was not afraid now; the +man's presence had driven that all away. It was useless to speak to +him of the window, neither would go first; so, with her riding whip she +fought side by side with Mortimer; springing back from the swift-cutting +forefeet; sometimes even hugging close to the side of a horse as he +lashed out from behind; and once saving her companion from being cut +down by pulling him swiftly from under a raised foot. In the end the +stallions were forced out into the passage, just as Mike came rushing +upon the scene. + +But the battle had waned. Twice Diablo had been pulled to his knees, +forced down by the fierce strength that was Lauzanne's; the Black was +all but conquered. The Trainer's voice checked Lauzanne's fury; even the +boy had plucked up courage to return; and between them the Chestnut was +driven into his stall. All the fight had been taken out of Diablo. He +struggled to his feet, and stood trembling like a horse that had come +out of a fierce cutting race. On his neck were the marks of Lauzanne's +teeth, where they had snapped like the jaws of a trap; from his crest +trickled a red stream that dripped to the floor like water from a +running eave. All the fierce fire of hate had gone from his eyes. He +hung his head dejectedly, and his flanks quivered. Lauzanne, too, bore +evidence of the vicious strife. On one quarter, where Diablo's sharp +hoof had ripped, was a cut as though he had been lashed with a sickle, +and his withers were torn. + +Mortimer and Allis had come out of the stall. The man, exhausted by the +struggle, leaned wearily, with pale, drawn face, against the wall; the +floor seemed slipping from under him; he felt a sensation of swiftly +passing off into nothingness. He was sleepy, that was all; but a +sleepiness to fight against--he must still fight. + +“You are badly hurt.” It was the girl's voice. He was almost surprised +that he recognized it, everything was so confused. He answered heavily, +“Yes, I'm--I'm--I want--to lie down.” + +“Here, lean on my shoulder.” It was Mike's voice this time. “This is bad +business,” the Trainer was saying; “we must get him out of this; he's +nearly knocked out. Are ye all right, Miss?” turning to Allis. + +The wounded man turned guiltily; he had forgotten the girl. Yes, surely +she had been in that hell of noises with him--fighting too. + +“I'm just frightened, that's all,” answered Allis. “Mr. Mortimer saved +me.” + +Had he? he wondered. How had he come in there, anyway? His mind refused +to work out the problem; his side was so sore. + +“Yer arm's broke,” said Mike, passing to Mortimer's right side. “Come, +lean on me, sir. Can ye walk? I'll put ye in the buggy and drive ye to +the house.” + +At the first step Mortimer staggered and swayed like a drunken man. In +his side were many sharp things pulling him down like grappling irons; +on his head was a great weight that crushed his feet into the hard +planks; his knees gave under this load, and he would have fallen but for +Mike's strong arm. + +“I'm--afraid;” then he set his teeth hard, his voice had sought to end +the sentence in a groan of anguish; the thing that was tearing at his +side had whistled in his lungs. + +Allis stepped forward swiftly, and passing her arm about his waist, +helped Mike lead him to the door. Twice she put her left hand up +and brushed tears from her eyes; the struggle had unnerved her. Very +helplessly against her swayed the man she had laughed at half an hour +before. And he had been crushed saving her! But that was not why the +tears came--not at all. She was unstrung. “And he's got grit,” she kept +muttering to herself; “he has never even groaned.” + +Together they succeeded in getting him into the buggy; then, gently, +Mike drove to the house. + + + + +XI + + +Mrs. Porter, reading a book on the veranda, heard the crunch of wheels +as a buggy, slow-moving, turned into the drive. She raised her eyes +leisurely, the matter of the story still in her mind; but with a quick +cry of “John!” she sprang to her feet, the volume, left to itself, +rustling from her lap to the floor. The mother eyes saw that something +was wrong, and the mother heart felt that some evil had come to Allis. +Mrs. Porter had gone white in an instant. Over her hung heavy at all +times the dread of some terrible accident coming to Allis through the +horses. + +“Did you call, wife?” Porter asked as he came to the door. Then he +sprang quickly across the veranda at sight of his wife's blanched face, +and made to catch her in his arms. But she stopped him, pointing down +the drive. “It's Allis, John; oh, my God!” + +“No, no,” he answered, “they're just coming back; here, sit down again, +I'll see,” and he raced down the steps just as Mike pulled up. + +“What's the matter, girl?” he began. + +“The young gentleman's got a bit shook up, sir; nothin' bad loike,” Mike +broke in hastily. The diplomatic rider, “nothin' bad,” was added for +Mrs. Porter's benefit, his quick eye having seen her white face. + +“Miss Allis 's not hurt at all,” he continued. “We'll help the young +gintleman in, an' I'd best go for the docthor, I'm thinkin.” + +Even as he was speaking they had helped Mortimer from the rig. He had +not uttered a sound; his teeth were set hard against the agony that +was in his side, and the queer dizziness that was over him left little +beyond a consciousness that he was being looked after, and that if he +could only keep going for a little, just use his legs a trifle, he would +presently be allowed to sleep. Yes, that was what he wanted; he was +so drowsy. As he went up the steps between the two men, a haggard +face peered at him over the rail. It was familiar; he felt that some +recognition was due, for it was a woman's face. He tried to smile. Then +he was on a bed, and--and--sleep at last. + +When the three men with the silence of disaster over them passed +struggling into the house, Mrs. Porter threw herself on Allis's neck, +and a passion of tears flooded down and damped the girl's shoulder. + +“God be thanked, God be thanked!” gasped the troubled woman, and one +hand that was over the girl's shoulder patted her with erratic rapidity. +Then she interrupted herself. “What am I saying--it's wicked, and Mr. +Mortimer like that. But I can't help it--I can't help it. Oh, Allis! +my heart was in my mouth; I feel that some day you will come home like +this.” + +At that instant Gaynor dashed by them, leaped into the buggy, and +called, as he drove off: “I'll have the docthor in a jiffy; the young +man's all right!” He was still talking as the whirr of swift-rushing +wheels smothered out his voice, and the dust rose like a steam-cloud, +almost blotting him from the landscape. + +“Oh, girl! I thought you'd been killed.” + +“Here, sit down, mother; you're all worked up,” and Allis put a cool +hand on her mother's hot forehead. + +But the shock to her feelings had loosed the good woman's vocabulary. +At all times smouldered in her heart a hatred of racing, even of the +horses. “It's the anger of God,” Mrs. Porter denounced vehemently. “This +gambling and racing is contrary to His law. Never a night passes, Allis, +that I do not pray to God that He may open your father's eyes to the sin +of racing. No good can come of it--no good has ever come of it--nothing +but disaster and trouble. In a day the substance of a year is wasted. +There never can be prosperity living in sin.” + +“Hush, mother,” crooned Allis, softly. This outburst from Mrs. Porter +startled the girl; it was so passionate, so vehement. When they had +talked of racing in the home life the mother had nearly always preserved +a reproachful silence; her attitude was understood and respected. + +“I must speak, girl,” she said again; “this sinful life is crushing me. +Do you think I feel no shame when I sit in meeting and hear our good +minister denounce gambling and racing? I can feel his eyes on me, and I +cannot raise my voice in protest, for do not I countenance it? My +people were all church people,” she continued, almost apologetically, +“tolerating no sin in the household. Living in sin there can be no hope +for eternal life.” + +“I know, mother,” soothed the girl; “I know just how you feel, but we +can't desert father. He does not look upon it as a sin, as carrying any +dishonor; he may be cheated, but he cheats no man. It can't be so sinful +if there is no evil intent. And listen, mother; no matter what anybody +may say, even the minister, we must both stick to father if he chooses +to race horses all his life.” + +“Ah, sweetheart!” John Porter cried out in a pleased voice, as he came +out to them, “looking after mother; that's right. Cynthia has helped +me fix up Mortimer. He'll be all right as soon as Mike gets back with +Rathbone. I think we'd better have a cup of tea; these horses are trying +on the nerves, aren't they, little woman?” and he nestled his wife's +head against his side. “How did it happen, Allis? Did Mortimer slip into +Diablo's box, or--” + +“It was all over that rascally boy, Shandy. Diablo was just paying him +back for his ill-treatment, and I went in to rescue him, and Mortimer +risked his life to save mine.” + +“He was plucky; eh, girl?” + +“He fought the Black like a hero, father. But, father, you must never +think bad of Lauzanne again; if he hadn't come Mr. Mortimer would have +been too late.” + +“It's dreadful, dreadful,” moaned the mother. + +Allis shot a quick look at her father. He changed the subject, and +commenced talking about Alan--wondering where he was, and other +irrelevant matters. + +Then there was fresh divertisement as Mike rattled up, and Doctor +Rathbone, who was of a great size, bustled in to where Mortimer lay. + +Three smashed ribs and a broken arm was his inventory of the damage +inflicted by Diablo's kick, when he came out again with Porter, in an +hour. + +“I'm afraid one of the splintered ribs is tickling his lung,” he added, +“but the fellow has got such a good nerve that I hardly discovered this +unpleasant fact. He'll be all right, however; he's young, and healthy as +a peach. Good nursing is the idea, and he'll get that here, of course. +He doesn't want much medicine; that we keep for our enemies,--ha! ha!” + and he laughed cheerily, as if it were all a joke on the battered man. + +“Thim docthers is cold-blooded divils,” was Mike's comment. “Ye'd a +thought they'd been throwin' dice, an' it was a horse on the other +gintleman. Bot' t'umbs! it was, too. Still, if ould Saw-bones had been +in the box yonder wit' Diablo, he wouldn't a-felt so funny.” + +“Mortimer behaved well; didn't he, Mike?” asked Porter. + +“Behaved well; is it? He was like a live divil; punched thim two big +stallions till they took water an' backed out. My word! whin first I +see him come to the stable wit' Miss Allis, thinks I, here's wan av +thim city chumps; he made me tired. An' whin he talked about Lauzanne's +knees, m'aning his hocks, I had to hide me head in a grain bag. But if +ye'd seen him handle that fork, bastin' the Black, ye'd a thought it was +single sticks he was at, wit' a thousand dollars fer a knock-out.” + +“One can't always tell how a colt will shape, can they, Mike?” spoke +Porter, for Mike's fanciful description was almost bringing a smile to +Mrs. Porter's troubled face. + +“Ye can't, sor, an' yer next the trut' there. I've seen a herrin'-gutted +weed av a two-year-old--I remember wan now; he was a Lexington. It +was at Saratoga; an' bot' t'umbs! he just made hacks av iverythin' in +soight--spread-eagled his field. Ye wouldn't a-give two dollars fer him, +an' he come out an' cleaned up the Troy Stake, like the great horse he +was.” + +“And you think Mortimer has turned out something like that; eh, Mike?” + +“Well, fer a man that knows no more av horses than I know av the +strology av stars, he's a hot wan, an' that's the God's trut'.” + +Mortimer's gallant act had roused the Irishman's admiration. He would +have done as much himself, but that would have been expected of a +horseman, constantly encountering danger; that an office man, to be +pitied in his ignorance, should have fearlessly entered the stall with +the fighting stallions was quite a different matter. + +Even Allis, with her more highly developed sense of character +analyzation, felt something of this same influence. She had needed some +such manifestation of Mortimer's integral force, and this had come with +romantic intensity in the tragic box-stall scene. This drama of the +stable had aroused no polished rhetoric; Mortimer's declamation had been +unconventional in the extreme. “Back, you devils!” he had rendered with +explosive fierceness, oblivious of everything but that he must save the +girl. The words still rang in the ears of Allis, and also the echo +of her own cry when in peril, “Mortimer!” There must have been a +foreshadowing in her soul of the man's reliability, though she knew it +not. + +Even without the doctor's orders, it was patent that Mortimer must +remain at Ringwood for a few days. + +It was as if Philip Crane, playing with all his intense subtlety, +had met his master in Fate; the grim arbiter of man's ways had pushed +forward a chessman to occupy a certain square on the board for a time. + +Mortimer had been most decisively smashed up, but his immense physique +had wonderful recuperative powers. The bone-setting and the attendant +fever were discounted by his vitality, and his progress toward recovery, +was marvelous. + + + + +XII + + +Crane heard of the accident on one of his visits to Brookfield a couple +of days later, and of course must hurry to Ringwood to see his employee. +It happened that the Reverend Mr. Dolman graced the Porter home with his +presence the same evening that Crane was there. + +Naturally the paramount subject of interest was the narrow escape of +Miss Allis; but the individuality of discussion gradually merged into a +crusade against racing, led by the zealous clergyman. John Porter viewed +this trend with no little trepidation of feeling. + +It was Mrs. Porter who precipitated matters by piously attributing +Allis's escape to Providence. + +“Undoubtedly, undoubtedly!” Mr. Dolman said, putting the points of his +fingers together in front of his lean chest. He paused a moment, +and Porter groaned inwardly; he knew that attitude. The fingers were +rapiers, stilettos; presently their owner would thrust, with cutting +phrase, proving that they were all indeed a very bad lot. Perhaps +John Porter would have resented this angrily had he not felt that the +Reverend Inquisitor was really honest in his beliefs, albeit intolerably +narrow in his conclusions. + +Dolman broke the temporary silence. “But we shouldn't tempt +Providence by worshiping false images. Love of animals is +commendable--commendable”--he emphasized this slight concession--“but +race horses always appeal to me as instruments of the Evil One.” + +“It wasn't the horse's fault at all, Mr. Dolman,” Allis interposed, “but +just a depraved human's. It was the boy Shandy's fault.” + +“I wasn't thinking of one horse,” continued the minister, airily; “I +meant race horses in general.” + +“I think Mr. Dolman is right,” ventured Mrs. Porter, hesitatingly; “it's +flying in the face of Providence for a girl to go amongst those race +horses.” + +“Bad-tempered men make them vicious, mother,” Allis said; “and I believe +that Shandy's punishment was the visitation of Providence, if there was +any.” + +The Reverend Dolman's face took on an austere look. It was an insult +to the divine powers to assert that they had taken the part of a race +horse. But he turned the point to his own ends. “It's quite wrong to +abuse the noble animal; and that's one reason why I hold that racing is +contrary to the Creator's intentions, quite apart from the evil effect +it has on morals.” + +“Are all men immoral who race, Mr. Dolman?” John Porter asked. + +His question forced Dolman to define his position. Porter always liked +things simplified; racing was either wrong in principle or right. Dolman +found him rather a difficult man to tackle. He had this irritating way +of brushing aside generalization and forcing the speaker to get back to +first principles. + +The reverend gentleman proceeded cautiously. “I should hardly care to +go so far as that--to make the rule absolute; a very strong man might +escape contamination, perhaps.” + +Mrs. Porter sighed audibly. The minister was weakening most lamentably, +giving her husband a loophole to escape. + +“I hardly think racing quite so bad as it is generally supposed to be,” + interposed Crane, feeling that Porter was being pilloried somewhat. He +received a reproachful look from Mrs. Porter for his pains. + +“I've never seen any good come of it,” retorted Dolman. “A Christian man +must feel that he is encouraging gambling if he countenances racing, for +they contend that without betting racing is impossible.” + +“Everything in life is pretty much of a gamble,” Porter drawled, lazily; +“there aren't any such things. The ships that go to sea, the farmer's +crop--everything is more or less a matter of chance. If a man goes +straight he has a fairly easy time with his conscience, no matter what +he's at; but if he doesn't, well, he'd better go hungry.” + +“A great many very honorable men are racing today,” added Crane; “men +who have built up large fortunes through honest dealing, and wouldn't be +racing if they felt that it was either unchristian or dishonorable.” + +“They can't be Christians if they countenance gambling,” asserted the +minister, doggedly. + +It occurred to Mortimer that whenever the discussion took broader lines, +Dolman drew it back into the narrow cell of his own convictions. + +Porter scratched his head perplexedly. They had been discussing the +moral influence of racing; this seemed more like theology. “It is +certainly unchristian,” commented Mrs. Porter, severely. “I haven't seen +much Christian spirit in any business,” said Porter, quietly; “they all +seem more a matter of written agreements. In fact there's more done +on honor in racing than in any of the business gambles. A man that's +crooked in racing is sure to come to grief in the long run.” + +Crane shifted in his chair, and Dolman coughed deprecatingly. “For my +part,” continued Porter, “I've never found it necessary to do anything +I'm ashamed of in racing.” + +His wife saw an opening. “But, John dear, you were treated most +shamefully last year; a dishonest boy hauled your horse--” + +“Pulled, mother,” interposed Allis; “pulled father's horse, you mean.” + +“Perhaps, though I fail to see where the difference can be, if the horse +ran the other way and your father lost.” + +Porter smiled indulgently. “The boy was punished, Helen,” he said. +“Dishonesty is not tolerated on the race course.” + +“Yes, but something is always happening,” she continued in lament. “It's +contrary to the law of the church, John. It seems just like a visitation +of divine wrath the way things happen. And you're so sanguine, John; +last year you were going to win a big race with Diablo when he threw his +leg--” + +“Threw a splint, mother,” prompted Allis. + +“I thought your father said it was his leg had something the matter with +it,” argued Mrs. Porter. + +“The splint was on his leg, mother dear.” + +“Well, I'm not familiar with racing phrases, I must say, though I should +be, goodness knows; I hear little else. And talk of cruelty to animals!” + she turned to Mr. Dolman; “they burned the poor beast's leg with hot +irons--” + +The minister held up his hands in horror. + +“It didn't give him as much pain as the doctor gave Mr. Mortimer setting +his arm,” declared Allis. + +“But it was racing injured the horse's leg,” interposed Dolman. + +“But your horse has got a ringbone, Mr. Dolman,” said Allis, “and a +spavin, too. I've been looking at him. That's because you drive him too +fast on hard roads. And his feet are contracted from neglect in shoeing. +It's just cruel the way that poor old horse has been neglected. Race +horses are much better taken care of.” + +Allis's sudden onslaught switched Mr. Dolman from the aggressive to the +defensive with great celerity. + +“I confess I know very little about horses,” he was forced to apologize; +then, with something of asperity, “the spiritual welfare of my +congregation takes up my entire time.” + +This rebuke caused a momentary silence, and Dolman, turning to Mortimer, +said, “I hope you don't approve of racing, sir.” + +Mortimer didn't, but a look from Allis's eyes inexplicably enough caused +him to hedge very considerably in his reply. + +“I know nothing about the race course,” he said, “but from what I see of +the thoroughbreds I believe a man would have to be of very low order +if their noble natures did not appeal to him. I think that courage, and +honesty, and gentleness--they all seem to have it--must always have a +good influence. Why, sir,” he continued, with a touch of excitement, “I +think a man would be ashamed to feel that he was making himself lower +than the horses he had to do with.” + +Allis looked grateful. Even Porter turned half about in his chair, +and gazed with a touch of wonderment at the battered young man who had +substituted common sense for sophistical reasoning. + +The reverend gentleman frowned. “It's not the horses at all,” he said, +“it's the men who are disreputable.” + +Mrs. Porter gave a little warning cough. In his zealousness Mr. Dolman +might anger her husband, then his logic would avail little. + +“The men are like the horses,” commented Porter, “some bad and some +good. They average about the same as they do in anything else, mostly +good, I think. Of course, when you get a bad one he stands out and +everybody sees him.” + +“And sometimes horses--and men, too, I suppose--get a bad name when they +don't deserve it,” added Allis. “Everybody says Lauzanne is bad, but I +know he's not.” + +“That was a case of this dreadful dishonesty,” said Mrs. Porter, +speaking hastily. She turned in an explanatory way to Crane. “You know, +Mr. Crane, last summer a rascally man sold my husband a crooked horse. +Now, John, what are you laughing at?” for her husband was shaking in his +chair. + +“I was wondering what a crooked horse would look like,” he answered, and +there were sobs in his voice. + +“Why, John, when you brought him home you said he was crooked.” + +As usual, Allis straightened matters out: “It was the man who was +crooked. Mother means Lauzanne,” she continued. + +“Yes,” proceeded the good woman, “a Mr. Langdon, I remember now, treated +my husband most shamefully over this horse.” + +Crane winced. He would have preferred thumbscrews just then. “John is +honest himself,” went on Mrs. Porter, “and he believes other men, and +this horse had some drug given him to make him look nice, so that my +husband would buy him.” + +“Shameful,” protested Dolman. “Are men allowed to give horses drugs?” he +appealed to Mr. Porter. + +“No; the racing law is very strict on that point.” + +“But evidently it is done,” contended Dolman. + +“I think there's very little of it,” said Porter. + +This turn of the conversation made Crane feel very uneasy. “Do you +think, Mr. Porter,” he asked, “that there was anything of that sort over +Lauzanne? Do you think Langdon would--” He hesitated. + +“Mr. Langdon has a tolerable idea of what I think,” answered Porter. +“I shouldn't trust that man too much if I were you. He's got cunning +enough, though, to run straight with a man like yourself, who has a +horse or two in his stable, and doesn't go in for betting very heavily.” + +“I know very little about him,” protested Crane; “and, as you say, he +will probably act quite straightforward with me, at least.” + +“Yes,” continued Porter, half wearily, as though he wished to finish the +distasteful discussion; “there are black sheep in racing as there are +in everything else. My own opinion is that the most of the talk we hear +about crooked racing is simply talk. At least nine out of ten races are +honestly run--the best horse wins. I would rather cut off my right hand +than steal a race, and yet last summer it was said that I had pulled +Lucretia.” + +“I never heard of that, John,” cried Mrs. Porter, in astonishment. + +“No, you didn't,” dryly answered her husband. + +Allis smiled; she had settled that part of it with her father at the +time. + +“If you'll excuse me,” began Crane, rising, “I think Mr. Wortimer is +getting tired. I believe I'll jog back to Brookfield.” + +Reluctantly the Reverend Dolman rose, too. He felt, somehow, that the +atmosphere of racing had smothered his expostulation--that he had made +little headway. The intense honesty that was John Porter's shielded him +about almost as perfectly as, a higher form of belief might have done. + +But with almost a worldly cunning it occurred to the clergyman that he +could turn the drawn battle into a victory for the church; and as they +stood for a minute in the gentle bustle of leave-taking, he said: “The +ever-continuing fight that I carry on against the various forms of +gambling must necessarily take on at times almost a personal aspect--” + he was addressing Mr. Porter, ostensibly--“but in reality it is not +quite so. I think I understand your position, Mr. Porter, and--and--what +shall I say--personally I feel that the wickedness of racing doesn't +appeal to you as a great contamination; you withstand it, but you +will forgive me saying so, thousands have not the same strength of +character.” + +Porter made a deprecatory gesture, but Dolman proceeded. “What I was +going to say is, that you possibly realize this yourself. You have acted +so wisely, with what I would call Christian forethought, in placing your +son, Alan, in a different walk in life, and--” he turned with a grave +bow in Crane's direction--“and in good hands, too.” + +“His mother wished it,” Porter said, simply. + +“Yes, John was very good about Alan's future,” the mother concurred. +“But, husband, you quite agreed that it was much better for Alan to be +in the bank than possibly drifting into association with--well, such +dishonorable men as this Mr. Langdon and his friends. He is so much +better off,” she continued, “with young men such as Mr. Crane would have +about him.” + +The Reverend Dolman smiled meekly, but it was in triumph. He had called +attention to an act which spoke far louder than Mr. Porter's disclaiming +words. + +Porter was not at all deceived by the minister; in fact, he rather +admired the other's cleverness in beating him on the post. He gave a +little laugh as he said: “I should not have succeeded very well in a +bank. I am more at home with the horses than I am with figures; but I +expect I would have gone fairly straight, and hope the boy will do the +same. I fancy one of the great troubles about banking is to keep the men +honest, the temptation of handling so much money being great. They seem +to have more chances to steal than men on the race course.” + +As usual, Porter seemed to be speaking out of his thoughts and without +malice; no one took offense. It was simply a straightforward answer to +Dolman's charge. + +Porter had simply summed up the whole business in a very small nutshell. +That there was temptation everywhere, and that honest men and thieves +were to be found on race courses, in banks, in every business, but that, +like the horses, a fair share of them were honest. + +“Speaking materially of race horses quite outside of the moral aspect,” + said Crane, as he was taking his leave, “you'll have to be mighty +careful of that Diablo, Mr. Porter, when Miss Allis is about; he seems a +vindictive brute.” + +“Yes, John; you'll have to sell him right away; I'll be frightened to +death while he's about the place.” + +“I shall never be a bit afraid of him,” remonstrated Allis; “Shandy, who +made all the mischief, has been discharged.” + +“Diablo has always been more trouble than he's worth,” said Porter. “I +thought he was going to be a good horse, but he isn't; and if he has +taken to eating people I'll give him away some day. I wouldn't sell him +as a good horse, and nobody'd buy a man-eater.” + +“I'll buy him when you make up your mind, Mr. Porter,” exclaimed Crane, +somewhat eagerly. “I have nobody sweet enough to tempt his appetite. In +the meantime, Miss Allis, if I were you I should keep away from him.” + +Then presently, with good-nights and parting words of warning about +Diablo, the guests were gone; and Mortimer, having declined +Porter's proffered help, was somewhat awkwardly--having but one good +hand--preparing to retire in Alan's room. + +His mind worked somewhat faster than his fingers; several new problems +had been given it to labor over within the compass of a single moon. +That horse racing should ever become a disturbing interest in his life +had seemed very improbable; now it was like a gale about his soul, it +swayed him. He was storm-tossed in the disturbing element; he could come +to no satisfying conclusion. On the one hand the thoroughbred horses +were to be admired; they were brave and true, creatures of love. Also +Porter was an honest man, the one thing he admired above all else. + +And Miss Allis! Somehow or other his eyes wandered to a picture that +rested on a mantelpiece in the room. He took it down, looking furtively +over his shoulder as he did so, and taking it close under the lamp that +was on the table sat and gazed steadfastly into the girlish face. + +Even in the photograph the big, wondrous eyes seemed to say, “What +of wrong, if we are not wrong?” That was the atmosphere so thoroughly +straightforward and honest that wrong failed of contamination. + +Still it was unconvincing to Mortimer. The horses might be good, the +man honest, and the girl pure and sweet, but the life itself was +distasteful. Reason as one might, it was allied to gambling. Mortimer +rose with a sigh, the whole thing wearied him. Why should he distress +his mind over the matter? As he put the photograph back on the mantel he +held it for an instant, then suddenly; with a nervous, awkward gesture, +brought it to his lips and kissed the eyes that seemed to command +tribute. + +The movement twisted his broken-ribbed side and an agony of pain came +to him in quick retribution. It was as though the involuntary kiss had +lurched him forward into a futurity of misery. The spasm loosed beads +of perspiration which stood cold on his forehead. Swift taken from the +stimulant of his thoughts, his nerves overtaxed by the evening, jangled +discordantly, and he crept into bed, feeling an unutterable depression +as though the room, was filled with evil, threatening spirits. + + + + +XIII + + +In coincidence the two men, Mortimer and Crane, had similar thoughts +the day after Mr. Dolman's discussion; and, rather remarkably, +their deductions were alike, having the same subject of mental +retrospect--Allis Porter. + +It was evident that outside of her family little interested her but +horses; certainly not a very lofty aspiration. When the conversation had +dealt with broad principles, men and their shortcomings, the previous +evening, she had centralized it in Lauzanne, picturing him as symbolical +of good acts and evil repute. Patently it was difficult to become +interested in such a young woman; actually she monopolized their +thoughts. Inconsistently the fair offender felt no recoil of this +somewhat distressing situation; her mind busied itself chiefly over the +reclamation of Lauzanne. + +By inheritance all the qualities of a good horse had come to him except +a submissive temper. Allis worked on the theory that his disposition +had been set awry by injudicious handling; that unlimited patience would +cause him to forget all that. He could gallop, else he had not won the +race in which he beat The Dutchman. That he had needed a stimulant that +day was because he had been soured and would not try with his wits about +him. From the time of coming back to Ringwood Allis had ridden him in +all his exercise gallops, and had asked Mike personally to supervise his +stable education. It had taken all her great patience, all her youthful +enthusiasm and faith, for the Chestnut had notions beyond all belief. At +first, missing the abuse, he almost seemed to thirst for it; tried the +gentle girl in every way--sulked, and loafed, and took little streaks of +trying to cut the course, and made false breaks as though he were going +to run with a full vigor; even laid hold of the horses with his teeth +when opportunity offered. These antics did not break the girl's faith; +she rode him with the gentle hand a woman knows and a horse soon learns +to appreciate, and gave him to understand that he was to have fair +treatment. + +Porter viewed this continuous performance with silent skepticism. He did +not abuse horses himself, neither did he put up with too much nonsense +from them. To him they were like children, needing a lot of tolerant +kindness, but, also, at times, to be greatly improved by a sound +whipping. Once when he suggested something of this sort to Allis, +saying that Lauzanne was a spoiled child, she admitted he was, but that +thoughtless cruelty and not indulgence had done the harm, therefore +kindness was the cure. The first sign of regeneration was the implicit +faith that Lauzanne began to place in his young mistress. At first when +she put up a hand to pet him he would jerk his head away in affright; +now he snuggled her shoulder, or nibbled at her glove in full spirit of +comradarie. Then one day in a gallop came a stronger manifestation, +a brief minute of exhilaration, with after-hours of thankfulness, and +beyond that, alas for the uncertainty of a spoiled temper, an added +period of wallowing in the Slough of Despond! + +It was on a crisp, sparkling morning, and with Shandy--it was before his +downfall--on Lucretia, another stable lad, Ned Carter, on Game Boy, and +Allis on Lauzanne, the three swung off for a working gallop of a mile or +more. Lauzanne was in an inquisitive mood, as the other two raced on +in front. What was his light-weighted rider up to anyway? Why did she +always leave it to him to do just as he liked? Was she really deceiving +him? Did she wish him to lie back there behind the others always? He +fell to wondering what she would do if he were to take hold of the bit +and spread his big muscles in one rushing gallop, and go on past the +others and get home to the feed box first. He rattled the snaffle in his +mouth with nervous indecision--he had a notion to try it. + +“Steady, my boy!” said Allis, as she slipped the reins back through her +fingers till they stretched tight. A dozen times she had sought in vain +to make him think she did not wish him to gallop, but something in the +crisp air this morning threw him off his guard. Why should he be forced +to lag behind? He stretched the arch of his neck straight till the bit +held hard in his mouth; the ears pitched forward in eager point; the +great frame under the girl quivered and sank closer to earth; the roar +of his beating hoofs came up to her ears, muffled by the drive of the +wind that was now a gale as the Chestnut raced into it with the speed +of an express. How her heart sang! Here was speed, and with such +stride--strong, and straight, and true! Low she crouched, and her call +to Lauzanne was but a joyous whisper. Her small hands were framed in +steel, strength to steady the big Chestnut as he swung round the course +glued to the rail. On Lauzanne sped, and to the rhythm of his big +heaving quarters the girl's soul sang a song of delight. At last, at +last was coming her reward. + +And then, just when everything had been achieved, when the great +gallop had brought them half up the stretch, something came to +Lauzanne--perhaps the memory of the whipping finishes; at any rate, he +curled up like a dog, threw his ears back--Allis could feel the sudden +stiff prop of the forelegs as he set himself against the rush of +speed--and in a dozen strides he was Lauzanne again, Lauzanne the +Despised. + +And so it had gone on for weeks, Allis working out her theory up to the +time of the trouble over Diablo. There was something in the girl's quiet +determination that was masterful; perhaps that was why she had always +had her own way at home. Now this mastery was spreading out wonderfully; +Lauzanne, and Mike, and her father, and Crane, and Mortimer, all in +different degrees of subjection, but, as Fate knew, all subject. + +Mrs. Porter's continual lament on the subject of racing had given Crane +a keynote for his line of action. It was the day following her scoring +of the tolerant husband that Crane revisited Ringwood full of his new +idea. + +He had an impulse to buy back Lauzanne. For almost the first time in +his life he experienced twinges of remorse; this was because of Allis. +Porter's affairs were in a bad way, and he would probably accept eagerly +an offer from Crane to lighten his load. Individually he cared little for +Porter's financial troubles, but it was a good opportunity to prepare +the way for a stronger pressing of his suit with the girl. With his +usual fine discrimination he spoke to Mrs. Porter first, intimating +never so slightly that her words had won his entire sympathy; that if +her husband would sell any of the horses he would buy them. + +There was a convincing sincerity about Crane at all times; what he did +he did with the full vigor of a man believing in its truth. One +might almost have suspected that he deceived himself, that he had no +conception of the unrighteousness of his acts. At any rate, he imposed +most successfully upon the mother of Allis. Quite egotistically she +attributed to herself the trend of his friendship. In racing phrase, +Crane was out for a killing and playing his cards with consummate skill. + +With the master of Ringwood he went very straight to the point. This +was possible, as Porter could not hesitate to discuss his financial +condition with his banker. Crane offered to buy Lucretia; this with +him was purely a speculation, but Porter would not part with his little +mare. Then the banker spoke of Lauzanne, saying that he felt somewhat +guilty since learning the previous evening that the horse had been +doped. Porter failed to see where Crane had anything to do with it. But +the latter insisted that he had unwittingly helped Langdon by speaking +of Lauzanne as a good horse. He had known nothing of the matter, beyond +that his trainer had assured him the horse would win; in fact, he had +backed him. + +Porter laughed at the idea that responsibility could attach to Crane. As +to the Chestnut, he was not worth a tenth of the three thousand he had +cost--that was well known; and if Crane or any other man sought to +buy him at that price it would savor too much of charity. At any rate, +Lauzanne belonged to Allis, and Crane would have to bargain with her. + +Then there was Diablo, Crane said; his presence was a menace to Miss +Porter. + +“I've nursed him for a good while,” Porter replied, “and he's a bad +betting proposition--he's too uncertain. You don't want such a horse as +that--nobody does. I'll keep him a bit longer, and put him in a handicap +or two where the purse will be worth running for, and I won't have to +back him; he'll get in with a featherweight, and some day may take it +into his head to gallop, though he's a rank bad one.” + +Crane did not press the point; he understood Porter's motives +throughout. He knew the master of Ringwood was an unchanging man, very +set in his ways, adhering closely to his plans and opinions. So Crane +went back to Brookfield without purchasing a horse, saying as he left, +“I claim first privilege when you wish to sell.” + +He had talked to Porter in the stable, and Mike, busy near by, heard +that part of their conversation referring to the horses. + +“They haven't got money enough in the bank to take the little mare from +us yet, have they, Mike?” Porter said to Gaynor, full of his pride in +Lucretia. + +“That they haven't, sor,” replied Mike, proudly. “But, faith, I wish th' +gint hadn't come a-tryin' to buy her; it's bad luck to turn down a big +offer fer any horse.” + +Porter smiled indulgently. This stable superstition did not appeal to +him. + +“It would a-broke the bad luck, sor, to have let him took the Black.” + +“It would have broken his bank, you mean, Mike.” + +“Well, he'll break somewan's back here yet, an' I'm tellin' you that +sthraight. They say a black cat's full av th! divil, but Diablo's ould +Nick hisself, though I'm sayin'it was th' b'y Shandy's fault sp'ilin' +him. An' if it wasn't fer Miss Allis it's a pity you couldn't a-sold +him the Chestnut. He's a sawhorse--he's as heavy in th' head as a bag of +salt; he'll never do no good to nobody. Them's the kind as kapes a man +poor, eatin' their heads off, an' wan horse, or maybe two, in the +stable earnin' th' oats fer them. It's chaper to cut th' t'roats av such +cattle.” + +“I believe you're right, Mike,” Porter answered, quietly, as he left the +stable. + +Crane, driving back to Brookfield, turned over in his mind the matter +of his mission. He was satisfied. He had succeeded in the main objective +point. It would have been a good move to have acquired Lucretia, to have +tempted her owner to part with her for ready money in sight. The money +would soon have disappeared; then Porter, with a lot of bad horses on +his hand, would almost certainly have come more firmly into the grasp +of Crane. The offer to buy Lauzanne had been a bit of saving grace, a +faint, generous impulse, begot of Allis's regenerating influence; but +Crane had discovered that Porter did not at all suspect him of interest +in the fraud--that was a great something. He had also established +himself firmly in Mrs. Porter's good graces, he could see. It would be +indeed strange if in the end he did not succeed completely. + + + + +XIV + + +Shandy's escapade with Diablo had brought a new trouble to Mike Gaynor. + +The boy had been discharged with a severe reprimand from Mr. Porter, and +a punctuation mark of disapproval from the Trainer's horn-like hand. +He had departed from Ringwood inwardly swearing revenge upon everybody +connected with that place; against Diablo he was particularly virulent. + +Mike tried to secure a boy in the Brookfield neighborhood to ride Diablo +in his work, but Shandy's evil tongue wagged so blatantly about the +horse's bad temper that no lad could be found to take on in the stables. +Ned Carter might have ridden Diablo at work, but the big Black was +indeed a horse of many ideas. He had taken a notion to gallop kindly +while accompanied by Lucretia and Lauzanne; worked alone he sulked +and was as awkward as a broncho of the plains. Also he disliked +Carter--seemed to associate his personality with that of Shandy's. + +Mike's discontent over the hitch spread to John Porter. It was too bad; +the horses had been doing so well. For three days Diablo had no gallop. +On the fourth Porter determined to ride the horse himself; he would not +be beaten out by an ungrateful whelp like Shandy. In his day he had been +a famous gentleman jock, and still light enough to ride work. + +“I don't like the idea, sor; it's not good enough,” remonstrated Mike. + +But his master was obdurate. If Allis rode Lauzanne, why shouldn't he +ride Diablo? + +Gaynor would have ridden the horse himself rather than have his master +do so, but he had a bad leg. Once upon a time it had been crushed +against the rail. Somebody must ride Diablo; the horse, naturally +highstrung, was becoming wild with nervousness through being knocked out +of his work. + +For three days after his discharge Shandy sat brooding with the low +cunning of a forest animal over his fancied ill-treatment. More than +once he had received money from Langdon for touting off to him Porter's +stable matters; now in his unreasoning bitterness he contrasted Langdon +and Porter. + +“Dick's white, he is, an' I'll go git a job from him. I gits half eat +by that crazy skate, an' fired without a cent fer it. God drat 'em!” + he muttered; “I'll get even, or know why. They'll put Ned up on Diablo, +will they? The sneak! He split on me fer beltin' the Black, I know, damn +him! They ain't got another boy an' they won't git one. I'll fix that +stiff, Carter, too; then they won't have no boy.” + +He drank beer, and as it irritated his ferret mind a devilish plot came +into his being and took possession of him--a plot easy of execution +because of his familiarity with the Ringwood stables. + +That night he slipped through the dark, like a hyena pup, to Ringwood. +That the stable was locked mattered not. More than once, out of +laziness, Shandy had shirked going to Mike's quarters for the keys and +had found ingress by a small window, a foot square, through which the +soiled straw bedding was thrown into the yard. Standing on the dung +heap, Shandy worked open the board slide that closed this window, and +wormed his weasel-form through the small opening. He passed down the +passage between the stalls and entered a saddle room at the farther end. + +“The bloomin' thing used to be on the fourth peg,” he muttered, drawing +his small figure up on tiptoe and feeling along the wall for something. +“Blow me!” and he chuckled fiendishly as his fingers encountered the +cold steel of a bit, “I'd know that snaffle in hell, if I got a feel of +it.” + +There was a patent device of a twist and a loose ring in the center of +the bit he clutched, which Porter had devised for Diablo's hard mouth. + +Shandy gave the bridle a swing, and it clattered to the floor from its +peg. Diablo snorted and pawed the planks of his stall nervously. + +“All right, my buck,” hissed Shandy, “you wait till to-morror; you'll +git the run of yer life, I'm thinkin', damn their eyes!” and he went +off into a perfect torrent of imprecation against everybody at Ringwood, +hushing his voice to a snarling whisper. Then he shut the door of the +saddle room, sat down on the floor and pulled from his pocket a knife +and stub of candle. He lighted the latter and held it flame down till +a few drops of wax formed a tiny lake; into this he stuck the candle +upright, shielding its flame with his coat. He opened the knife and +laying it down, inspected minutely the bridle which lay across his leg. + +“It's Diablo's right enough,” he said; “I couldn't be mistook on the +bit, nor them strong lines.” + +He picked up the knife, and holding the leather rein across the palm of +his left hand started to saw it gently with the blade. Almost instantly +he left off. “Of all the bloomin' ijits! God drat me fer a goat! He'd +feel that cut the first slip through his fingers the leather took.” + +He gathered in the rein until he had it six inches from the bit. There +he cut, stopping many times, and doubling the leather close to the light +to see how deep he had penetrated. + +“There, Mr. Bloody Ned!” he exclaimed at last, as inspection showed that +only the outer hard shell of the leather remained intact. “That'll just +hold till the Black takes one of his cranky spells, an' you give him +a stiff pull. God help you then!” Even this was a blasphemous cry of +exultation; not a plea for divine assistance for the man he plotted +against. + +His next move proved that his cunning was of an exceptional order. From +his coat pocket he brought forth a pill box. In this receptacle Shandy +dipped a forefinger, and rubbed into the fresh cut of the leather a +trifle of blackened axle grease which he had taken from a wagon wheel +before starting out. Then he wiped the rein with his coat tail and +looked at it admiringly. + +“The bloke won't see that, blast him!” + +He hung the bridle up in its place, put out the candle, dropped it in +his pocket and made his way from the stable. + +As he passed Diablo's stall the big Black snorted again, and plunged in +affright. + +“You'll get enough of that to-morror,” sneered the boy. “I hope you and +Ned both break your damn necks. Fer two cents I'd drop somethin' in your +feed-box that'd settle you right now; but it's the skunk as split on me +I want to get even with.” + +Shandy trudged back to where he nested in Brookfield and soon slept with +calm restfulness, as though no evil had ever homed in his heart. In the +first gray of the early morning he rose and went out to the race course. + + + + +XV + + +The course near Ringwood had formerly been a trotting track, and +was still used at irregular intervals for the harness horses. In its +primitive days a small, square, box-like structure had done duty as +a Judges' Stand. With other improvements a larger structure had been +erected a hundred yards higher up the stretch. + +It was to the little old stand that Shandy took his way. Inside he +waited for the coming of Gaynor's string of gallopers as supremely happy +in his unrighteous work as any evil-minded boy might be at the prospect +of unlimited mischief. + +“Ned'll ride Diablo, sure; there's nothin' else to it,” he muttered. +“I hope he breaks his blasted neck. I'll pay 'em out fer turnin' me off +like a dog,” he continued, savagely, the small ferret eyes blazing +with fury. “I'll learn the damn--Hello!” His sharp ears had caught the +muffled sound of hoofs thudding the turf in a slow, measured walk. He +peeped between the boards. + +“Yes, it's Mike. And the girl, too--blast her! She blamed me fer near +bein' eat alive by that black devil of a dope horse. Hell!” + +This ambiguous exclamation was occasioned by the sight of his former +master springing into the saddle on Diablo's back. + +“That's the game, eh? God strike me dead! I hope you git enough of +him. My arms ache yet from bein' near pulled out of the sockets by that +leather-mouthed brute. Gee, if the boss hasn't got spurs on! If he ever +tickles the Black wit' 'em--say, boys, there'll be a merry hell to pay, +and no pitch hot.” + +The young Arab spoke to the boards as though they were partners in his +iniquity. Then he chuckled diabolically, as in fancy he saw Porter being +trampled by the horse. + +“The girl's on Lauzanne,” he muttered; “she's the best in the lot, if +she did run me down. A ridin' that sorrel mut, too, when she ought to be +in the house washin' dishes. A woman ain't got no more business hangin' +'round the stable than a man's got in the kitchen. Petticoats is the +devil; I never could abide 'em.” Shandy sometimes harked back to his +early English Whitechapel, for he had come from the old country, and had +brought with him all the depravity he could acquire in the first five +years of his existence there. + +“Ned's got the soft snap in that blasted bunch,” as his eye discovered +Carter on Lucretia. “He's slipped me this go, but I've nobbled the boss, +so I don't care. I'm next 'em this trip.” + +As the three horses and their riders came on to the course he pulled out +a cheap stop-watch Langdon had equipped him with for his touting, and +started and stopped it several times. + +“You'll pay fer their feed, you damn ole skinflint,” he was +apostrophizing Porter, “an' I'll be next the best they can do, an' +stan' in on the rake-off. Gee! I thought they was out fer a trial,” he +muttered, looking disconsolately at the three as they cantered the first +part of the journey. “I'll ketch 'em at the half, on the off chance,” he +added. + +But though the timepiece in his hand clicked impatiently, after he +pressed the stem with his thumb, as Diablo's black nozzle showed past +the half-mile post, the three horses still cantered. Lauzanne was loping +leisurely with the action of a wooden rocking-horse. Lucretia, her long, +in-tipped ears cocked eagerly forward, was throwing her head impatiently +into the air as though pleading for just one strong gallop. Diablo's +neck was arched like the half of a cupid's bow; his head, almost against +his chest, hung heavy in the reins tight-drawn in Porter's strong hands. +His eyes, showing full of a suspicious whiteness, stood out from his +lean, bony head; they were possessed of a fretful, impatient look. Froth +flecked back from the nervous, quivering lips, and spattered against his +black satin-skinned chest, where it hung like seafoam on holding sand. + +“Whoa! Steady, old boy!” Porter was coaxing soothingly. “Steady, boy!” + +“The ease up has put the very deuce into this fellow,” he flung over +his shoulder to Allis, who was at Diablo's quarter. “He's a hard-mouthed +brute if ever there was one.” + +“He'll be all right, dad,” she called forward, raising her voice, for +the wind cut her breath; “Shandy rode him with a heavy hand, that's +why.” + +“I'll put a rubber bit in his mouth, to soften it,” he pumped brokenly. +“Let out a wrap, girl, and we'll breeze them up the stretch; come on. +Carter, get to the front with the mare.” A quarter of a mile from the +finish the horses raced into a swinging stride. Diablo was simply mad +with a desire to gallop; but in the saddle was his master; no horse +ever did as he wished with John Porter. Battling against the sharps +his honesty might handicap him out of the strife, but in the saddle the +elation of movement crept into his sinews, and he was superb, a king. +As a jockey, he would have been unsurpassed. It filled his heart with +delight to play with the fierce, imperious animal he rode. + +“Steady, my boy--no you don't!” This as Diablo stuck his neck straight +out like an arrow and sought to hold the bit tight against the bridle +teeth, that he might race at his own sweet will. Back came the right +hand, then the left, three vicious saws, and the bit was loose and +Diablo's head drawn down again close to the martingale. Lucretia and +Lauzanne were pulling to the front. + +“Go on!” called Porter to Ned Carter; “I want to see the little mare in +her stride. Take them out at three-quarter gallop down the back stretch. +I'll be treading your heels off.” + +By this they were opposite the old stand, where Shandy was hiding. The +boy, surmising that a gallop was on, and anxious to see them as they +rounded the turn going down the back, had knocked a board loose to widen +the crack. As the horses came abreast, Shandy, leaning forward in his +eagerness, dislodged it at the top, and it fell with a clatter, carrying +him half through the opening. The wind was blowing fair across the +little stand, so the scent of the boy came to Diablo's nostrils at the +same instant the startling noise reached his nervous ears. In a swerve +he almost stopped, every muscle of his big body trembling in affright. +Porter was nearly thrown from his seat by this crouching side step; +the horse seemed to shrink from under him. Just for an instant, but the +reins had flapped loose against the wet neck and Diablo felt freedom. +With a snort he plunged forward like a wounded buck, and raced madly +after Lucretia, who had bolted when the crash came. + +Porter had lost a stirrup in the sudden twist, and the reins had slipped +through his fingers as he grabbed the mane on Diablo's wither to pull +his weight back into the saddle. + +Now the black neck was straight and taut, flatcapped by the slim ears +that lay close to the throatlatch. The thunder of his pounding hoofs +reached to the ears of Lucretia and Lauzanne in front, and urged them +onward. Carter had sat down in the saddle, and taken a steadying pull at +the brown mare. Even Lauzanne seemed lifted out of his usual lethargy, +and, widemouthed, was pulling Allis out of the saddle. + +“Curse the brute!” gasped Porter, burying his knees in the saddle flaps, +and searching for the dangling stirrup with the toe of his right foot. +Once he almost had it, but missed; the iron, swinging viciously, caught +Diablo in the flank--it made little difference, his terror was complete. +All the time Porter was kneading the dangling reins back through +forefinger and thumb, shortening his hold for a strong pull at the +galloping brute's head. + +“Who-o-o-a-h, who-o-o-ah, stead-y!” and, bracing himself against the +pummel he swung the weight of his shoulders on the reins. As well might +he have pulled at the rock of Gibraltar. Diablo's head was up, his teeth +set hard and the man's strength was as nothing against the full-muscled +neck of the big horse. Diablo was cutting down the lead the other two +held over him, galloping like a demon. Porter felt that he must loosen +the bit and throw that set head down to get command of the horse. One +fierce yank to the right and the black head swayed a trifle; another to +the left and--God in heaven! the rein snapped, and its loose end came +back, slashing the rider across the face. He reeled with the recoil, +nearly bringing Diablo to his knees with the sudden swing of weight on +the right rein. Porter's brain jerked foolishly for an instant; then he +was the trained horseman again, and had let the remaining leather slip +through his fingers a trifle. + +“Go on!” he shouted to those in front; “go on--give me a lead! Hang to +the course!” + +He realized now that the crazed brute under him must run himself out. +All he could do was to sit tight and wait till Diablo had raced himself +to a standstill. To use the one rein meant a crash into the rail, and +surely death. Before, he had thought only of the horse's welfare; now +it was a matter of his own life. All that remained to him was to keep a +cool head, a steady nerve, and wait. + +Freed of restraint, not battled with, the Black's stride lengthened, his +nostrils spread wider, the hoofs pounded quicker and quicker until the +earth echoed with their palpitating beat. The other horses heard the +turmoil, and they, too, became more afraid, and took up the mad rush. + +Diablo's reaching nose was at Lauzanne's hip when Allis took one swift +backward glance. She saw the dangling rein, the set look in her father's +face, the devil eyes of the horse, and for one breath-gasp her heart +fluttered in its beat. As quickly she put the fear from her, and +swinging Lauzanne a shade wide, left Diablo more room next the rail. + +“On, Lauzanne!” she called through drawn lips; and hitched encouragingly +in the saddle. + +Lucretia was still in front, her speed mocking at the swift rush of +Lauzanne and Diablo. But how the Black galloped! Every post saw him +creeping up on the Chestnut, and Allis riding and nursing him to keep +the runaway hemmed in at the turns, so that he could not crash through +the outer rail. No one spoke again. Each knew that nothing was left to +do but keep Diablo to the course, and ride, ride. + +Just in front of Lauzanne, with swinging stride raced the brown mare, +waiting till the Chestnut should drop back beaten, to take up the +running with Diablo. That was Carter's good judgment; and he rode as +though it were the Derby, and he was nursing his mount for the last call +at the finish. + +At the three quarters Lauzanne and Diablo were neck and neck; at the +half, the Black was lapped on Lucretia; another furlong and she was +laboring to keep her place, nose and nose with him. + +“I'm done,” panted Carter, feeling the mare swerve and falter; “I'm +done--God help us!” + +Still there was no check in the Black's gallop; he was like a devil that +could go on forever and ever. + +They had turned into the straight with Lucretia a neck to the bad, when +Carter heard the girl's voice faintly calling, “Pull out, Ned!” The +boy thought it fancy. Lauzanne the Despised couldn't be there at their +heels. He had thought him beaten off long ago. But again the voice came, +a little stronger, “Pull out, Ned!” + +This time there was no mistake. It might be a miracle, but it was +his duty to obey. As he galloped, Carter edged Lucretia to the right. +Without looking back he could feel Lauzanne creeping up between him and +Diablo. Soon the Chestnut's head showed past his elbow, and they were +both lapped on the Black. Halfway up the stretch Allis was riding +stirrup to stirrup with her father. Porter's weight was telling on +Diablo. + +“She's got him. Lauzanne'll hold him if he doesn't quit,” Carter +muttered, as he dropped back, for Lucretia was blown. + +Past the finish post Lauzanne was a head in front, and Diablo was +galloping like a tired horse. + +“He's beat!” ejaculated Carter. “Hello! that's it, eh? My word, what a +girl!” + +He saw Allis reach down for the slack rein running from her father's +hand to Diablo's mouth. “Missed! She's got it!” he cried, eagerly. “The +devil!” + +As Allis grasped Diablo's rein, the horse, with sudden fury at being +drawn toward Lauzanne, his old foe, snapped at the Chestnut. As he did +so, thrown out of his stride, his forelegs crossed and he went down in +a heap with the rider underneath. The force of his gallop carried the +Black full over onto his back. He struggled to his feet, and stood, +shaking like a leaf, with low-stretched neck and fearcocked ears, +staring at the crushed, silent figure that lay with its face smothered +in the soft earth. In a dozen jumps Allis stopped Lauzanne, threw +herself from the saddle, and leaving the horse ran swiftly back to her +father. + +“Oh, my God! he's dead, he's dead!” she cried, piteously, the nerve that +had stood the strain of the fierce ride utterly shattered and unstrung +at sight of the senseless form. + +“He's not dead,” said Carter, putting his hand over Porter's heart. +“It's just a bad shake-up. Mike's coming, and we'll soon get him home. +He'll be all right, Miss Allis--he'll be all right,” he kept muttering +in a dazed manner, as he raised her father's head to his knee. + +“Take Lucretia and gallop for the docthor, Miss 'Allis,” commanded Mike +coming up on the run. “We'll get yer father home in the buggy.” + +“In God's mercy, don't let him die, Mike,” and bending down she pressed +her lips to the cold forehead that was driven full of sand. “Get him +home quick, and try not to let mother see. I'll take Lauzanne.” + +Lauzanne had followed her and was standing waiting; his big eyes full of +a curious wonderment. Mike lifted Allis to the saddle. As he drew back +his hand he looked at it, then up at the girl. “Don't cry, Miss,” he +said, struggling a little with his voice that was playing him tricks; +“yer father's just stunned a bit. The dochtor'll brace him up all +right.” + +“It's bad business, this,” he continued, as Allis galloped on her +errand, and he helped Carter lift the injured man. “There, that's +roight; jist carry his legs; I'll take him under the back.” + +As they moved slowly toward the buggy that stood in the paddock, Diablo +followed at their heels as though he had done nothing in the world but +take a mild gallop. “Ye black divil!” muttered Mike, looking over his +shoulder; “ye've murthered wan av the best min as iver breathed. If I'd +me way, I'd shoot ye. I'd turn ye into cat meat; that's what ye'r fit +for!” + +“What broke the rein?” he asked of Carter as they neared the buggy; +“what started thim goin'?” + +“Somebody was in the old stand,” Carter replied, as putting his foot on +the step he raised himself and the dead weight of the limp man. + +“There, steady, Ned. Pull the cushion down in the bottom. Now ye've got +it. Bot' t'umbs! it's as good as an ambulance. I'll hold his head in me +lap, an' ye drive. Here, Finn,” he continued, turning to the boy who +had caught and brought up Lucretia, “take the wee filly an' that divil's +baste back to the barn; put the busted bridle by till I have a good look +at it after. Go on, Ned; slow; that's it, aisy does it. When we get out +on the turnpike ye can slip along.” + +When they had turned into the road he spoke again to Carter, “Ye were +sayin', Ned, there was a guy in th' ould stan'.” + +“Yes,” replied Carter; “somebody was toutin' us off. A board broke, an' +that frightened the boss's mount.” + +“I t'ought I see a b'y skinnin' off the track,” commented Gaynor. “First +I t'ought it was Shandy, but what'd he be doin' there? Did ye see his +face, Ned?” + +“I was too busy takin' a wrap on Lucretia; she was gettin' a bit out of +hand.” + +When they came to the gate which gave entrance to Ringwood house Mike +said to Carter, with rough sympathy in his voice: “Slip in ahead, Ned, +and tell the Misses that the boss has had a bit av a spill. Say he's +just stunned; no bones broke. Bot' t'umbs! though, I fear he's mashed to +a jelly. Ask fer a bottle of brandy till we give him a bracer. Ned!” he +called, as Carter slipped from the buggy, “see if ye kin kape the Misses +from seein' the boss till the docthor comes. Git hould of the girl +Cynthie, an' give her the tip that things is purty bad. Go on now; I'll +drive slow wid wan hand.” + +Mike's kindly precautions were of little avail. Mrs. Porter saw the +slow-moving conveyance crawling up the broad drive, and instinctively +knew that again something terrible had occurred. That Allis was not +there added to her fear. + +“He's just bad, ma'am,” Carter was saying, as Mike reached the steps. +But she didn't hear him; her face was white, and in her eyes was the +horror of a great fear, but from her lips came no cry; her silence was +more dreadful than if she had called out. + +“We'll carry him, ma'am,” Mike said, as she came down the steps to the +buggy, and clutching the wheel rim swayed unsteadily. “Jest git a bed +ready, Misses,” Gaynor continued, softly; “git a bed ready, an' he'll be +all roight afther a bit. He's just stunned; that's all, just stunned!” + +It was curious how the sense of evil had limited each one's vocabulary. + +“Let me help,” pleaded Mrs. Porter, speaking for the first time. + +“We'll carry him, Misses--he's just stunned,” repeated Mike, in a dreary +monotone, as feeling each step carefully with his toe he and Carter bore +the still senseless form into the house. The wife had got one of the +battered hands between her own, and was walking with wide, dry, staring +eyes close to her husband. + +“O John, John! Speak to me. Open your eyes and look at me. You're not +dead; O God! you're not dead!” she cried, passionately, breaking down, +and a pent-up flood of tears coming to the hot, dry eyes as the two men +laid Porter on the bed that Cynthia had made ready. + +“There, Misses, don't take on now,” pleaded Mike. “The boss is jest +stunned; that's all. I've been that way a dozen toimes meself,” he +added, by way of assurance. “Where's the brandy? Lift his head, Ned; +not so much. See!” he cried, exultantly, as the strong liquor caused +the eyelids to quiver; “see, Misses, he's all roight; he's jest stunned; +that's all. There's the dochtor now. God bless the little woman! She +wasn't long!” + +The sound of wheels crunching the gravel, with a sudden stop at the +porch, had come to their ears. + +“Come out av the room, Ma'am,” Mike besought Mrs. Porter; “come out av +the room an' lave the docthor bring the boss 'round.” He signaled to +Cynthia with his eyes for help in this argument. + +“Yes, Mrs. Porter,” seconded Cynthia, “go out to the porch; Miss Allis +and I will remain here with the doctor to get what's needed.” + +“Ah, a fall, eh,” commented Dr. Rathbone, cheerily, coming briskly into +the room. Then he caught Mike's eye; it closed deliberately, and the +Irishman's head tipped never so slightly toward Mrs. Porter. + +“Now 'clear the room,' as they say in court,” continued the doctor, with +a smile, understanding Mike's signal. “We mustn't have people about +to agitate Porter when he comes to his senses. I'll need Cynthia, and +perhaps you'd better wait, too, Gaynor. Just take care of your mother, +Miss Allis. I'll have your father about in a jiffy.” + +“He's jest stunned; that's all!” added Mike, with his kindly, parrotlike +repetition. + +It seemed a million years to the wife that she waited for the doctor's +outcoming. Twice she cried in anguish to Allis that she must go in; must +see her husband. + +“He may die,” she pleaded, “and I may never see his eyes again. Oh, let +me go, Allis, I'll come back, I will.” + +“Wait here, mother,” commanded the girl. “Doctor Rathbone will tell us +if--if--” she could not finish the sentence--could not utter the dread +words, but clasping her mother's hands firmly in her own, kept her in +the chair. Once Mike came out and said, “He's jest stunned, Ma'am. The +docthor says he'll be all roight by an' by.” + +“He won't die--” + +“He's worth a dozen dead men, Ma'am; he's jest stunned; that's all!” + +There was another long wait, then Dr. Rathbone appeared. + +“Porter will be all right, Madame; it'll take time; it'll take time--and +nursing. But you're getting used to that,” he added, with a smile, “but,” + and he looked fixedly at Allis, “he must have quiet; excitement will +do more harm than the fall.” + +“Tell me the truth, doctor,” pleaded Mrs. Porter, struggling to her +feet, and placing both hands on his shoulders, “I can stand it--see, I'm +brave.” + +“I've told you the truth, Mrs. Porter,” the doctor answered. “There's no +fear for your husband's recovery if he has quiet for a few days.” + +She looked into his eyes. Then crying, “I believe you, doctor; thank +God for his mercy!” swayed, and would have fallen heavily but for Mike's +ready arm. + +“She'll be better after that,” said the doctor, addressing Allis. “It +has been a hard pull on her nerves. Just bathe her temples, and get her +to sleep, if you can. I'll come back soon. Your father is not conscious, +or will he be, I'm thinking, for a day or two. He has heavy concussion. +Cynthia has full directions what to do.” + + + + +XVI + + +After Dr. Rathbone had left Mike and Carter went down to the stables. + +“I'll jest have a look at that broke rein,” said Gaynor; “that sthrap +was strong enough to hang Diablo. If there's not some dirty business in +this, I'll eat me hat. T'umbs up! but it was a gallop, though. The Black +kin move whin he wants to.” + +“But what do you think of old Lauzanne?” exclaimed Carter. “He just wore +Diablo down, hung to him like a bulldog, an' beat him out.” + +“It was the girl's ridin'; an' Lauzanne was feared, too. He's +chicken-hearted; that's what he is. Some day in a race he'll get away in +front av his horses, an' beat 'em by the length av a street. He'll be a +hun'red to wan, an' nobody'll have a penny on.” + +When they arrived at the stable Mike headed straight for the harness +room. The light was dim, coming from a small, high, two-paned window; +but Mike knew where every bridle and saddle should be. He put his +hand on Diablo's headgear, and bringing it down carried it through the +passage to a stable door where he examined it minutely. + +“Jest what I tought. Look at that,” and he handed it to Carter for +inspection. “How do ye size that up, Ned?” + +“The rein's been cut near through,” replied Carter. “I wonder it held as +long as it did.” + +“A dirty, low-down trick,” commented Mike. “I'll hang it back on the peg +just now, but don't use it again fer a bit.” + +As he reentered the saddle room briskly his heel slipped on the plank +floor, bringing him down. “I'd take me oath that was a banana peel, +if it was on the sidewalk,” he exclaimed, after a gymnastic twist that +nearly dislocated his neck. “Some of ye fellows is pretty careless wit' +hoof grease, I'm thinkin'.” + +More out of curiosity than anything else he peered down at the cause of +his sudden slip. “What the divil is it, onyway?” he muttered, kneeling +and lighting a match, which he held close to the spot. “Bot' t'umbs!” he +exclaimed, “it's candle grease. Have aither of ye b'ys been in here wit' +a candle? It's agin the rules.” + +“There isn't a candle about the barn, an' you know it, Mike,” cried +Carter, indignantly. + +Mike was prospecting the floor with another light. + +“Here's two burnt matches,” he continued, picking them up. “An' they +were loighted last night, too. See that, they're long, an' that means +that they wasn't used for lightin' a pipe or a cigar--jes' fer touchin' +off a candle, that's all. I know they was loighted last night,” he +said, as though to convince himself, “fer they're fresh, an' ain't been +tramped on. If they'd been here fer two or three days, roight in front +of the door, they'd have the black knocked off 'em wid ye boys' feet. +This wan didn't light at all hardly, an' there's a little wool fuzz +stickin' to it. Gee! that manes some wan sthruck it on his wool pants. +Git the lantern, Ned, p'raps we'll fin' out somethin' more. The light +from that high up winder ain't good enough fer trackin' a bear.” + +When the lantern was brought, Mike continued his detective operations, +nose and eyes close to the floor, like a black tracker. + +“What's that, Ned?” he asked, pointing his finger at a dark brown spot +on the boards. + +Carter crouched and scrutinized Mike's find. “Tobacco spit,” and he gave +a little laugh. + +“Roight you are; that's what it is. Now who chaws tobaccie in this +stable?” he demanded of Carter, with the air of a cross-examining +counsel. + +“I don't.” + +“Does Finn?” + +“No; I don't think so.” + +“Didn't Shandy always have a gob of it in his cheek--the dirty pig?” + +“Yes, he did, Mike.” + +“I t'ought so; I t'ought it was that blackguard. But how did the swine +get in here? The stable was locked, an' I had the key in me pocket. I'll +take me oath to that.” + +Carter took his cap off, ran a hand reflectively up and down the crown +of his head, canvassing every possible entry there might be to the +stalls. Suddenly he replaced his cap and whistled softly. “I know, Mike; +he crawled through the dung window. I've seen him do it half a dozen +times. When he was too lazy to go for the keys, he'd wiggle through that +hole.” + +Mike said nothing, but led the way to the back of the stable. There he +climbed upon the pile of rotting straw, and examined closely the small, +square opening, with its board slide, through which Shandy had passed +the night before. + +“God! I t'ought so!” he ejaculated. “Here's more tobacco spit, where the +cutt'roat divil stood when he opened the winder.” + +Looking down, his eye caught the glint of something bright deep in the +straw. He dug his hand down into the mass and brought up a knife. “Whose +is that, Ned?” he queried. + +Carter looked at it closely. “Shandy's,” he answered; “I'll swear to +that. I've borrowed it from him more than once to clean out the horses' +hoofs.” + +“Bot' t'umbs up! I'd hang that b'y to a beam if I had him here. He cut +that rein as sure as God made little apples,” declared Mike, vehemently. +“An' the gall av him to go an' sit there in the ould stand to watch the +Black run away wit' somewan an' kill 'em. Now jest kape yer mouth shut, +Ned, an' we'll put a halter on this rooster. By hivins! when I git him +I'll make him squale, too!” + + + + +XVII + + +The seriousness of Porter's accident became clearer to Doctor Rathbone +the following day. He imparted this information to Allis; told her that +in all probability it would be weeks before her father would be strong +again. + +“In the meantime, little woman, what are you to do with all these hungry +horses on your hands?” he asked. + +The girl's answer came quickly enough, for she had lain awake through +all the dreary night, thinking out this problem. Without medical +knowledge she had felt certain that her father was badly injured, and +the gloomy future had come to her in the darkness instead of sleep. + +“I'll look after them,” she answered the doctor, quite simply. + +A smile of skepticism hovered about his full lips, as he raised his eyes +to the girl's face, but the look of determination, of confidence that he +met put his doubts to flight. “I believe you can do it, if any man can,” + and he put his big hand on her slight shoulders, as much as to say, “I'm +behind you; I believe in you.” + +Of course an inkling of Porter's condition had to be given his wife, +though the full gravity was masked. This was done by Allis, and Mrs. +Porter immediately became a prey to abject despair. + +The first thing to be done was to get rid of Diablo. She was too gentle +to ask that he be shot, but he must go, even if he be given away. +She would willingly have sacrificed all the horses. Always with their +presence had come financial troubles, spiritual troubles; now the lives +of those dear to her were in actual peril. No wonder the good woman was +rendered hysterical by the strong emotions that swayed her. + +In her depression she somewhat startled Allis by insisting that they +must send for Mr. Crane at once. After all, it was not so unreasonable; +with the master of Ringwood helpless, who else could they consult with +over their entangled condition? For, the past year Porter had found it +necessary to keep in constant touch with the bank; so they must become +familiar with the details of the entanglement. + +Mrs. Porter had come to have the utmost confidence in Crane's friendship +and ability; he was the one above all others to have Diablo taken off +their hands. So Philip Crane, to his intense delight, was summoned to +Ringwood. This was his first knowledge of Porter's mishap, for he had +been in New York. + +Crane was supposed to possess a rare magnetism; most certainly men came +under his influence with a noiseless, cheerful complaisance. It may have +been that there was a slight fascination in the oblique contour of his +eyes, but in reality his power lay in his exquisite finesse; people +delved for him under the impression that they were laboring according to +the dictates of their own sweet wills. Figuratively speaking, he twisted +Mrs. Porter round his finger, and so delightfully, that she was filled +with gratitude because of Crane's kindness in their hour of trouble. + +The matter of Diablo was settled in a minute; he would buy the horse +himself, and the price could be arranged when Mrs. Porter was able to +discuss the matter--that is, definitely; in the meantime he would pay +a thousand for him. He understood Porter had bough him for that price. +With a touch of kindly humor, Crane declared that he would have a small +bet on the horse for Allis the first time he started. + +Beyond parting with Diablo, Allis would not go farther in the matter of +selling the horses; this was the full extent of her concession to the +mother. Had she known that her father had entered Diablo in the Brooklyn +Handicap she might even have refused to part with the horse. As it +happened, Porter had entered both Lucretia and Diablo in the Brooklyn a +day or so before his accident, but had not spoken of it. + +Crane assured Mrs. Porter that she need not distract her mind over money +matters, the bank could easily carry their lead until her husband was +himself again. No matter how things turned out, it was a delicate matter +to touch upon, the possibility of Porter's condition taking a +serious turn, but coming from Crane it seemed like an earnest of his +sincerity--well, Mrs. Porter would find a friend in him, quite willing +and able to smooth their difficult path. + +Crane had meant to defer any protestations of regard for Allis until +a propitious future, but with his quick perception he saw that the +psychological moment had been moved forward by the sudden effacement of +the master of Ringwood. If he spoke now to Mrs. Porter it would give +her a right to call upon his services. He would appear in the light of +a debtor; it would break down barriers which might seem to exist because +of their non-relationship. + +Crane had not been without a suspicion that the younger man, Mortimer, +might prove a rival; heroics such as the Diablo episode were apt to +give young people a romantic interest in each other; Fate had more than +evened matters up by giving him the present opportunity. He thought with +some satisfaction how perfectly helpless Mortimer was in the present +instance, for he was most undeniably poor. It was an opportunity to be +grasped; and Crane never let the tide pass its flood in the waters of +his life. + +So the banker spoke to Mrs. Porter of his strong love for Allis; so +delicately, and with so much sincerity, that she was completely won +over. It is true, the ground had been prepared for the seed, for the +mother had long feared that Allis might become attached to some one of +Porter's racing associates. Though strong in spiritual matters, the +good woman was not without worldly instinct. She was pleased with Crane +personally; he was not by any means a racing man; a rich banker, who +would make a most desirable husband for her daughter. Of course, it +would rest with the girl herself. Mrs. Porter would not coerce nor +influence her; but why should not Allis come to care for Crane under the +influence of his strong love? + +Mrs. Porter's mind had rebounded from its dazed condition after her +husband's accident, and was now acute. All these thoughts came to her +with rapidity, as Crane talked with masterly judgment. + +To the mother's suggestion that he speak to Allis he put forward a plea +of delicate consideration for the girl; he would rather deny himself; he +would wait patiently until her mind was in a happier condition. Cleverly +enough he knew that Mrs. Porter was now his ally, and would plead his +cause with less chance of failure than if he startled Allis by the +sudden fronting of life's great problem. + +When Crane had gone Allis found her mother calmed by his visit; his +assurances had driven away distressing clouds of financial worry. + +Almost immediately Mrs. Porter transmitted to the girl what had come to +her of Crane's declaration. + +“It seems almost like an answer to my prayer,” she said to Allis; “not, +of course”--she interrupted herself--“that I've been praying for a +husband for you, but this wicked racing has warped the whole woof of +my life; it seemed inevitable in the strength of its contaminating +atmosphere that you would be wedded into it, though one were better dead +than willingly choose a path of sin.” + +“Then you've settled it, mother!” Allis's big eyes took on a dangerous +look of rebellion. + +“No, daughter; you must choose for yourself; only you will be wise not +to go contrary to your parent's wishes. I did--” + +“But you are not sorry, mother?” there was reproach in the girl's voice. + +“Not for having wedded your father, but because of his racing life. I +should have been firmer, and asked him to give it up before I married +him. He might have done it then. Mr. Crane is a gentleman, Allis. That +is a great deal nowadays, and he loves you most sincerely. Words often +mean very little, but one can tell--at least when they've come to years +of discretion they can--from a man's voice whether he is in earnest or +not. I suppose it is very worldly to speak of his riches, but in poverty +one can do very little, very little good. I had rather that you didn't +have to look with misgiving into the future, Allis; it has taken much +joy out of my existence. The dread of poverty is a nightmare; it wears +one's life threadbare. To the young, buoyed up by confidence in the rosy +future, this may seem sordid, but this feeling of insecurity mars many +lives which might otherwise be happy. + +“You see, Allis,” her mother continued, “I know you are heart-whole, so +I can't cause you any misery by my well-meant advice. You've been a good +girl, and there has been nobody of your class about. Mr. Mortimer is, +I dare say, a gentleman, and I must confess I was afraid that you might +mistake a feeling of generosity to him for something stronger; but that +was only an idle fancy, I see. It would have been unfortunate if it +were otherwise, for he is very poor indeed. His small salary must be all +taken up in keeping himself, his widowed mother, and a younger sister.” + +Allis gave a sudden start. She had not known these particulars of +Mortimer's life; but they carried certain explanations of his conduct. +Quite casually she had formed an impression that he was penurious; +something he had dropped about not being able to afford certain +pleasures. That was where the money went--to support his mother and +sister. Unwittingly her mother was pleading the cause of two men. + +The mother's talk depressed Allis greatly. Why should this troublesome +matter come to her when she had so much to bear, so much to do. It gave +her quite a shock to find that as her mother talked she was not +thinking of Crane at all. She could not picture his face, even; just the +narrow-lidded eyes peeped at her in her thoughts once or twice; it would +be horrible to look into them forever and ever. The face of Mortimer, +pale and firm-set as it had been in that day of strife, was always +obliterating the other visage. Was her mother right? Was she so +heart-whole? As if her thoughts had bearing on her mother's mind, the +latter said: “I wouldn't have spoken to you of this matter while your +father is so ill if it weren't for the fact that our position is +very precarious. I can't understand just how badly off we are, but if +anything were to happen your father, I hardly know what would become of +us.” + +“And Mr. Crane has promised to help us if--if--” There was a hard ring +in the girl's voice as she spoke, getting not past the “if,” refusing to +put into words the distressing thought. + +“There is no 'if' about it, daughter. Mr. Crane is our friend, your +father's friend, and he is going to help us; and he only spoke of +his regard for you by way of an excuse--it was delicacy on his part, +thinking that I would have less compunction in accepting his good +offices. All I ask, girl, is that you will try to like Mr. Crane; if you +can't, well, you won't find me making you unhappy. But I can tell you +this, Allis, unless matters mend, and how the change is to come I can't +say, your father will lose Ringwood and it will belong to Mr. Crane. +Even if the horses were sold off, the money would not clear the debts; +besides, I think that even the horses are encumbered.” + +Allis stood in indecision for a little, thinking deeply; then she went +up to her mother, and, taking her face in her hands, kissed her. + +“I understand, mother,” she said, “you are worrying over the dear old +place, over my future, and over father, and it is nothing but worry, +worry, worry all the time. But I'll save Ringwood for you, mother. +I hope father will soon be well again and that luck will change; but +anyway, mother, I promise you that no matter what effort it costs me you +sha'nt sacrifice the dear old place.” + +Mrs. Porter's eyes were wet with tears of gratitude. She was thinking +only of the redemption of the place through Crane; but Allis's words +had meant far more than she had taken from them. They were inspired by a +faith that she could save their fortunes without sacrificing herself to +Crane. If not, if she failed, she was brave, she was a Porter, and would +keep her word and save Ringwood, even at that price. + + + + +XVIII + + +Journeying back to New York, Crane reviewed in detail his interview +with Mrs. Porter. He congratulated himself upon his wisdom in having +instituted his love suit by proxy. With all his masterfulness he was +very considerably in awe of Miss Allis. There was a not-to-be-daunted +expression in her extraordinary eyes which made him feel that a love +tilt with her would be a somewhat serious business. He pictured himself +as an ardent lover; he would cut a droll figure in that role, he knew; +emotions were hardly in his line. He might feel such an assertive +emotion as love quite as strongly as anyone, in fact, did, but could he +express himself with faultless consistency? He rather doubted it. His +usual slow-advancing method was certainly ordained of this intricate +endeavor; and he had made great progress with the mother, the one above +all others to be placated; adversity, continuous as it promised to +be, would probably settle Porter's influence in his favor. His plan of +action plainly was to be often at Ringwood to familiarize the household +with his presence. The acquiring of Diablo would facilitate that. + +Diablo--a skate! He laughed to himself over his purchase. Certainly +Langdon would laugh at him, too; not openly, of course; Crane wouldn't +tolerate that. What an influence this girl had over him, to be sure! Any +man who had endeavored to sell him a bad horse would have had a hopeless +task; with but a nod of encouragement from Allis he would have bought +every horse--all the useless crooks they had; the stable was full of +them, Lauzanne among the rest. + +The influence was dividing his nature into a dual one; starting into +life infantile thoughts of a generous morality; an unrest of great +vigor was coming to him, retribution; possibly the power to feel the +difference between an avariciousness, fathering dishonesty, and this new +recognition of other rights. + +On his arrival in New York he sent for his trainer. + +“I bought a horse at Ringwood. I want you to look after him, Langdon,” + he said. “Their man, Gaynor, will send him direct to your stables.” + +The Trainer's face brightened. “Did you get Lucretia after all?” + +“No; I bought a big black, Diablo.” + +The look of delight faded from Langdon's eyes quickly. “The devil!” he +exclaimed. + +“That's what I said; that's his name.” + +“But he's the most uncertain brute that ever wore a set of plates. +You'll get no good of him, sir; he's bad, clean through. It's come down +to him from his second sire, Robert the Devil, without a bit of the +good, either. He'd break a man that would follow him.” + +“He won't break me,” answered Crane, quietly; “nor you, either, +Langdon--you've got too much sense.” + +This subtle tribute mollified the Trainer. + +Crane proceeded: “I remember the horse quite well. Four thousand was +paid for him as a yearling; as a two-year-old he was tried out good +enough to win the Futurity; but when it came to racing he cut it and +finished in the ruck.” + +“That's right,” commented Langdon. “He owes me a good bit, that same +Johnny; his people thought him a lead-pipe cinch, and I went down the +line on him to my sorrow.” + +“Just so. You know him as well as I do. It's a great way to get +acquainted with them, isn't it, Langdon; put your money on, and have the +good thing go down?” + +Langdon had the highest possible opinion of his master's astuteness and +began to waver in his antipathy to Diablo. + +“You think he's really good, then, sir; did he show you a fast trial?” + +“I didn't even see the horse,” Crane answered, looking dreamily out of +the window. “I bought him to--” + +He paused in reflection; he couldn't tell Langdon why he had bought him, +and he hardly cared to have his prestige with the Trainer destroyed. He +continued, shifting the subject--matter a trifle, “You did John Porter +up over Lauzanne last summer, Langdon--” + +“Me?” questioned 'the Trainer. Was Crane forgetting his share in the +matter? + +“Yes, you!” affirmed the other, looking him steadily in the eye. “You +sold him Lauzanne, and Lauzanne was loaded.” + +Langdon said nothing. What the devil was coming? + +“Well,” drawled Crane, “Porter's badly hurt; he's out of the race for +some time to come. They're friends of mine.” + +“They're friends,” mused Langdon; “who in thunder are they?” + +“They're friends of mine, and I offered to buy Lauzanne back, just to +help them out; but the old man's daughter has got the Chestnut for a +hack, and she won't sell him. It was Diablo's fault that Porter got the +fall, so they were willing to part with him, and I took the brute.” + +This was certainly a new role for Crane to play, Langdon thought; +his employer helping people out when they were in difficulties was +a revelation. The Trainer felt inclined to laugh. No doubt there was +something back of it all; some tout must have given Crane information +of a fast gallop Diablo had done, and he had gone to Ringwood to buy the +horse, thinking that Porter would be selling some of his racers owing to +the accident. + +Langdon tried to remember what Shandy had said about Diablo, or whether +the boy had mentioned his name at all. + +“I wonder what condition he's in?” the Trainer remarked, questioningly. + +“Physically I think he's all right; it seems he galloped something under +forty miles with Porter before he came a cropper. But I understand they +had an imp of a boy, Sheedy, or 'Shaney'--” + +“Shandy,” corrected Langdon. + +“Yes, that's the name,” affirmed Crane, drawing a semicircle in the air +with his cigar, “and he's a devil on wheels, by all accounts. Diablo's +no angel, as you've said, Langdon, and this boy made him a heap worse. +You've handled some bad horses in your time, and know more about it than +I do; but I'd suggest that you put Westley--he's a patient lad--to look +after the Black; give him quite a bit of work, and when you've got him +right, try him out with something, and if he shows any form we'll pick +out a soft spot for him. Let me see, he's a maiden--fancy that, buying a +four-year-old maiden!” + +Langdon laughed approvingly. Crane was evidently coming back to his view +of the case. + +“Well, as I've said, he's a maiden, and we'll try and graduate him out +of that class. It will be a great chance for a killing if we can round +him into his early two-year-old form; and you can do it, Langdon, if +anybody on earth can.” + +“Now I've got him on his reputation,” thought Crane, idly brushing +specks of cigar ash from the front of his coat. + +“Just as I thought,” mused Langdon; “the old man's got a horse after his +own heart. Everybody thinks Diablo's no good, but the boss has found out +something, and is on for the biggest kind of a coup.” + +“How's The Dutchman coming on?” asked Crane, intimating by the question +that the subject of Diablo bad been closed out, for the present, at +least. + +“Great. He cleans up his four quarts three times a day, and is as big as +a cart horse. I never had a better doer in my hands. If he keeps well, +and I think he will, you have a great chance with him for the Brooklyn +Derbv.” + +“That's encouraging. There are some good horses in it, though, White +Moth and others. However, I'll back The Dutchman to win fifty thousand, +and there'll be ten thousand in that for you, Langdon, if it comes off.” + The Trainer's mouth watered. Money was his god. Horses were all right as +a means to an end, but the end itself was gold. He would stop at nothing +to attain that end; his avaricious mind, stimulated by Crane's promise, +came at once to the disturbing element in the pleasant prospect, +Shandy's report of Lucretia's good form. + +“Did you find out anything about Porter's mare Lucretia? I know White +Moth's form; both fit and well. The Dutchman holds him safe over the +Derby journey.” + +“No; I didn't hear anything about Porter's mare.” + +“I have,” said Langdon, decisively. “I paid a boy to keep an eye on her, +and he says she'll be hard to beat.” + +Crane frowned. “What boy?” he asked, abruptly. + +“Shandy.” + +“Well, just drop that; chuck that game. John Porter has his own +troubles. If he can win, let him. He can't if The Dutchman keeps well; +but anyway, our own horses will keep us fully occupied.” + +Langdon was dumbfounded. If Crane had opened the Bible and read a +chapter from St. Luke he would not have been more astonished. It had +occurred to him that he had done a remarkably smart thing; he had +expected commendation for his adroitness in looking after his master's +interests. This disapprobation of such a trivial matter as the touting +off of an opponent's horses was another new discovery in his master's +character. Where were they at, anyway? Presently Crane would be asking +him to give the public a fair run for their money each time out. + +All at once a light dawned upon Langdon. Crane was doubling on him. He +saw it like a flash. His employer had a tout on the ground himself; that +was how he had got next some good performance of Diablo's. My, but it +was clever; he could appreciate it. Crane rose in his estimation again. + +Quite humbly he answered: “Very, well; it's not my funeral; I'll bring +The Dutchman to the post fit to run the race of his life. If Lucretia +beats him it won't be my fault. I thought perhaps you might want to +hedge a bit on Porter's mare.” + +“I don't think it. I'll stand The Dutchman; there are too many in +to start backing them all. Let me know if the Black gives you any +encouragement, and I'll see about placing him.” + +After Langdon had gone Crane lighted a fresh cigar and let his thoughts +circle about Allis and Diablo. It would be just like the play of Fate +for the horse to turn out good, now that John Porter had got rid of him. +When evil fortune set its hard face against a man he could do little +toward making the wicked god smile, and Porter, even when he was about, +was a poor hand at compelling success. + + . . . . . . . . . . + +Jakey Faust learned of Diablo's transition from Porter's to Langdon's +stable. This information caused him little interest at first; indeed, he +marveled somewhat at two such clever men as Crane and Langdon acquiring +a horse of Diablo's caliber. + +Faust's business relationship with Crane was to a certain degree +tentative. Crane never confided utterly in anybody; if agents obeyed +his behests, well and good; and each transaction was always completed in +itself. He had discovered Faust and used him when it suited his purpose. + +Some time after the purchase of Diablo, Jakey, reading his Morning +Telegraph, came with much interest upon the entries for the Brooklyn +Handicap, published that day. They were all the old campaigning Handicap +horses, as familiar to Faust as his fellow members of the betting ring. +As his eye ran down the long list a sudden little pig grunt of surprise +bubbled up through his fat throat. “Gee, Diablo! Oh, ho, Mr. Crane!” + +He tore out the list and put it in his pocket; then he sat for a time, +thinking. The result was a run down to Gravesend to pay just a friendly +visit to Langdon. + +As far as Crane was concerned, the Trainer and the Bookmaker were like +two burglars suddenly coming upon each other while robbing the same +house; they were somewhat in a condition of armed neutrality, toward +each other. + +Faust hoped that Langdon would talk about Diablo; but the Trainer was +like most of his guild generally, a close-mouthed man, so Jakey had to +make his own running. + +“What's the boss goin' to do with Diablo?” he asked Langdon. + +“Must 've bought him for a work horse, I guess,” the Trainer answered. + +“Is he any good?” + +“He can eat; that's all I see from him yet.” + +“What did he buy him for?” + +“To help a snoozer that was sittin' in bad luck.” + +Faust had an odd habit of causing his fat sides to ripple like troubled +water when he wished to convey the impression that he was amused; he +never laughed, just the rib ripple. + +“What's funny?” Langdon asked, eying Jakey, with querulous disfavor. + +“Crane buying a horse to help a man,” answered the Cherub, wondering if +Langdon was so devoid of humor as to take it seriously. + +“Crane told me so himself,” said the Trainer; “Porter's hurt, an' I +guess they're in a hole, an' the boss took over Diablo.” + +“Say, Dick,” and Faust edged close enough to tap the other man's ribs +with his thumb, “were you born yesterday? I say,” continued the Cherub, +for Langdon had turned away somewhat impatiently, “what's the good av +givin' me that gup; you didn't stand for it yourself--not on yer life. +Th' old man's pretty slick; buys a bad horse to help a poor mutt, an' +enters him in the Brooklyn, eh?” + +“The Brooklyn!” exclaimed Langdon, thrown off his guard. + +With corpulent intensity the Cherub melodramatically drew from his +pocket the Telegraph clipping and tendered it to Langdon, watching the +latter's face closely. “That's the pea, Dick, eh?” he asked. + +Langdon was thinking. Was Crane doubling on him all around? Why the +devil hadn't he told him? + +“Now you ain't takin' in that fairy tale of Crane's any more'n I am, +Dick. Why can't we do a bit for ourselves over this; it won't hurt the +boss none. Won't throw him down. This horse was a good youngster, an' +Crane didn't get him without seein' him do somethin'. You jest keep me +posted, an' if he shapes good I can back 'm fer an old-time killin', +see? I'll divvy up straight.” + +Langdon didn't answer at once--not with satisfaction to Faust; he knew +that Crane held the butter for his bread, even the bread itself; but +here was a man with cake, and he loved cake. Finally, in the glamour +of Jakey's talk of untold wealth to be acquired, Langdon, swayed by +the cupidity of his nature rather than his better judgment, promised +half-heartedly to cooperate with Faust. + +But no sooner had the latter gone than the lode-star of Langdon's +self-interest flickered clearly in view, and he promised Mr. Jakey, +mentally, a long trip to a very hot place, indeed, rather than a +surreptitious partnership over Diablo. + +It was some little time after this, while Faust was feeling somewhat +irritated at the absence of information from Langdon, that he had an +interview with Crane. + +“I want you to back The Dutchman to win fifty thousand for me over the +Brooklyn Derby,” the latter said. + +“But there's no winner book on it,” objected Faust. + +“That's just where your cleverness will come in,” suavely answered +Crane. “There's no hurry, and there are always people looking for +foolish money. There's one such in Chicago, O'Leary; and I fancy they +could even be found in New York. But you ought to get fifty to one, +about it, if you put it on easy.” + +“I see you have Diablo entered for the Brooklyn,” Faust put out as a +feeler. “Don't you want a commission worked on him?” + +“I didn't enter him; that was somebody else's foolishness, and I don't +want to back him.” + +“He's a hundred to one.” + +“A thousand would be short odds, I should say,” answered Crane. “But +wait a bit. I bought him just to--well, I took him from some people who +were tired of his cannibal ways, and promised to have a small bet on him +the first time he ran, for--for the man.” The equivocation was really a +touch of delicacy. “You might take the odds to fifty for me; there's not +one chance in a million of his starting, but I might forget all about +this little matter of the bet, even if I were foolish enough to pay +post-money on him.” + +“Hadn't I better dribble on more from time to time, if he has a chance?” + +“Not of my money, thanks!” The “thanks” clipped like a steel trap, and +the business was completed. + +Faust went away more than ever suspicious of Crane and Diablo. That +fifty dollars being put on for anybody else was bunkum. What was Crane +up to anyway? If he really meant to back the horse he would not have +started with such a trifle. Perhaps Diablo had been stuck in the +Brooklyn simply to see how the handicapper would rate him. + +Faust was convinced that Crane had some big coup in view; he would wait +a little, and at the first move have a strong play himself. + + + + +XIX + + +Langdon was a consummate trainer, a student of horse character. He knew +that while biniodide of mercury would blister and put right a bowed +tendon, or the firing iron take the life out of a splint, that a much +finer knowledge than this was requisite to get fullhearted work out of +a thoroughbred. Brain must be pitted against brain; so he studied +his horses; and when Diablo came into his hands, possessed of a mind +disease, he worked over him with considerable intelligent patience. + +This study of horse character was the very thing that had caused him to +go wrong over Lauzanne. He had not gone quite far enough; had not +waited for time to demonstrate clearly the horse's temperament, but had +recourse to a cocaine stimulant. But with him Lauzanne's case had been +exceptional. + +At first there was little encouragement over Diablo, but almost by +accident Langdon discovered that the Black's bad temper was always +fanned into a blaze by the sight of the boy Shandy. + +Then came a glint of hope. Diablo took a fancy to Westley, the jockey, +who was experimentally put on his back in the working gallop. After that +Shandy was kept out of the way; Westley took Diablo under his care, and +the big horse began to show a surprising improvement. + +Crane had been quite honest in his statement that he thought Diablo a +bad horse. His having been entered by Porter in the “Brooklyn” suggested +the possiability that his former owner must have seen some merit in the +horse. At any rate, he advised Langdon to give Diablo a patient trial. +He really had very little idea that the horse would start in the +Handicap--it seemed improbable. Langdon was also convinced that Porter +had discovered something great in Diablo; that Crane knew this, and had +paid a stiff price for the horse, and to his own ends was keeping it +dark. + +As the winter turned into April he intimated to Crane that it was time +for them to decide the placing of the horses, and suggested that they +try them out. Crane had already decided to race The Dutchman this +year in his own name and not in Langdon's. If The Dutchman came up to +expectation they could give him a slow preparation up to Derby time; +they could find out whether Diablo was worth keeping for--well, for +Morris Park or Gravesend, or they could hurry him on a little, and start +him at Aqueduct. + +Crane agreed with this reasoning, and it was decided to give the two +horses a home trial. + +On the day that Langdon had said he would try Diablo and The Dutchman, +Crane went down to Gravesend. When he got to the Trainer's house he +found the latter waiting for him. + +“I sent the horses over with the boys,” Langdon said; “if you'll just +wait a minute, I'll have a buggy hitched up and we'll drive over.” + +A stable-boy brought the trap to the door in a few minutes, and Langdon, +telling Crane to get in, disappeared into the house, returning presently +with two saddles, which he placed in the buggy. + +“A couple of favorite saddles of mine,” he explained, “they're like old +fiddles that great players carry about under their arms an' sleep with, +an' never let no one but themselves touch.” + +“Are you that particular with these?” asked Crane by way of +conversation, not feeling at all interested in what he considered a fad +of the Trainer's. + +“Yes; I mostly handle 'em myself. They cost a bit. I had 'em made to +order. The boys is that careless, they'd smash anything.” + +As they jogged along, Langdon kept up a monologue dissertation on the +merits of the two horses. “It's a good day for a gallop,” and he flicked +the driving beast's quarter with the whip; “there's not much wind, an' +the air's a bit sharp. They'll be on their mettle, the both of 'em, more +'specially Diablo. I had his plates changed. 'Pears to me he hadn't been +shod in three moons; I'll bet the smith took an inch off his toes.” Then +he broke off to chuckle awhile. + +Crane was not skilled in the anatomy of a horse, beyond as it worked out +in winning races and money. That a horse had toes had never quite come +into his knowledge, and Langdon's gurgle of mirth he put down to a +suspicion that the Trainer was taking a rise out of him in what he had +said. + +“I was thinking of Paddy Caramagh when he shod Diablo the other day. I +think you've heard Pat swear. He holds the belt for cussin' in this part +of the country. Well, he let it all out of him before he'd finished with +the Black. Ha, ha, ha, ha! I can hear him still, with the sweat running +off his face like oats spilling from a feed bag. I says to Paddy, 'Rub +his nose a bit,' for I could see it was more nervousness with the horse +than sheer deviltry. 'With what?' says Paddy, 'the hammer? Be gor! +You're right, though,' says he, and with that he tries to put a twister +on Diablo's nose. Holy mother! Diablo reached for him, and lifted the +shirt clean off his back. Say, there was a scared Irishman, if you ever +saw one in your life. He threw down the plate, cussin' as only Paddy +can, and swore the brute could run till he'd wore his hoofs off, for all +of him. Well, I takes hold of the Black's head, an' kids him a bit, only +firm-like, and we shod him right enough.” + +“He is bad tempered, then?” asked Crane. + +“No; just wants a fair deal; that's all. You make him believe you're on +the square, an' he'll do what's right. But he hasn't got no use for any +of the guys that gets a cranky play in on him; he won't stand it. I'm +going to put Westley up on him to-day.” + +“What about The Dutchman?” + +“Colley'll do. Any kid can ride him, if they sit still. He's just the +easiest-tempered horse ever looked through a bridle; he knows what's +doin' all the time. But Colley ain't no good on Diablo, an' if he can +smell Shandy, that settles it--it's all over. I'll put Westley up; it +takes a man to ride that horse.” + +“What about this gallop?” asked Crane; “there'll be spies about trying +to find out things, won't there?” + +“Bet yer life, there'll be somebody, sir. It's just like when I was +out in Colorado; you couldn't see a vulture if you traveled forty days, +perhaps, but plant a dead thing anywhere and in an hour the sky simply +rained 'em down. These touts is most like vultures of anything I know; +you've just got to work your stunt to give 'em the go-by, that's all.” + +Crane took but an apathetic interest in the matters that held full sway +over the Trainer's mind; looking after these incidents was Langdon's +part of the contract. + +That was why they were so strong together. Langdon could do it. Just how +the trial was to benefit them alone, with the inevitable tout at hand, +Crane knew not, neither did he investigate; that was up to the Trainer. + +They drove into the paddock. Westley, Colley, and the two stable lads +were there. + +“Shall we bring out the horses?” asked Westley, as Langdon sat swinging +a leg loosely over the end of the buggy seat. + +“Any of the talent about, Bill?” + +“Quite likely, though I haven't seen none.” + +“Well, we'll slip 'em now. Just saddle up careless like, and no +preliminary, mind you. The sharks won't look for a brush till you've +gone around once. Take your mounts down the stretch to the quarter post, +an' then come away the first break; if there's anyone toutin' you off, +they'll think it just a pipe opener, an' won't catch the time. Run out +the mile-an'-a-quarter, make a race of it, but don't go to the bat. +Diablo an' The Dutchman don't need no whip to give us about the best +they've got.” + +“All right, sir,” answered Westley. “If I'm a judge, when the Black's +through pullin', he's done racin', 'cause he's a keen one, so there +won't be no call to put the bud to him. If any of the rail birds is +lookin' they'll think we're goin' under a strong wrap, even when we're +all out.” + +Lang don nodded his head. He was a man not given to exuberant +appreciation. The boys averred that when Dick Langdon didn't curse at +them they had done pretty well, indeed. + +“What's your weight?” he asked of Westley, abruptly. + +“I've just tipped the scales at a hundred-and-three in my sweater.” + +“One hundred and three,” mused the Trainer, making a mental calculation. +“What's Colley's weight?” + +“He's as near a hundred as you can make it.” + +“Did you bring over a saddle?” + +“Yes; two of 'em; one apiece for the horses.” + +“Tell Colley to take one, and some leads, and weigh out a hundred and +twelve. That'll be three pounds above the scale for May, weight for age, +for the three-year-old, The Dutchman. I guess he won't need more'n seven +pounds dead weight, for it's a five-pound saddle, I think. Let me see, +you said a hundred and three, you were.” + +“Yes, sir; in the sweater; I can take that off--” + +“No; never mind. Take this saddle,” and he lifted one from the buggy; +“it'll just suit Diablo; he's got a herring-bone of a wither, an' this +is high in the tree, an' won't cut him. Here's the cloth an' some +leads; weigh out a hundred and twelve too. Weight for age--Diablo's a +four-year-old; you ought to carry a hundred and twenty-six, but he's not +The Dutchman's class, an' the ycungster'd lose him before they'd gone +half the journey. We'll run 'em at level weights, an' he'll get closer +to The Dutchman, an' the sharks won't have such a fairy tale to tell +about our horse.” + +“A hundred and twelve, you said, sir?” queried Westley, as he put the +saddle that Langdon handed him over his left arm, slipped the thin +sheets of lead in his pocket, and stood dangling the linen weight cloth +in his right hand. + +“Yes; level weights--a hundred an' twelve pounds.” + +“Westley,” the Trainer called as the little man started off, “just bring +the saddle back to me here when you've weighed. I'll put it on Diablo +myself; he's a touchy cuss, and I don't want him ruffled by careless +handlin'.” + +“You take considerable trouble over it,” remarked Crane. “One would +think it was a big handicap you meant to capture this morning.” + +Langdon started visibly. Was Crane thinking of the Brooklyn? Did this +quiet, clever man sitting at his elbow already know as much as he hoped +to discover in his present gallop? + +He answered: “Handicaps is usually won pretty much like this; they're +generally settled before the horse goes to the post for the trip itself. +When he goes through the paddock gate the day of the big race he's +out of his trainer's hands; the man's got no more to do with the race +himself than a kid sittin' up in the grand stand. Here's where I come +in, if we mean to land the Brooklyn,” and he looked searchingly at +Crane, a misleading grin on his lips. But the latter simply joined in +the laugh, doubtingly, perhaps. + +“A hundred and twelve, neat,” declared Westley, as he returned, throwing +some loose leads into the buggy. “Colley's gone to saddle The Dutchman.” + +“All right,” answered Langdon, getting down from the seat and taking +the saddle. “Go and tell the boy to bring Diablo out of the stall. I'll +saddle him in the open. He generally kicks the boards when I cinch him +up, an' it puts him in a bad humor.” + +Langdon started off with the jockey, but turned back, saying, “Oh, Mr. +Crane, I wanted to ask you--” + +By this he had reached the buggy, while Westley continued on his way to +the stalls. + +“It's a fine day, sir,” continued Langdon, finishing his sentence, +and exchanging the saddle held in his hand for the one that was in the +buggy. + +“Going to put the other on?” asked Crane. + +“Yes; I fancy Diablo will like this better. Touchy brutes, these race +horses; got to humor 'em. Come on over to the stalls--the horse'll +stand.” + +Diablo was being led around in a small circle by his boy. He was a +magnificent creature, sixteen and a half hands high, and built on the +same grand scale; perhaps a bit leggy for the huge barrel that topped +the limbs; that was what caused him to go wrong in his younger days. His +black skin glistened in the noonday sun. + +“That's what I call the mirror of health,” said Langdon, in an unwonted +burst of poetic eloquence, as he passed his hand across the horse's +ribs. Then feeling that somehow he had laid himself open to a suspicion +of gentleness, added, “He's a hell of a fine looker; if he could gallop +up to his looks he'd make some of the cracks take a back seat.” + +Even Diablo had resented either the mellifluous comparison or the rub +of Langdon's hand, for he lashed out furiously, with a great farreaching +leg that nearly caught Crane unawares. + +“Your polite language seems to be as irritating to him as the +blacksmith's oaths,” ejaculated Crane, as he came back from the hasty +retreat he had beaten. + +“It's only play. Good horses is of two kinds when you're saddlin' 'em. +The Dutchman there'll hang his head down, and champ at the bit, even +if you bury the girt' an inch deep in his belly; he's honest, and knows +it's all needed. That's one kind; and they're generally the same at the +post, always there or thereabouts, waitin' for the word 'go.' An' they +race pretty much the same all the time. If you time 'em a mile in 1:40 +at home, they'll do it when the colors is up, an' the silk a-flappin' +all about 'em in the race. + +“Whoa! Hold still, you brute! Steady, steady! Whoa!” This to Diablo, for +while talking he had adjusted the weight cloth with the gentleness of a +cavalier putting a silk wrap about his lady love's neck, and had put a +fold of soft woolen cloth over the high-boned wither. + +“Stand out in front of him and hold his head down a bit;” this to the +boy. Then as he slipped the saddle into place and reached underneath +for the girths, he continued his address to Crane on the peculiarity of +racers. + +“Now this is a horse of another color, this one; he ain't takin' things +easy at no stage of the game. He objects to everything, an' some day +that'll land him a winner, see? He'll get it into his head that the +other horses want to beat him out, an' he'll show 'em a clean pair of +heels; come home on the bit, pullin' double. Whoa, boy! Steady, steady, +old man!” Then he ceased talking, for he had taken the girth strap +between his teeth, and was cinching up the big Black with the firm pull +of a grizzly. Diablo squirmed under the torture of the tightening web on +his sensitive skin, and crouched as though he would fall on the Trainer. + +“Yes, sir;” continued Langdon, as he ran the stirrups up under the +saddle flap out of the way, and motioned to the boy to lead Diablo +about. “Yes, sir; this fellow's different. He's too damn sensitive. +At the post he's like as not to act like a locoed broncho, an' get one +blamed for having 'juiced' him, but he don't need no dope; what he needs +is steadying. If he gets away in front, them long legs of his will +take some catchin'. He's the kind that wins when the books are layin' a +hundred to one against him. But the worst of it is with his sort, like +as not the owner hasn't a penny on them; but the public'll howl; they'll +call it in-an'-out runnin'; an' the scribblers'll get their paper to +print a notice that the stable ought to be ruled off; an' all the time +you're breakin' your heart trying to get him to give his true--Hello! +there's Colley out on The Dutchman; mount your horse, Westley--wait, +you don't need no spurs; yes, carry a whip, an' give the guys that is +watchin' a stage play with it; but don't hit the Black. We'll just see +what he'll do himself, this trip,” he added, addressing Crane. + +Taking Westley's small-booted foot in his hand, he lifted the lad to +Diablo's back, and led the horse out through a gate to the course. + + + + +XX + + +The two boys cantered their mounts down to the quarter post carelessly, +as though they were going around to the far side. + +“Look at 'em!” cried the Trainer; “isn't he a little gentleman?” + +To the uninitiated this might have been taken as a tribute to one of the +boys, Westley, perhaps; but the Trainer was not even thinking of them. +They were of no moment. It was the wine-red bay, The Dutchman, cantering +with gentle, lazy grace, that had drawn forth this encomium. His head, +somewhat high carried, was held straight and true in front, and his big +eyes searched the course with gentle inquisitiveness, for others of his +kind, perhaps. + +“He's a lovely horse,” commented Crane, knowing quite well to what +Langdon referred. + +“He's all that, but just look at the other devil.” + +Diablo was throwing his nose fretfully up and down, up and down; +grabbing at the bit; pirouetting from one side the course to the other; +nearly pulling Westley over his neck one minute, as with lowered head he +sought to break away, and the next dashing forward for a few yards with +it stuck foolishly high, like a badmouthed Indian cayuse. + +“But Westley'll manage him,” Langdon confided to Crane, after a period +of silent observation; “he'll get his belly full of runnin' when he's +gone a mile and a quarter with The Dutchman. Gad! that was neat; here +they come;” for the two boys had whirled with sudden skill at the +quarter post, and broke away, with Diablo slightly in the lead. “My God! +he can move,” muttered Langdon, abstractedly, and quite to himself. The +man at his side had floated into oblivion. He saw only a great striding +black horse coming wide-mouthed up the stretch. At the Black's heels, +with dogged lope, hung the Bay. + +“Take him back, take him back, Westley!” yelled Langdon, leaning far out +over the rail, as the horses raced by, Diablo well in front. + +The Trainer's admonition seemed like a cry to a cyclone, as void of +usefulness. What power could the tiny dot lying close hugged far up on +the straining black neck have over the galloping fiend? + +“Yes, that's the way,” Langdon said, nodding his head to Crane, and +jerking a thumb out toward the first turn in the course, where the +two horses were hugging close to the rail; “that's the way he's worked +here.” + +“Which one?” asked his companion. + +“The Black, an' if he ever does that in a race--God help the +others--they'll never catch him; they'll never catch him; they'll never +catch him,” he kept repeating, dwelling lovingly on the thought, as he +saw the confirmation of it being enacted before his eyes; for across the +new green of the grass-sprouted course he could see two open lengths of +daylight between Diablo and The Dutchman. + +“Fifty-one and a half for the half-mile,” he imparted to Crane, looking +at his watch. “Now The Dutchman is moving up; Colley doesn't mean to get +left if he can help it. I'm afraid Diablo'll shut up when he's pinched; +his kind are apt to do that. The Dutchman is game, an' if he ever gets +to the Black's throat-latch he'll chuck it. But it takes some ridin'; +it takes some ridin', sir.” He was becoming enthusiastic, exuberant. +The silent man at his side noticed the childish repetition with inward +amusement. He had thought that Langdon would have been overjoyed to +see the bay horse smother his opponent. Was not the Trainer to have +ten thousand dollars if The Dutchman won the Handicap? But here he was +pinning his satisfaction to the good showing of Diablo. He didn't know +of the compact between Langdon and the Bookmaker Faust, but he strongly +suspected from the Trainer's demeanor that the gallop he was witnessing +foretold some big coup the latter scented. + +“He hasn't got him yet, he hasn't got him yet!” cried Langdon, joyfully, +as the horses swung around the bottom turn, closer locked, but with +Diablo still a short length in the lead. + +Crane saw no great cause for exhilaration. The Dutchman was certainly +giving the Black twenty pounds the best of it in the weights, for one +was a three-year-old while the other was four, and they each carried a +hundred and twelve. + +“The mile in 1:42,” chirped Langdon. “That's movin', if you like, +considerin' the track, the condition of the horses, an' that they're +runnin' under a double wrap. Now we'll see a ding-dong finish, if the +Black doesn't show a streak of yellow. Dutchy's got him,” he added, as +through his glasses he saw them swing into the straight, neck and neck. + +“Clever Mr. Westlev!” for Diablo's rider, having the rail and the lead, +had bored out slightly on the turn, so as not to cramp the uncertain +horse he rode, and carried The Dutchman wide. + +Up the straight they came, the boys helping their mounts with leg and +arm; the Black holding his own with a dogged persistence that quite +upset Langdon's prognostication of cowardice. + +To the watchers it was as exciting as a stake race. The stamina that +Langdon had said would stand The Dutchman in good stead over the mile +and a half Handicap course now showed itself. First he was level with +the Black, then gradually, stride by stride, he drew away from Diablo, +and finished a short length in front. + +“A great trial,” cried the Trainer, gleefully, holding out his watch for +Crane's inspection. “See that!” pointing to the hand he had stopped as +the Bay's brown nozzle flashed by the post; “two-nine on this course! +Anything that beats that pair, fit and well, a mile and a quarter on a +fast track'll have to make it in two-five, an' that's the record.” + +“It looks good business for the Derby, Langdon.” + +“Yes, it does. That's the first showing I've had from the colt as +a three-year-old; but I knew he had it in him. Hanover was a great +horse--to my mind we never had his equal in America--but this +youngster'll be as good as his daddy ever was. I don't think you ought +to start him, sir, till the Derby, if you're set on winnin' it.” + +He had moved up to the gate as he talked, and now opened it, waiting for +the boys to come back. They had eased down the horses gradually after +the fierce gallop, turned them about and were trotting toward the +paddock, where stood the two men. Langdon took Diablo by the bridle rein +and led him in toward the stalls. + +“How did he shape under you, Westley?” he asked, as the boy slipped from +the saddle. + +“I wouldn't ask to ride a better horse. I thought I had the colt beaten, +sure; but my mount seemed to tire a little at the finish. He didn't toss +it up, not a bit of it; ran as game as a pebble; he just tired at the +finish. I think a mile is his journey. He held The Dutchman safe at a +mile.” + +“I guess you're right, Westley; a mile's his limit. At level weights +with the three-year-old, which means that he had twenty pounds the best +of it, he should have held his own the whole route to be a stayer, for +the colt isn't more'n half ready yet.” + +“I didn't hustle him none too much, sir; I might a-squeezed a bit more +out of him. Did we make fair time?” + +“Quite a feeler, Mister Jockey,” thought Langdon to himself; “it's news +you want, eh?” Then he answered aloud, with a diplomacy born of many +years of turf tuition: “Fairish sort of time; it might have been better, +perhaps--a shade under two-twelve. I thought they might have bettered +that a couple of seconds. But they'll come on--they'll come on, both of +them. If anybody asks you, Westley, The Dutchman was beaten off, see? +I don't like to discourage the clever owners that has good 'uns in +the Derby” Then he added as a sort of after thought, and with wondrous +carelessness: + +“It doesn't matter about the Black, you know; he's only a sellin' +plater, so it doesn't matter. But all the same, Westley, when we find a +soft spot for him, an over-night sellin' purse or somethin, you'll have +the leg up, with a bet down for you at a long price, see?” + +“I understand, sir.” + +By the time Langdon had slipped the saddle from Diablo's back the boy +had thrown a hooded blanket over him, and he was led away. “Send them +home, Westley. Now, Mr. Crane, we'll drive back to the house an' have a +bit of lunch.” + +As they drove along Crane brought up the subject of the trial. + +“The colt must be extra good, Langdon, or the Black is--well, as he was +represented to be, not much account.” + +“I guess Diablo's about good enough to win a big handicap, if he +happened to be in one at a light weight.” + +“He didn't win to-day.” + +“He came pretty near it.” + +“But where would he have been carrying his proper weight?” + +“About where he was, I guess.” + +“You said as a four-year-old he should have had up a hundred and +twenty-six, and he carried a hundred and twelve; and, besides, had the +best boy by seven pounds on his back.” + +“Just pass me that saddle, Mr. Crane,” said Langdon, by way of answer. +“No; not that--the one I took off Diablo.” + +Crane reached down his hand, but the saddle didn't come quite as freely +as it should have. “What's it caught in?” he asked, fretfully. + +“In itself, I reckon--lift it.” “Gad! it's heavy. Did Diablo carry that? +What's in it?” + +“Lead-built into it; it's my old fiddle, you know. You're the first man +that's had his hand on that saddle for some time, I can tell you.” + +“Then Diablo did carry his full weight,” commented Crane, a light +breaking in upon him. + +“Just about, and carried it like a stake horse, too.” + +“And you--” + +“Yes; I changed the saddles after Westley weighed. He's a good boy, and +don't shoot off his mouth much, but all the same things will out while +ridin' boys have the power of speech.” + +“It looks as though Diablo had something in him,” said Crane, +meditatively. + +“He's got the Brooklyn in him. Fancy The Dutchman in at seventy pounds; +that's what it comes to. Diablo's got ninety to carry, an' he gave the +other twenty pounds to-day. You've got the greatest thing on earth right +in your hands now--” + +Langdon hesitated for a minute, and then added: “But I guess you knew +this all before, or you wouldn't have sent him here.” + +“I bought him for a bad horse,” answered Crane, quietly; “but if he +turns out well, that's so much to the good. But it's a bit of luck +Porter's not having declared him out to save nearly a hundred. He seems +to have raced pretty loose.” + +“I wonder if he thinks I'm taking in that fairy tale?” thought Langdon. +Aloud, he said: “But you'll back him now, sir, won't you? He must be a +long price in the winter books.” + +“Yes; I'll arrange that,” answered the other, “and I'll take care of +you, too. I suppose Westley will take the mount?” + +“Surely.” + +“Well, you can just give him to understand that he'll be looked after if +the horse wins.” + +“It's the Brooklyn, sir, is it?” + +“Seems like it.” + +“I won't say anything about the race to Westley, though.” + +“I'll leave all that to you. I'll attend to getting the money on; you do +the rest.” + +When Crane had gone, Langdon paid further mental tribute to his master's +astuteness. “Now I see it all,” he muttered; “the old man just thought +to keep me quiet; throw me of the scent till he duplicated the other +trial, whenever they pulled it off. Now he's got a sure line on the +Black, an' he'll make such a killin' that the books'll remember him for +many a day. But why does he keep throwin' that fairy tale into me +about buyin' a bad horse to oblige somebody? A man would be a sucker to +believe that of Crane; he's not the sort. But one sure thing, he said +he'd look after me, an' he will. He'd break a man quick enough, but when +he gives his word it stands. Mr. Jakey Faust can look after himself: +I'm not goin' to take chances of losin' a big stable of bread-winners by +doublin' on the Boss.” + +Langdon's mental analysis of Crane's motives was the outcome of +considerable experience. The Banker's past life was not compatible with +generous dealing. His act of buying Diablo had been prompted by newborn +feelings of regard for the Porters, chiefly Allis; but no man, much less +Langdon, would have given him credit for other than the most selfish +motives. + +True to his resolve, Langdon utterly refused to share his confidences +with Jakey Faust. + +“We've tried the horses,” he said, “and the Dutchman won, but Crane +knows more about the whole business than I do. You go to him, Jake, or +wait till he sends for you, an' you'll find out all about it. My game's +to run straight with one man, anyway, an' I'm goin' to do it.” + +That was all Faust could learn. When an occasion offered he slipped a +ten-dollar note into Shandy's hand, for he knew the lad was full open to +a bribe, but Shandy knew no more than did the Bookmaker. The Dutchman, +had won the trial from the Black quite easily, was the extent of his +knowledge. As to Diablo himself, Shandy gave him a very bad character +indeed. + + + + +XXI + + +Faust was in a quandary. First Crane had confided in him over Diablo, +but now his silence seemed to indicate that he meant to have this good +thing all to himself. + +Then Langdon had promised to cooperate, now he, too, had closed up like +a clam; he was as mute as an oyster. + +“Crane is dealin' the cards all the time,” thought Faust; “but there's +some game on, sure.” + +He determined to back Diablo for himself at the long odds, and chance +it. + +Two days later Crane received a very illiterate epistle, evidently from +a stable-boy; it was unsigned: + +“DERE Boss, Yous is gittin it in the neck. de big blak hors he didn't +carre the sadel you think the blak hors had on his bak. Yous got de +duble cros that time. Der bokie hes axin me wot de blak is good fer der +bokie is playin fer to trow yous downe. + +“No moar at presen.” + +This was the wholly ambiguous communication that Crane had found under +his door. There was no stamp, neither place nor date written in the +letter; nothing but an evident warning from some one, who, no doubt, +hoped to get into his good graces by putting him on his guard. + +As it happened, Crane had just made up his mind to make his plunge on +Diablo while the odds were long enough to make it possible with the +outlay of very little capital. He smoked a heavy Manuel Garcia over +this new contingency. It did not matter about the saddles. Langdon had +confided in him fully. But how had the writer of the ill-spelled missive +known of that matter? + +Yes, he had better make his bet before these whisperings came to other +ears. + +But the bookmaker mentioned? That must be Faust. Why was he prowling +about among stable lads? + +He sent for Faust. When the latter had come, Crane asked Diablo's price +for the Brooklyn. + +“It's thirty to one now,” replied the Bookmaker; “somebody's backin' +him.” + +Faust's small baby eyes were fixed furtively on Crane's pale, sallow +face, as he imparted this information; but he might as well have studied +the ingrain paper on the wall; its unfigured surface was not more +placid, more devoid of indication, than the smooth countenance he was +searching. + +Crane remained tantalizingly silent for a full minute; evidently his +thoughts had drifted away to some other subject. + +“Yes,” said Faust, speaking again to break the trying quiet, “some one's +nibblin' at Diablo in the books. I wonder if it's Porter; did he think +him a good horse?” + +“It can't be Porter, nor any one else who knows Diablo. It's some +foolish outsider, tempted by the long odds. I suppose, however, it +doesn't matter; in fact, it's all the better. You took that five +thousand to fifty for me, didn't you?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, just lay it off. You can do so now at a profit.” + +“You don't want to back Diablo, then? Shall I lay against him further?” + +“If you like--in your own book. I don't want to have anything to do +with him, one way or the other. I always thought he was a bad horse, +and--and--well, never mind, just lay that bet off. I shall probably want +to back The Dutchman again shortly.” + +When Faust had gone, Crane opened the little drawer which held his +betting book, took it out, and drew a pencil through the entry he had +made opposite Allis's name. + +“That's off for a few days, thanks to Mr. Faust,” he thought. Then +he ran his eye back over several other entries. “Ah, that's the +man--Hummel; he'll do.” + +Next he consulted his telephone book; tracing his finger down the “H” + column he came to “Ike Hummel, commission broker, Madison 71184.” + +Over the 'phone he made an appointment for the next day at eleven +o'clock with Hummel; and the result of that interview was that Crane +backed Diablo to win him a matter of seventy-five thousand dollars at +the liberal odds of seventy-five to one; for Jakey Faust, feeling that +he had made a mistake in backing the Black, had laid off all his own +bets and sent the horse back in the market to the longer odds. Crane had +completely thrown him of his guard. + +No sooner had Faust congratulated himself upon having slipped out of his +Diablo bets than he heard that a big commission had been most skillfully +worked on this outsider for the Brooklyn. In his new dilemma he went to +Crane, feeling very much at sea. + +“They're backin' your horse again, sir,” he said. + +“Are they?” + +“Yes; heavy.” + +“If he's worth backing at all I suppose he's worth backing heavily.” + +This aphorism seemed to merit a new cigar on Crane's part, so he lighted +one. + +“He's travelin' up and down in the market,” continues Faust. “He dropped +to thirty, then went back to seventy-five; now he's at twenty; I can't +make it out.” + +“I shouldn't try,” advised Crane, soothingly. “Too much knowledge is +even as great a danger as a lesser amount sometimes.” + +Faust started guiltily and looked with quick inquiry at the speaker, +but, as usual, there was nothing in his presence beyond the words to +hang a conjecture on. + +“I thought for your sake that I'd better find out.” + +“Oh, don't worry about me; that is, too much, you know. I go down to +Gravesend once in a while myself, and no doubt know all that's doing.” + +A great fear fell upon Faust. Evidently this was an intimation to him +to keep away from the stables. How did Crane know--who had split on him? +Was it Langdon, or Shandy, or Colley? Some one had evidently aroused +Crane's suspicion, and this man of a great cleverness had put him away +while he worked a big commission through some one else. The thought +was none the less bitter to Faust that it was all his own fault; his +super-cleverness. + +“An' you don't want me to work a commission for you on Diablo?” he +asked, desperately. + +“No; I sha'n't bet on him at present. And say, Faust, in future when I +want you to do any betting on my horses, on my account, you know, I'll +tell you. Understand? You needn't worry, that is--other people. I'll +tell you myself.” + +“I didn't mean--” Faust had started to try a plausible explanation, but +Crane stopped him. + +“Never mind; the matter is closed out now.” + +“But, sir,” persisted Faust, “if you've got your money all on, can I +take a bit now? Is it good business? We've worked together a good deal +without misunderstanding before.” + +“Yes, we have,” commented Crane. + +“Yes; an' I'd like to be in on this now. I didn't mean to forestall +you.” + +Crane raised his hand in an attitude of supplication for the other man +to desist, but Faust was not to be stopped. + +“I made a mistake, an' I'm sorry; an' if you will tell me whether +Diablo's good business for the Brooklyn, I'll back him now at the +shorter price. There's no use of us bein' bad friends.” + +“I think Diablo's a fairly good bet,” said Crane, quietly, entirely +ignoring the question of friendship. + +“It won't be poachin' if I have a bet, then?” asked the Cherub, more +solicitous than he had appeared at an earlier stage of the game. + +“Poachers don't worry me,” remarked Diablo's owner. “I'm my own game +keeper, and they usually get the worst of it. But you go ahead and have +your bet.” + +“Thank you, there won't be no more bad breaks made by me; but I didn't +mean to give you none the worst of it. Good day, sir,” and he was gone. + +“Faust has had his lesson,” thought Crane, as he took from a drawer the +stable-boy's ill-favored note. + +“I wonder who sent me this scrawl? It gave me a pointer, though. I +suppose the writer will turn up for his reward; but the devil of it is +he'll sell information of this sort to anyone who'll buy. Must weed him +out when I've discovered the imp. At any rate Faust will go straight, +now he's been scorched. I'll just re-enter that bet to the Little Woman +while I think of it. 'Three thousand seven hundred and fifty to fifty, +Diablo for the Brooklyn, laid to Miss Allis Porter.'” Then he dated +it. “She loses by this transaction, but that won't matter; it will be +a pretty good win if it comes off. She may even refuse this, though she +shouldn't, for it's a part of the bargain that I was to have a bet on +for her, a small bet, of course. Yes, yes; I remember, a small bet. +But this is a small bet. There was nothing said about the size of the +winnings. She was probably thinking of gloves. Jingo, she has a lovely +hand, I've noticed it; long slim fingers, even the palm is long; sinewy +I'll warrant; nothing pudgy about that hand. Hey, Crane, you're silly!” + he cried, half audibly, taking himself to task; “doing business in big +moneys--a cool seventy-five thousand, if it materializes, perhaps even +more--and then slipping off into a mooney dream, vaporing about a girl's +slim hand. I suppose that's the love symptom. But at forty! it's hardly +my normal condition, I fancy.” + +The slim hand beckoned him off into a disjointed reverie. Was he the +better for it? What would the end be? Before the new emotion he could +look back upon his past struggles with sordid satisfaction. Men in +battle were not given to uneasy qualms of compunction, nor questionings +as to the method that had led to victory. His life had been one +long-drawn-out battle; the financial soldiers that had fallen by the +wayside because of his sword play did not interest him; they were +dead; being dead, their memory harrassed him not at all. If there were +commercial blood stains upon his hand, they were hidden by the glove +of success. After a manner he had had peace; now all was disquiet; the +turmoil of an awakened gentler feeling clashing with the polemics of +self-satisfying selfishness. And all because of a girl! To him that was +the peculiar feature of the disturbance in his nature. He, Philip +Crane, the strong man of strong men, to be shorn of his indifference to +everything but success by a girl unskilled in managing anything but a +horse. + +“It's all very fine to argue it out with one's self,” he thought, “but +I simply can't help it.” He was astonished to find that he was pacing up +and down the floor of his apartment. Undoubtedly he was possessed of a +tremendous regard for the girl Allis. But why not put it from him; why +not conquer himself as he had always done? To let it master him meant +the giving up of things that were almost second nature. He could not +love the girl as a good woman should be loved, and--and--well, the gray +eyes that had their strength because of supreme honesty would surely +bring him disquietude. It would indeed be difficult to change his nature +much; his habits were almost like leopard's spots; they were grown into +the woof of his existence. Even if he won her it must be almost entirely +because of a superior diplomacy. Everything told him that his love was +not returned. It seemed almost impossible that it should be; there was +not more disparity in their years than in their two selves. “All very +fine again,” he muttered, somewhat savagely; “I want her, I want her, +not because of anything but love. What she is, or what I am counts for +nothing; love is all compelling; my first master, I salute thee,” this +in sarcastic sincerity. + +In his strength he relied upon his power to bring forth an answering +love, at least regard, should he win Allis. Yes, it would surely come. +He had not even a young rival to combat. Yes, he would win, first Allis, +and afterward her love. + +“I'm quite silly,” he ejaculated; “but I can't help it. But I can go out +and get some fresh air, and I will.” + + + + +XXII + + +It was the middle of May. Down in the earth the strong heart of +reawakened nature throbbed with a pulsating force that sent new life +forth on its errand of rejuvenation. The apple trees had peeped out with +pink eyes, and seeing the summer maiden stalking through the land, had +thrown off their timid coyness and shaken loose a drapery of white, all +rose-tinted and green-shaded, that turned their broad-acred homes into +fairy ball rooms. And for music the bees, and the birds, and shrill +fife-playing frogs volunteered out of sheer joyousness of life. + +Tiny shavings of green wag, the gentle spring grass, lay strewn about +the ballroom floor, and glistened in the warm light that was of one +high-hung chandelier, the sun. + +But all the newborn awakening, all the sweet strength of soul and life +that was borne to the waiting land on the wings of soft winds, brought +not the hoped-for allotment to John Porter. + +At Ringwood they had waited for the springtime. That would work the cure +the doctor's skill had failed of. A man of outdoors, it was the house +caging that was killing him, keeping him back. + +These things were said; but Doctor Rathbone only shook his wise, old +head, with its world of good sense, and answered: “It is none of these +things. The trouble is in his mind; he is fretting. A sensitive man, +well in body, may be brought to illness by anticipated disaster. That +could not have been the case with John Porter well, but John Porter ill +is quite a different matter. It's as I have said before, give him hope, +win him races.” + +So Allis was really glad at the near approach of the time of her trial. +The day was coming fast, soon, when She was to go forth with her +little band of horses, as a man almost in everything, to strive for the +fulfillment of that which had been put upon her. + +The nearness of the not-to-be-shirked responsibility drove into her +veins an unlooked-for exhilaration of strength. She had thought that she +would look with dread upon the going away from Ringwood; that a feeling +much akin to stage fright would quite unnerve her at the very last. The +riding at home, the horse lore, and the almost constant companionship +with her father, always among horses and horsemen, though it appeared +somewhat dreadful to the village folks had been as nothing to her. Now +that she needed strength for the newer, stranger endeavor, it came to +her, even as the blossoms came to the swaying apple trees, great and +small. + +What wouldn't she do? she asked herself many times, to bring a +strength-giving peace to her father's troubled mind. Even Mrs. Porter, +implacably bitter against racing, must condone what was so evidently +Allis's study, if it tended to their happiness; the mother had softened +somewhat in the austerity of her opposition. + +Evening after evening they had discussed the gloomy outlook, with, +always from Allis's side, a glimmer of hopeful light. The girl's patient +resolve had worn down the mother's pessimistic dread of anticipated +evil. + +“You know, Allis,” she had said, “how I look upon this thoroughly +unchristian pursuit. Nothing can justify it from a true woman's point of +view, absolutely nothing--not even poverty. I would willingly suffer the +loss of all we possess--that it is so little is due to this dreadful, +immoral horse racing--but I would sacrifice even what remains, if +your father were well and willing to start afresh in some occupation +befitting his noble character. I would help him, to endure every +hardship, even deprivation, without a murmur.” + +“But, mother,” interrupted Allis, “it's impossible now; I think it +always was, for, as you know, father knew nothing of other business. +Nothing would tempt him to be dishonest in racing, and he always enjoyed +it because of his love for horses. But with all that, mother, if he had +been in a position to please you, if he had felt that we--you, and Alan, +and I--would not have suffered, I am sure he would have listened to +your pleadings and given it up. He might perhaps have gone on breeding +horses, for you wouldn't have objected to that, would you, mother?” + +“No, it's the wicked associations of the race course which I felt +degraded a man of your father's character. But I'm not going to +dishearten you, Allis, nor hamper you now in your brave acceptance +of the task that has come to you, because of wrong done before. It is +distasteful to me, of course; it would be to any right-minded mother, +to have her daughter in a position so repellant; but, strange as it may +seem I'd rather you went with the horses than Alan.” + +“Alan couldn't go, mother; he couldn't give up his place in the bank; +besides, father has purposely kept him from racing.” + +“I know it, Allis; I wasn't thinking of that, though. Alan has the +gambling spirit born in him; it's not his fault; it's the visitation of +the sins of the father upon the son. It came to your father in just the +same way. No, I'm not even blaming your father for it; it has come down +from generation to generation; but there has never been dishonor, thank +God--there has never been a dishonest Porter in my husband's family, +and, please God, there never may be. That would be too much! It would +kill me. And it's better that you go, Allis, for Alan is but a boy, +and the temptations to a young man at the race course must be almost +impossible to resist. Besides, your going may bring new life to your +father; the doctor is so hopeful--he says it will. He was afraid that +he had shocked me, when he said you were to win races for your father's +good. It displeased the pastor; I know it did, but perhaps he doesn't +quite understand how much we have at stake.” + +“He's so narrow, mother.” + +“The Reverend Mr. Dolman thinks only of our souls, daughter; naturally, +too, and one can hardly be a Christian and race horses. But we have got +so much to consider. I hope I am not wrong in feeling glad that you are +able to look after our interests. I should like to pray for your success +even, Allis. It might be wrong; I might feel guilty; but if it makes +your father better, don't you think I'd be forgiven?” + +“I'm sure you would, mother, and it would make me stronger. I'm so glad. +I didn't want to displease you. I wanted you to feel that I was doing +right. It will be lighter now; I sha'n't mind what anybody says if +you're with me, mother. Now everything will come out right; I know it +will. And if it does, if father gets strong, just out of thankfulness, +I'll coax him to try something else, for your sake, mother.” + +“No, for his own, Allis. I think only of him in this matter.” The +prospective commencement of the racing campaign seemed to foreshadow a +complete fulfillment of the doctor's prophecy should success smile upon +this modern Joan of Arc; for the bustle of preparation was music to +the ears of the stricken man, and he fought the lethargic fever of +discontent that was over him until his eyes brightened and his face took +on a hopeful look of interest. + +“Brave little woman,” he said to Allis, “it's a shame for a great hulk +as I am to lie up here, while you fight the sharks that were almost too +much for your father.” + +Then he spoke a little lower, as a man utters unfamiliar words for the +first time. “Your mother said that Providence would look after you. +Sounds strange, doesn't it, girl? But I'm glad. Your mother was so +bitter--I don't blame her--now she's turned right around. And, Allis, +I believe with a little tempting, a little coaxing, she'd almost have +a bet on Lucretia in your hands. Funny, isn't it?” And he gave a little +chuckle. + +Allis hadn't heard her father laugh for a long time. It wasn't much of +a laugh, very dry, and very short lived, hardly lighting up his face at +all, but still it was the feeble pulsation of humor which showed that +the old John Porter spirit was not quite broken. + +“About the betting, Allis, you must have Dixon come down here to see me, +for the horses are to go to his stable again, aren't they?” + +“Yes, father.” + +“That's right. I thought we had arranged it that way, but I seem to +forget things since that bad tumble.” + +“You don't forget much now, father; you're getting stronger in every +way.” + +“Blarney, girl. But I don't mind; your blarney is like the sunshine, +that comes through the window every day at ten. Ah, I know to the very +minute when to look for it. But about Dixon. Have him come down, for we +must arrange to back Lucretia--she's worth it. She's been doing well, +hasn't she, girl? O God! why can't I go out into the open and see the +little mare do just one gallop? And then I'd like to sit and look at +the trees sway back and forth in the wind. Their swing is like the free +gallop of a good horse.” + +He dropped the brief, fretful remonstrance against fate with an +apologetic turning away of his head, and continued about the Trainer. + +“Lucretia's in the Brooklyn, Allis; you know that, of course. If Dixon +starts her, the stake alone will be about enough to run for, for a +three-year-old has a tough job ahead in that mob of picked horses. +But you'll get a line on her there--I think she'll win with ninety-two +pounds up; but if she shows good form, then she'll have to be backed for +the Brooklyn Derby. Lucretia's the best three-year-old in the land, I +know. We'll have to arrange for that money. There will be a couple of +thousand to be had if it seems safe business. You and Dixon will judge +of that. You're taking Lauzanne, girl. Is it worth while?” + +“Lauzanne is going to do great things for us, father. I'm sure of it.” + +“Still young, Allis. I talked like that when I was your age. Fancy and +horse racing go arm in arm always, and they're like an experienced man +of forty hobnobbing with the little love god; they're just about as well +mated.” + +Porter's irrelevant simile caused Allis to start, and Crane's relentless +eyes came and peeped at her through the narrow-slitted lids. + +“All right, though, little girl; your faith may make Lauzanne win, and I +think Lucretia's speed will carry her to the front, so you may strike a +bit of luck at last.” + + + + +XXIII + + +A few days later Mike Gaynor took the stable up to Gravesend. Dixon had +a cottage there, which he occupied with his wife, and Allis was to stop +with them. + +On the 20th of May the horses were settled in their racing quarters. +Only four days remained for introducing Lucretia to the Gravesend track; +on the 24th she would take up her ninety-two pounds and be tested to the +utmost in the great Brooklyn Handicap. + +Dixon felt that several things were in her favor. She was as quiet as +an old cow at the post; many false starts would improve rather than +diminish her chances, for nothing seemed to excite the gallant little +brown mare. Her great burst of speed would enable the jockey to get out +of the ruck and steal a good place to lie handy at the leader's heels. +She could be nursed to the last furlong of the stretch, for the sight of +horses in front would not daunt her brave spirit. + +Against the mare were two or three rather important factors; she was +slight of build, not overstrong, and the crush of contending horses +might knock her out of her stride, should they close in. Then there +was just a suspicion of lack of staying power in the Assassin strain; +Lucretia might not quite last the mile and a quarter so early in the +season, being a mare. However, she had a chance. + +“But I'd hardly call it a betting chance,” Dixon said, speaking to +Allis; “there's never been a three-year-old won the Brooklyn yet. +There'll be openings enough to put down the money later on--in the +Derby, if the mare pans out well.” + +Andy Dixon was first of all 'a careful man. “There are risks enough in +racin' without lookin' for them,” he said. “When one has got an absolute +lead-pipe cinch, it's two to one against its coming off.” That was +another of his conservative aphorisms. + +Andy made no big wins, had never been booked as a successful plunger, +had never skinned the ring; on the other hand, bringing the scales of +equity to a dead level, he had never been forced to ask any man to pay +his feed bills for him, nor let an account stand over for a time. + +Allis was in good hands, and, what added to the value of the situation, +she knew it, and would take Dixon's advice. The Trainer's opinion was +borne out by the betting market; Lucretia stood a long way down in the +list. Even Diablo, bad horse as he was supposed to be, was at a shorter +price; the heavy outlay of his owner, and some intangible rumors having +caused the bookmakers to feel inclined to hold him close up against +their chests. His work since his trial with The Dutchman had been quite +satisfactory. He looked upon Westley, the jockey, as a friend, and +strode along in his gallops as though he had never sulked or shown +temper in his life. + +Favoritism for the Brooklyn was divided between The King, a +five-year-old that had won it the year before, and White Moth, a +three-year-old, winner of the last year's Futurity. Jockey Redpath had +been riding Lucretia in her gallops since she had come to Gravesend. +At last Dixon had been singularly fortunate in the matter of jockeys. +Redpath was just making his reputation, making it as all jockey +reputations are made, by winning races. + +This somewhat unstudied factor in racing had loomed large on his +mental vision. It might be possible to acquire a reputation in other +professions by good fortune or favor. As a jockey, a light weight might +possibly make money by dishonest methods, though that itself seemed +doubtful, but there was no way to rise to the top of the tree except by +riding winners; verily there was one royal road to fame in the field. +Knowing all this, Redpath rode to win. + +On the 22d Dixon gave Lucretia a good strong three-quarter gallop over +the handicap course; on the 23d she had a quiet canter; and on the +morning of the 24th, the eventful day, she poked her mouse-brown nozzle +over the bar of her stall when Allis came to look at her and seemed to +say, “I'll do my part to-day.” + +Nothing could have been wished for in Lucretia's appearance that wasn't +there, except just the faint suspicion of a sacrifice of strength to +speed. But if the frame wasn't there, the good strong heart was; the +courage and the gentleness, and the wisdom, and the full glow of perfect +health. + +For hours the trains had borne to Long Island crowd after crowd of +eager, impatient New Yorkers. Lovers of horses, lovers of gambling, pure +and simple; holiday makers, and those who wished to see the Brooklyn +run out of sheer curiosity; train after train whirled these atoms of +humanity to the huge gates of the Gravesend arena, wherein were to +battle that day the picked thoroughbreds, old and young. + +Even like bees, black-coated and buzzing, the eager ones swarmed from +the cars and rehived in the great stand. Betting ring, and paddock, and +lawn became alive because of their buzz; tier after tier, from step +to roof, the serrated line of whitefaced humanity waited for the grand +struggle. + +The first race was but a race, that was all. Horses galloped, but did +they not gallop other days? It was not the Brooklyn. And also the second +was but another race. How slow, and of what little interest were the +horses! Verily, neither was it the Brooklyn, and it was the Brooklyn +forty thousand pairs of eyes had come to see. + +Down in the betting ring men of strong voices bellowed words of money +odds, and full-muscled shoulders pushed and carried heads about that +were intent on financial businesses. But what of that? It was not the +Brooklyn, it was gambling. + +Out in the paddock a small brown mare of gentle aspect, with big soft +eyes, full of a dreamy memory of fresh-shooting grass, walked with easy +stride an elliptical circle. Her fetlocks fair kissed the short grass in +an unstable manner, as though the joints were all too supple. Inside +of the circle stood Allis Porter and a man square of jaw and square of +shoulder, that was Andy Dixon. Presently to them came Mike Gaynor. + +“We're gittin' next it now, Miss Allis; we'll soon know all about it.” + +“We're all ready, Mike,” said Dixon, with square solemnity. “When +they've beat the little mare they'll be catchin' the judge's eye.” + +“There's nothing left now, Mike, but just a hope for a little luck,” + added the girl. + +“Ye'r talking now, Miss Allis. Luck's the trick from this out. The +little mare'll have a straight run this trip. Here's the b'y comin' now, +and a good b'y he is.” + +A little man in blue jacket and white stars joined them, saluting Miss +Allis with his riding whip. “Are you going to win, Redpath?” asked the +girl. + +“I'm going to try, Miss. She's a sweet mare to ride, but it's a big +field. There's some boys riding that ought to be in the stable rubbing +horses.” + +“You'll have to get out in front,” said Dixon, speaking low; “your +mare's too light to stand crowdin', an' even if you have to take her +back for a breather after you've gone half the journey, she'll come +again, for she's game.” + +“Them Langdon fellows thinks they've got a great chance wit' our +cast-off, Diablo,” volunteered Mike. “I had a peep at him in the stall, +an' he's lookin' purty fit.” + +“He never was no class,” objected Dixon. + +“If ye'd see him gallop the day he run away, ye'd think he had class,” + said Mike. “Bot' tumbs up! ye'd a t'ought it was the flyin' Salvator.” + +“Well, we'll soon know all about it,” declared Dixon. “There's the +saddlin' bell. Have you weighed out, Redpath? Weight all right, +ninety-two pounds?” + +“All right, sir. It was a close call to make it, though; there was a few +ounces over.” + +“All the better; it's a hot day, an' if they're long at the post it'll +take them spare ounces out of you, I fancy.” + +Dixon held up his finger to the boy that was leading Lucretia, and +nodding his head toward the stall led the way. + +“We're number seven, Mike,” said Allis, looking at the leather tag which +carried the figure on Jockey Redpath's right arm. + +“'There's luck in odd numbers, said Rory O'Moore,'” quoted Mike. + +“I've a superstitious dread of seven,” the girl said; “it's the one +number that I always associate with disaster--I don't mind thirteen a +bit.” + +“We'll break the bad luck seven to-day,” asserted little Redpath, +bravely. + +“I hope so,” answered Allis. “Let me put my finger on the number for +good luck,” and she touched the badge on his arm. “Now I'm going up to +get a good seat in the stand,” she continued; “I'll leave Lucretia to +you, Redpath.” + + + + +XXIV + + +As the slight figure, looking slighter still in a long trailing race +coat, passed through the paddock gate to the stand enclosure, Mike +Gaynor spoke to the jockey. + +“Redpath, me b'y, it's up to ye to put yer best leg for'ard to-day. Ye'r +ridin' for the greatest little woman in this big country. In all the +stand up there, wit' their flounces and jewels, there isn't a lady like +her. Not wan av them judys kin touch her as a rale proper lady. God +bless me, she's de sweetest--” then he checked himself; he was going to +say the sweetest filly, but even to his rough-hewn mind, tutored only by +horse lore, it seemed sacrilege to speak of Miss Porter as anything but +a lady. + +“You're right, Mike,” concurred the little man; “I'd rather ride the +mare for her than White Moth, or The King, or any of the favorites for +their owners.” + +“An' the ould man lyin' there at home on his back, eh, Redpath? He's as +good as gold hisself; that's where the girl gets it; not sayin' a word +ag'in Mrs. Porter; she don't understand, that's all. But ye'll put up +the ride of your life, me b'y, won't ye?” + +“I'll do that, old chap.” + +“Mike'll stand by ye,” affirmed Gaynor. “Say, b'y,” and he turned and +looked squarely into the eyes of the little man, “I know if they beats +ye to-day, 'twon't be yer fault 'cause why?”--and he put his hand on +Redpath's shoulder--“'cause ye'r like many another man, sweet on the +young Missis. Now, now, now stop that!” and he held up his finger +warningly, as the other raised his voice in mild protest; “it's to +yer credit. It'll do ye no good in wan way, av coorse, for, as ye +say, she'll never know it.” Redpath had not made the statement Mike +attributed to him, but the latter was giving him a kindly pointer. “But +it'll do ye no harm. The likin' av a good woman will sometimes make +a man av a scoundrel, but ye'r a long way from bein' that, me b'y; so +it'll do ye tons av good. There's the bugle; go an' mount, an' I'll +watch how ye get on; an' good luck to ye.” + +Regally, one after another, in stately file, the turf kings, decked out +with the silken jackets that rested a-top--crimson, and gold, and blue, +and white, and magpie, passed through the paddock gate to the newly +smoothed course. Very modest and demure number seven, the little brown +mare, looked beside the strong-muscled giants, bright bay, golden +chestnut, and raven-wing black, that overshadowed her in the procession +that caught the forty thousand pairs of eyes. Something of this thought +came to Allis, sitting in the stand. What a frail little pair they were, +both of them, and to be there battling for this rich prize that was +so hardly fought for, by strong men athirst for gold, and great horses +a-keen for the gallop! + +Ah, there was Diablo, the very number Allis had said carried no dread +for her, thirteen. What a strange coincidence! What a cruel twist +of fate it would be if he were to win!--he looked equal to it. A man +sitting at Allis's elbow suddenly cried in a voice enthused into the +joyous treble of a boy's: “Look at that big Black; isn't he a beaut? +Number thirteen. That's a hoodoo number, if you like; it's enough to +give a backer cold feet.” + +“I thought you weren't superstitious, Rex;” this was a woman's voice. + +“I'm not, an' I'm going straight down to back that Black, thirteen and +all.” + +On Allis's other side one of the party was ticking off the horses by +their numbers as they passed; “One, two, that's White Moth; they say +she'll win; three, Red Rover; four, what's that? that's George L.; five, +six, seven; just look at that little runt. What is it? Oh, Lucretia. +Might as well run a big calf, I should think.” + +“She's just lovely,” declared a lady in the party. “She's as graceful as +a deer, and I'm sure she'll run as fast as any of them.” + +“Can't live in that mob; they'll smother a little thing like her,” + declared the man, emphatically. “Where are we--ten, eleven, The King, +that's the winner for a hundred. Look at him. He carries my money. +It's all over now; they can't beat him. That's a fine looker, though, +thirteen,--Diabo, eh? What's that horse Diablo, George?” turning to one +of the men. + +“No good--a maiden; I looked them all up in the dope book; how they +expect to win the Brooklyn with a maiden gets beyond me.” + +Somewhat tortured, Allis listened to the voluble man on her left, who +was short and fat, and red of face, as he graded, with egotistical +self-sufficiency, the thirteen competitors for the big Handicap. +Lucretia he had passed over in disdain. Crude as his judgment seemed, +arrogantly insufficient, it affected Allis disagreeably. Now that +everything had been done, that the last minute of suspense was on, she +was depressed. The exhilaration of preparation had gone from her, and +the words of the captious man on her left, “that little runt,” hung with +persistent heaviness on her soul. All the vast theater of the stand +was a buzz of eager chatter. Verily it was a race; it was the Brooklyn +Handicap. Lips that smiled gave a mocking lie to drawn, strained faces, +and nervous, shifting eyes, that told of the acceptance of too deep a +hazard. The weeks and months of mental speculation embodied in heavy +bets would have their fruit ripened and plucked within a brief half +hour. + +Allis's gaze dropped to the grass lawn in front of the stand for a +minute, her eyes seeking repose from the strain of watching the horses +as they went down to the starting post. How fretfully erratic were the +men who dotted its green sward with gray and solemn black! The deeper +interest Allis had over there on the course where was the little mare, +seemed to lift her to a great height above them. How like ants they +were, crossing and recrossing each other's paths, twisting and turning +without semblance of an objective point, creatures of an impulse almost +lower than instinct, devoid of this well-directed governing motive. +Yes, they were like an army of ants that had been suddenly thrown +into confusion. She saw one of them come hurriedly out of the paddock, +talking impetuously with bended head--for he was tall--to a short man +in gray tweed, beyond doubt a trainer. Suddenly the tall man broke away, +hurried to the rail which separated the lawn from the course, leaned far +over its top to take a last look at the horses, and then with a queer +shuffling trot he hurried to the mob that was surging and pushing about +the bookmakers. Allis noted with minute observance each little act in +this pantomime of the last-minute plunge. Just beneath where she sat +two men were having a most energetic duel of words. A slim, darkskinned +youth, across whose fox-like face was written in large letters the word +“Tout,” was hammering into his obdurate companion the impossibility of +some certain horse being defeated. Presently the other man's hand went +into his pocket, and when it came forth again five ten-dollar bills were +counted with nervous reluctance and hesitatingly made over to the Tout. +Tight clutching his prize this pilot of the race course slipped from +Allis's sight and became lost in the animated mass that heaved and +swayed like full-topped grain in a harvest breeze. + +Within all that enclosure there seemed no one possessed of any calm. To +the quiet girl it was a strange revelation; no one could have as much at +stake as she had, and yet over her spirit there was nothing beyond +the lethargy of depression. No; no one is calm, she thought. Ah, the +assertion was too sweeping. Coming up the steps, just at her right, was +a man who might have been walking in a quiet meadow, or a full-leafed +forest, for all there was of agitation in his presence. A sudden new +thought came to Allis; she had never seen that face distraught but once. +The collected man was Philip Crane. A tinge of almost admiration tingled +the girl's mind. To be possessed of calm where all was nervous strain +was something. + +Suddenly the unimpassioned face lighted up; the narrow-lidded eyes +gleamed with brightened interest. As eagerly as a boy their owner, +Crane, came forward and saluted Allis. At that instant the man of many +words on her left rose from his seat to chase through the interminable +crowd on the lawn a new victim. + +Allis had sought to be alone in this short time of trial; she was hardly +sure of herself. If Lucretia failed she might break down; for what would +come to her father should the message home be one of disaster? Even if +the little mare won her joy might lead her to commit strange pranks; she +felt that her heart would burst out of sheer joy, if she did not shout +in exultation, or caper madly, as she had seen others do in the hour of +victory. She was sorry that Crane had come. + +“I was looking for you,” he said; “I want to see you win this race; +that is, if--I mean, like every other man here, I have harked back to my +natural instinct of covetous acquisition and had a bet on.” + +“Not Lucretia?” + +“No--I've bet on Diablo. Langdon thinks he'll win. Do you remember the +agreement about his purchase?” + +“What was that? I've half forgotten it.” + +“Just a little bet on your account, you know.” + +“Oh, I remember; but that was only in fun, wasn't it?” + +“It was part of the bargain, and it's on. You'll take it, won't you, if +he wins--” + +“They're off!” Some one had shouted the magic words from the head of the +steps. In a second every voice of the thousands was stilled, and there +was only the noise of shuffling feet, as eager watchers stood up to see +the horses. + +“It's a false start,” said Crane, quietly, turning toward the girl. “It +would have been well for you, Miss Allis, had the starter let them go. +Lucretia was well out in the lead; it was Diablo's fault, too, that they +had to go back--he was left standing.” + +Crane's voice was Fate's voice. Would there never be anything but +Lucretia and Diablo, seven and thirteen, thirteen and seven? + +“Diablo's a bad horse at the post, sure,” ejaculated Crane, letting +his field glass rest for an instant on his knee; “he just backs up and +shakes his head viciously; evidently he doesn't like the idea of so much +company.” + +“How is Lucretia acting, Mr. Crane?” + +“Perfectly. You must have instilled some of your own patience into her.” + +The girl hardly heard the implied compliment. + +Would the patience be rewarded? Or would thirteen, that was symbolical +of evil, and its bearer, Diablo, who was an agent of evil, together +snatch from her this prize that meant so much? It was strange that she +should not think of the other horses at all. It was as though there +were but two in the race--Lucretia and Diablo--and yet they were both +outsiders. + +“The Starter is having a bad time of it; that makes six false breaks,” + said Allis's companion; “it will end by his losing patience with the +boys, I fear, and let them go with something off in a long lead. But +they say this Fitzpatrick is a cool hand, and gives no man the best of +it. He'll probably fine Diablo's rider a hundred dollars; I believe it's +customary to do that when a jockey persistently refuses to come up +with his horses. Just look at that!--the black fiend has lashed out and +nearly crippled something.” + +“Not Lucretia, Mr. Crane!” gasped Allis. + +“No, it's a chestnut--there they go! Good boy, Westley. I mean Diablo's +jockey has done a fiendish clever thing. He came through his horses on +the jump, carried them off their feet, they all broke--yes, the flag's +down, and he's out with a clean lead.” + +Down in front a bell was clanging viciously; people were rushing with +frenzied haste from the betting ring, and clambering up the steps of the +stand; in the stand itself the whole vast mob had risen to its feet, and +even now the rolling beat of eager hoofs was in the aid, hushed of the +mob's clamor. + +Yes, Crane had spoken truly; a great striding black, along whose neck +hung close a tiny figure in yellow and red, was leading the oncoming +horses. Allis strained her eyes trying to discover the little mare, but +she was swallowed up in the struggling mob that hung at Diablo's heels. +As they opened a little, swinging around the first turn, Allis caught +sight of the white-starred blue jacket. Its wearer was quite fifth or +sixth. + +“Lucretia is doing well,” said Crane; “she's holding her own; she's +lapped on White Moth.” + +It seemed strange to Allis that any other thought should come into her +mind at that time other than just concern for Lucretia, but she caught +herself wondering at Crane's professional words of description. For +the time he was changed; the quick brevity of his utterance tokened an +interested excitement. He was not at all like the Crane she knew, the +cold, collected banker. + +“Lucretia's doing better,” her companion added a few seconds later. “If +I were given to sentiment, I should say her gallop was the poetry of +motion. She deserves to win. But honestly, Miss Allis, I think she'll +never catch the Black; he's running like a good horse.” + +Allis could not answer; the strain was too great for words. It would be +all over in a minute or so; then she would talk. + +“Your mare is creeping up, Miss Allis; she's second to the Black now, +and they've still a good three furlongs to go. You may win yet. It takes +a good horse to make all his own running for a mile and a quarter and +then in. His light weight may land him first past the post. There are +only four in it now, the rest are beaten off, sure. Diablo is still in +the lead; White Moth and Lucretia are a length back; and The King is +next, running strong. It's the same into the stretch. Now the boys are +riding; Lucretia is drawing away from White Moth--she's pressing Diablo. +You'll win yet!” + +His voice was drowned by the clamor that went up from every side. +“Diablo! White Moth! Lucretia!” What a babel of yells! “He's beat! Come +on!” It was deafening. All the conjecture of months, all the hopes and +fears of thousands, compressed into a few brief seconds of struggling +endeavor. + +Allis had sat down. There was less frenzied excitement thus. + +“God of Justice!” it was Crane's voice, close to her ear; his hot breath +was on her cheek; he had leaned down, so that she might hear him. “Your +jockey has sold you, or else Lucretia quit. I thought I saw him pull her +off. I'm sorry, Miss Allis, God knows I am, though I've won--for Diablo +is winning easily.” Then he straightened up for an instant, only to bend +down again and say, “Yes, Diablo has won, and Lucretia is beaten off. +Perhaps it wasn't the boy, after all, for it's a long journey for a +three-year-old mare. Can I do anything for you? Let me see you down to +the paddock.” + +“Thank you,” the girl answered, struggling with her voice. “Yes, I must +go, for Dixon will be terribly disappointed. I must go and put a brave +face on, I suppose. It's all over, and it can't be helped. But you've +won, and I congratulate you.” + +“Poor old dad!” she muttered to herself, “to have fairly given away +Diablo just when he was ready to win a big race.” With a tinge of +bitterness the girl thought how much her mother's opposition was to +blame for this narrow missing of a great victory. She was glad to get +away from the cataract of voices that smothered her like great falling +waters. There was little exultation. If it had been any solace to her, +she had much companionship in her dashed hopes; for Diablo, the winner, +had not been backed by the general public; the favorite, White Moth, had +been beaten. + +After the first outburst a sullen anger took possession of the +race-goers. They had been wronged, deceived; another coup had been made +by that trick manipulator, Langdon. How carefully he had kept the +good thing bottled up. If the mob could have put into execution its +half-muttered thoughts, every post about the Gravesend track would have +been decorated with a fragment of Langdon's anatomy. + +Even the bookmakers were less jubilant than usual over this winning of +an outsider, for Crane, and Langdon, and Faust, and two or three others +who had either received a hint or stumbled upon the good thing, had +taken out of the ring a tidy amount of lawful currency. + + + + +XXV + + +Crane accompanied Allis to the paddock gate; and she continued on to +the fatal number seven stall. Lucretia had just been brought in, looking +very distressed after her hard race. For an instant the girl forgot her +own trouble at sight of the gallant little mare's condition. Two boys +were busy rubbing the white-crusted perspiration and dust from her +sides; little dark rivulets of wet trickled down the lean head that hung +wearily. + +“Well, we lost!” It was Dixon's voice at Allis's elbow. “That'll do,” to +the boys; “here, put this cooler on, and walk her about.” + +Then he turned to Allis again. “She was well up with the leaders half +way in the stretch; I tho't she was goin' to win.” + +“Was it too far for her, Dixon?” + +The Trainer did not answer at once; with him at all times questions +were things to be pondered over. His knitted brows and air of hesitating +abstraction showed plainly that this question of Allis's was one he +would prefer to answer days later, if he answered it at all. + +“Didn't she stop suddenly?” Allis asked, again. + +“I couldn't just see from where I was what happened,” he replied, +evasively; “and I haven't asked the boy yet. She may have got shut in. +Ah, here he comes now,” as the jockey returned from the weighing scales. + +Redpath seemed to think that some explanation was necessary, as he came +up to Allis and the Trainer, so he said: “The little mare seemed to have +a chance when I turned into the stretch, an' I thought once I was goin' +to win; but that big Black just kept galloping, galloping, an' I never +could get to his head; I'd a been in the money, though, if somethin' +hadn't bumped me; an' then my mount just died away--she just seemed to +die away.” He repeated this is a falling decadence, as though it best +expressed his reason for finishing in the ruck. + +“Well, we're beat, an' that's all there is to it,” declared Dixon, half +savagely; then he added, “an' by a cast-off out of your father's stable, +too, Miss Allis. If there's any more bad luck owin' John Porter, hanged +if I wouldn't like to shoulder it myself, an' give him a breather.” + Then, with ponderous gentleness for a big, rough-throwntogether man, he +continued: “Don't you fret, Miss; the little mare's all right; she'll +pull your father through all this; you just cheer up. I've got to go now +an' look after her.” + +When the Trainer had gone the jockey turned to Allis, hesitatingly, +and said: “Dixon's correct about the little mare; she's all right. I +wouldn't speak even afore him, though he's all right too, but” and he +looked about carefully to see that nobody was within ear-shot. Two men +were talking a little farther out in the paddock, and Redpath, motioning +to Allis, stepped close to the stall that was next to the one Lucretia +had occupied, “I could a-been in the money.” + +The girl started. Crane had said that the jockey had stopped riding. + +“Yes, Miss; you mustn't blame me, for I took chances of bein' had up +afore the Stewards.” + +“You did wrong if you didn't try to win,” exclaimed Allis, angrily. + +“I did try to win, but I couldn't. I saw that I'd never catch that big +Black; he was going too strong; his long stride was just breaking the +little mare's heart. She's the gamest piece of horseflesh--say, Miss +Porter, believe me, it just hurt me to take it out of her, keeping up +with that long-legged devil. If I could a-headed him once, just got to +him once--I tried it when we turned into the straight--he'd have quit. +But it was no use--the mare couldn't do it. With him out of the race I'd +have won; I could a-been second or third as it was, but it might have +done the little mare up so she wouldn't be any good all season. I +thought a bit over this when I was galloping. I knew she was in the +Brooklyn Derby, an' when I had the others beat at a mile, thinks I, if +the public don't get onto it, Mr. Porter can get all his losses back in +the Brooklyn Derby. That's why I eased up on the little mare. You don't +think I could do anything crooked against you, Miss? Give me the mount +in the Derby, an' your father can bet his last dollar 'that Lucretia'll +win.” + +As he finished speaking Mike Gaynor shuffled moodily up to them. Usually +Mike's clothes suggested a general despondency; his wiry body, devoid of +roundness as a rat trap, seemed inadequate to the proper expression of +their original design. The habitual air of endeavorless decay had been +accentuated by the failure of Lucretia to win the Brooklyn. Mike had +shrunken into his allenveloping coat with pathetic moroseness. The +look of pity in his eye when it lighted upon Allis gave place to one +of rebellious accusation as he turned his head slowly and glared at +Redpath. + +“Ye put up a bad ride there, b'y,” he commenced, speaking in a hard, +dry, defiant tone; “a bad ride, an' no mistake. Mind I'm not sayin' ye +could a-won, but ye might a-tried,” and he waited for Redpath's defense. + +“She was all out, Mike, beat; what was the use of driving her to death +when she hadn't the ghost of a chance?” + +“You're a little too hard on Redpath,” remonstrated Allis; “he's just +been telling me that he didn't wish to punish the mare unnecessarily.” + +“His business was to win if he could, Miss,” answered Mike, not at all +won over. “It was a big stake, an' he ought to've put up a big finish. +The Black would've quit if ye'd ever got to his throat-latch; he's soft, +that's what he is. An' just where ye could have won the race, p'r'aps, +ye quit ridin' an' let him come home alone. It's queer b'ys that's +ridin' now, Miss,” Gaynor added, fiercely, nodding his head in great +decision, and, turning away abruptly, the petulant moroseness showing +deeper than ever in his wrinkled face. + +“You mustn't mind Mike, Redpath,” said Allis; “he's a good friend of our +family, and is upset over the race, that's all.” + +“I don't blame him,” answered the jockey; “he would have rode it out and +spoiled your chance with the mare--that would have done no good.” + +“Still, I hardly like it,” answered the girl. “I know you did it for +my sake, but it doesn't seem quite right. Don't do anything like this +again. Of course, I don't want Lucretia pushed beyond her strength, nor +cut up with the whip, but she ought to get the place if she can. People +might have backed her for the place, and we've thrown away their money.” + +“The bettors will look after their own interests, Miss Porter, and they +wouldn't help you a little bit if you needed it; they'd be more like to +do you a bad turn. If I'd driven the mare to death, an' been beaten +for the place, as I might have, the papers would have slated me for +cruelty. You must believe that I did it for the best, Miss.” + +“I do, and I suppose I must thank you, but don't do it again. I'd rather +you didn't carry your whip at all on Lucretia; she doesn't need it; +but don't ease her up if you've got a chance till you pass the winning +post.” + +As the two finished speaking, and moved away, a thin, freckled face +peered furtively from the door of stall number six. Just the ferret-like +eyes and a knife-thin nose showed past the woodwork, but there could be +no mistaking the animal. It was Shandy. + +“I've got you again,” he muttered. “Blast the whole tribe of you! I'll +just pip you on that dirty work, blowed if I don't.” + + + + +XXVI + + +The Brooklyn had been run and won; won by Langdon's stable, and lost by +John Porter's. That night Allis spent hours trying to put into a letter +to her mother their defeat and their hopes in such a way as to save +distress to her father. She wound up by simply asking her mother to get +Dr. Rathbone to impart as much information as he deemed advisable to his +patient. + +They were a very depressed lot at Dixon's cottage that evening. Dixon +was never anything else but taciturn, and the disappointment of the day +was simply revolving in his mind with the monotonous regularity of a +grindstone. They had lost, and that's all there was about it. Why talk +it over? It could do no good. He would nurse up Lucretia, and work back +into her by mile gallops a fitting strength for the Brooklyn Derby. With +incessant weariness he rocked back and forth, back and forth in the big +Boston rocker; while Allis, at a little table in a corner of the room, +sought to compose the letter she wished to send home. + +With apathetic indifference the girl heard a constrained knock at the +cottage door; she barely looked up as Dixon opened to a visitor. It was +Crane who entered. + +At almost any other time his visit would have been unpleasant. In +his presence even the most trivial conversation seemed shrouded in a +background of interested intentions; but to-night Dixon's constrained +depression weighed heavy on her spirits and irritated her. + +“Luck was against you to-day, Dixon,” exclaimed the visitor. + +“They were too strong for the little mare,” answered the Trainer, +curtly. “Our cast-off won, of course, but there were a half dozen in the +race that would have beaten Lucretia, I fancy.” + +Allis looked inquiringly at the Trainer; he had not talked that way to +her. Then a light dawned upon the girl. She had not associated Dixon +with diplomacy in her mind, she knew that he could maintain a golden +silence, but here he was, actually throwing out to the caller a +disparaging estimate of Lucretia's powers. This perpetual atmosphere of +duplicity was positively distasteful. In the free gallop of the horses +there was nothing but an inspiration to honest endeavor; but in this +subtle diplomacy Allis detected the touch of defilement which her +mother so strongly resented. Perhaps to-night she was more sensitive +to depressing influences; at any rate she felt a great weariness of +the whole business. Then the spirit of resolve rose in open rebellion +against these questionings; almost Jesuitical she became at once. What +mattered the ways or means, so that she did no wrong? Was not the saving +of her father's health and spirit, and his and her mother's welfare +above all these trivial questionings; did not the end justify the means; +might not her success, if the fates in pity gave her any, save her +from--from--she did not even formulate in thought the contingency, +for there stood the living embodiment of it-Crane; everything seemed +crowding her into the narrow confines of her sacrificial crypt. + +Crane had spoken to her on his entry. As she was writing he had +continued his discussion of the race with Dixon; perhaps, even--it was a +hopeful thought, born of desire--he had come to see the Trainer. Crane's +next words dispelled that illusion. It was in answer to an observation +from Dixon that he was forced to go to the stables, that Crane said: +“If Miss Porter has no objection I'll remain a little longer; I want to +discuss a matter concerning her father.” + +Allis felt quite like fleeing to the stables with Dixon; she dreaded +that Crane was going to bring up again the subject of his affection for +her. But the Trainer had passed out before she could muster sufficient +moral courage to put in execution her half-formed resolve. + +“I wanted to speak about that wager on Diablo,” began Crane. A thrill +of relief shot through the girl's heart. Why had be troubled himself to +come to her over such a trifling matter--a pair of gloves, perhaps half +a dozen pairs even. + +“I put the bet on some time ago,” he continued, “when Diablo was at a +long price. It was only a trifle, as we agreed upon--” Allis noticed +that he laid particular stress upon “agreed.” “But it has netted you +quite a nice sum, three thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars.” + +Crane said this in a quiet voice, without unction; but it startled the +girl--she stared in blank amazement. Her companion was evidently waiting +for her to say something; seemed to expect an exclamation of joyous +approval. She noticed that the gray eyes she so distrusted had taken on +that distasteful peeping expression, as though he were watching her walk +into a trap. + +“I cannot take it,” answered Allis, decisively, after a pause. + +Crane raised his hand in mild protest. + +“It was good of you, kind; but how could I accept a large sum of money +like that when I am not entitled to it?” + +“You are--it's yours. The bet was made in your name I entered it at the +time in my book, and the bookmaker is ready to pay the money over.” + +“I can't take it--I won't. No, no, no!” + +“Don't be foolishly sensitive, Miss Allis. Think what your father lost +when he parted with Diablo for a trivial thousand dollars; and it was +my fault, for I arranged the sale. Your father's needs--pardon me, but I +know his position, being his banker--yes, he needs this money badly.” + +“My father needs a good many things, Mr. Crane, which he would not +accept as a gift; he would be the last man to do so. We must just go +on doing the best we can, and if we can't succeed, that's all. We can't +accept help, just yet, anyway.” + +She was bitter; the reference to her father's troubles, though meant +partly in kindness, angered her. It caused her to feel the meshes of the +net drawing closer about her, and binding her free will. The fight was +indeed on. More than ever she determined to struggle to the bitter end. +Almost indefinably she knew that to accept this money, plausible as the +offering was, meant an advantage to Crane. + +“You can't leave this large sum with the bookmaker,” he objected. “He +would like nothing better; he would laugh in his sleeve. I can't take +it; it isn't mine.” + +“I won't touch it.” + +“Perhaps I had better speak to your father about it,” said Crane, +tentatively; “he can have no objection to accepting this money that has +been won.” + +“Father won't take it, either,” answered the girl; “I know his ideas +about such matters. He won't take it.” + +Crane brought all his fine reasoning powers to bear on Allis, but failed +signally in his object. He was unaccustomed to being balked, but the +girl's firm determination was more than a match for his adaptable +sophistry. He had made no headway, was quite beaten, when Dixon's +opportune return prevented absolute discomfiture. Crane left shortly, +saying to Allis as he bade them good night: “I'm sorry you look upon +the matter in this light. My object in coming to-night was to give you a +little hope for brightness in your gloomy hour of bad luck; but perhaps +I had better speak to your father.” + +“I'd rather you didn't,” she answered, somewhat pleadingly. “Dr. +Rathbone has cautioned us all against worrying father, and this could +have no other result than but to distress him.” + +Allis's letter had been completed, but she now added a postscript, +telling her mother briefly of Crane's insistence over the bet, and +beseeching her to devise some plan for keeping this new disturbing +element from her father. + +Crane was remaining over night in Gravesend, and, going back to his +quarters, he reviewed the evening's campaign. He had expected opposition +from Allis, but had hoped to overcome the anticipated objections; he had +failed in this, but it was only a check, not defeat. + +He smiled complacently over his power of self-control in having allowed +no hint of his absorbing passion to escape him. + +Acceptance of this money by Allis, the money which was the outcome of +an isolated generous thought, would have given him a real advantage. +To have spoken, though never so briefly of his hopes for proprietary +rights, would have accentuated the girl's sensitive alarm. He was too +perfect a tactician to indulge in such poor sword play; he had really +left the question open. A little thought, influenced by the desperate +condition of Porter's fortunes, might make Allis amenable to what was +evidently her best interest, should she be approached from a different +quarter. + +Crane had made the first move, and met checkmate; the second move would +be through Allis's mother; he determined upon that course. All his old +cunning must have surely departed from him if he could not win this +girl. Fate was backing him up most strenuously. Diablo had been cast +into his hands--thrust upon him by the good fortune that so steadily +befriended him. He was not in the habit of attributing unlooked-for +success to Providence; he rarely went beyond fate for a deity. +Unmistakably then it was fate that had cast the horoscope of his and +Allis's life together. Never mind what means he might use to carry out +this decree; once accomplished, he would more than make amends to the +girl. + +He drew most delightful pictures of the Utopian existence his wealth +would make possible for Allis. For the father he would provide a racing +stable that would bring profit in place of disaster. Crane smiled +somewhat grimly as he thought that under those changed circumstances +even Allis's mother might be brought to condone her husband's +continuance in the nefarious profession. If for no other reason than +the great success he had made in the Brooklyn Handicap with Diablo, +his spirits were that evening impossible of the reception of even a +foreshadowing of failure. A suppressed exhilaration rose-tinted every +projected scheme. He would win Allis, and he would win the Brooklyn +Derby with his good colt, The Dutchman. + +He went to sleep in this happy glamour of assured success, and, by the +inevitable contrariness of things, dreamed that he was falling over a +steep precipice on The Dutchman's back, and that at the bottom Mortimer +and Allis were holding a blanket to catch him in his fall. Even in his +imaginative sleep, he was saved from a dependence upon this totally +inadequate receptacle for a horse and rider, for he woke with a gasp +after he had traveled with frightful velocity for an age through the +air. + +Crane was a man not given to superstitious enthrallment; his convictions +were usually founded on basic manifestations rather than fanciful +visions; but somehow the night's dream fastened upon his mind as he +lingered over a breakfast of coffee and rolls. Even three cups of +coffee, ferociously strong, failed to drown the rehearsal of his +uncomfortable night's gallop. Why had he linked Mortimer and Allis +together? Had it been fate again, prompting him in his sleep, giving him +warning of a rival that stood closer to the girl than he? + +More than once he had thought of Mortimer as a possible rival. Mortimer +was not handsome, but he was young, tall, and square-shouldered--even +his somewhat plain face seemed to reflect a tall, square-shouldered +character. + +Subconsciously Crane turned his head and scanned critically the +reflection of his own face in a somewhat disconsolate mirror that +misdecorated a panel of the breakfast room. Old as the glass was, +somewhat bereaved of its quicksilver lining at the edge, it had not got +over its habit of telling the truth. Ordinarily little exception +could have been taken to the mirrored face; it was intellectual; no +sign-manual of cardinal sin had been placed upon it; it was neither +low, nor brutal, nor wolfishly cunning in expression. Its pallor rather +loaned an air of distingue, but--and the examination was being conducted +for the benefit of a girl of twenty--it was the full-aged visage of a +man of forty. + +More than ever a conviction fixed itself in Crane's mind that, no matter +how strong or disinterested his love for Allis might be, he would win +her only by diplomacy. After all, he was better versed in that form of +love-making, if it might be so called. + +Crane was expecting Langdon at ten o'clock. He heard a step in the +breakfast room, and, turning his head, saw that it was the Trainer. +Mechanically Crane pulled his watch from his pocket; he had thought it +earlier; it was ten. Langdon was on time to a minute. Nominally +what there was to discuss, though of large import, required little +expression. With matters going so smoothly there was little but +assurances and congratulations to be exchanged. Diablo's showing in the +big Handicap confirmed Langdon's opinion that both the Black and The +Dutchman had given them a great trial; probably they would duplicate +their success with The Dutchman in the Brooklyn Derby. It was only a +matter of a few days, and the son of Hanover had steadily improved; he +was in grand fettle. + +Langdon's appreciation of Crane's cleverness had been enhanced by the +successful termination of what he still believed was a brilliantly +planned coup. He had never for an instant thought that Crane purchased +the horse out of kindness to anyone. It was still a matter of mystery to +him, however, why his principal should wish to keep dark just how he had +learned Diablo's handicap qualities. + +Accustomed to reading Langdon's mind, Crane surmised from the Trainer's +manner that the latter had something that he had not yet broached. Their +talk had been somewhat desultory, much like the conversation of men who +have striven and succeeded and are flushed with the full enjoyment of +their success. Suddenly the Trainer drew himself together, as if for a +plunge, and said: “Did you notice Porter's mare in the Brooklyn, sir?” + +“Yes; she ran a pretty good race for a three-year-old.” + +“She did, an' I suppose they'll start her in the Derby. Do you happen to +know, sir?” + +“I fancy they will,” answered Crane, carelessly. + +“She stopped bad yesterday; but I've heard somethin'.” + +Crane remembered his own suspicion as to Lucretia's rider, but he only +said, “Well?” + +“After the race yesterday the jockey, Redpath, was talkin'--to the +Porter gal--” + +Crane started. It jarred him to hear this horseman refer to Allis as +“the Porter gal.” + +“Redpath told her,” proceeded Langdon, “that when he saw he couldn't +quite win he pulled his mount off to keep her dark for the Derby.” + +“How do you know this?” + +“A boy in my stable happened to be in the stall an' heard 'em.” + +“Who's the boy? Can you believe him?” + +“It's Shandy. He used to be with the Porters.” + +Like a flash it came to Crane that the spy must be the one who had +written him the note about Faust and the change of saddles. + +“Well, that doesn't affect us, that I can see,” commented Crane. “I'm +not backing their mare.” + +“It means,” declared Langdon, with great earnestness, “that if Lucretia +could have beat all the others but Diablo, she has a rosy chance for the +Derby; that's what it means. The Black got away with a flyin' start, +and she wore him down, almost beat him; I doubt if The Dutchman could do +that much. She was givin' him a little weight, too.” + +“Well, we can't help it. I've backed The Dutchman to win a small +fortune, and I'm going to stand by it. You're in it to the extent of ten +thousand, as you know, and we've just got to try and beat her with our +colt; that's all there is to it.” + +“I don't like it,” muttered Langdon, surlily. “She's a mighty good +three-year-old to put up a race like that.” + +“She may go off before Derby day,” suggested Crane; “mares are uncertain +at this time of year.” + +“That's just it; if she would go off we'd feel pretty sure then. I think +the race is between them.” + +“Well, we'll know race day; if she goes to the post, judging from what +you say, it'll be a pretty tight fit.” + +“She didn't cut much figure last year when Lauzanne beat her.” Langdon +said this with a drawling significance; it was a direct intimation that +if Lucretia's present jockey could be got at, as her last year's rider +had been--well, an important rival would be removed. + +Crane had not been responsible for the bribing of Lucretia's jockey, +though he was well aware what had occurred; had even profited by it. + +“There'll be no crooked work this time,” he said; “nobody will interfere +with the mare's rider, I hope,” and he looked significantly at Langdon. + +“I don't think they will,” and the Trainer gave a disagreeable laugh. +“From what Shandy tells me, I fancy it would be a bad game. The truth of +the matter is that gosling Redpath is stuck on the gal.” + +Crane's pale face flushed hot. + +“I believe that Shandy you speak of is a lying little scoundrel. I have +an idea that he wrote me a note, a wretched scrawl, once. Wait, I've got +it in my pocket; I meant to speak to you about it before.” + +Crane drew from the inner pocket of his coat a leather case, and after +a search found Shandy's unsigned letter, and passed it over to the +Trainer. + +“It's dollars to doughnuts Shandy wrote it. Let me keep this, sir.” + +“You're welcome to it,” answered Crane; “you can settle with him. But +about the Derby, I have reasons for wishing to win that race, reasons +other than the money. I want to win it, bad. Do you understand?” + +“I think I do. When you say you want to win a race, you generally want +to win it.” + +“Yes, I do. But see here, Langdon, just leave their jockey to take +orders from his own master, see?” + +“I wasn't goin' to put up no game with him, sir.” + +“Of course not, of course not. It wouldn't do. He's a straight boy, I +think, and just leave him to ride the best he knows how. We've got a +better jockey in Westley. Besides, the Brooklyn Handicap has taken a lot +out of their mare; they may find that she'll go back after it. I think +you'd better get rid of that Shandy serpent; he seems ripe for any +deviltry. You can't tell but what he might get at The Dutchman if +somebody paid him. If I'm any judge of outlawed human nature, he'd do +it. I've got to run down to Brookfield on a matter of business, +but shall be back again in a day or so. Just keep an eye on The +Dutchman--but I needn't tell you that, of course.” + +“That two-year-old I bought at Morris Park is coughin' an' runnin' +at the nose; I blistered his throat last night; he's got influenza,” + volunteered the Trainer. + +“Keep him away from The Dutchman, then.” + +“I've got him in another barn; that stuff's as catchin' as measles.” + +“If The Dutchman were to get a touch of it, Porter would land the Derby +with Lucretia, I fancy.” + +“Or if they got it in their stable we'd be on Easy Street.” + +“I suppose so. But Dixon's pretty sharp; he'll look out if he hears it's +about. However, we've got to watch our own horse and let them do the +same.” + + + + +XXVII + + +That evening Langdon and Jakey Faust were closeted together in a room +of the former's cottage. An A1 piece of villainy was on, and they were +conversing in low tones. + +“It's a cinch for The Dutchman if it wasn't for that damn mare +Lucretia,” Langdon observed, in an injured tone, as though somehow the +mare's excellence was an unwarranted interference with his rights. + +“What about the jock?” asked Faust. + +“No good--can't be done. He's mooney on the gal.” + +“Huh!” commented the Cherub. “Did you talk it over with the Boss? He's +not a bad guy gettin' next a good thing.” + +“He gave me the straight tip to give Redpath the go-by.” + +“What's his little game? Is he going to hedge on the mare?” + +“No; he'll stand his bet flat-footed. Say, he's the slickest! If he +didn't give me the straight office that the mare might get sick, then +I'm a Dutchman.” + +“We're both Dutchmen.” The Cherub laughed immoderately at his stupid +joke. “See, we're both standin' for The Dutchman, ain't we?” + +Langdon frowned at the other's levity. “You'll laugh out the other side +your mouth if Lucretia puts up a race in the Derby like she did in the +Handicap.” + +“But ain't she goin' to get sick? We could whip-saw them both ways +then, that's if we knew it first. I could lay against her an' back your +horse.” + +“I wish the old man wasn't so devilish deep; he makes me tired +sometimes; gives it to me straight in one breath that he's got reasons +for wantin' to win the race, an' then he pulls that preacher mug of +his down a peg an' says, solemn like: 'But don't interfere with their +jockey.' Then he talks about The Dutchman or Lucretia gettin' the +influenza, an' that Andy Dixon is pretty fly about watchin' the mare. +Now what do you make of all that, Jake?” + +“Well, you area mug. It don't need no makin' up. That book's all rounded +to. He wants the mare stopped, an' don't want no muddlin' about with the +jockey, see? Wasn't there a row over stoppin' Lucretia last year? Wasn't +the boy set down for the meetin'? You ought to know; you had to pay +through the nose for shuttin' his mouth. But what made the old man talk +about the mare gettin' sick?” + +Langdon searched his memory; just how was that subject started? “Damn +it! yes, of course; I told him about the two-year-old havin' the +influenza.” + +“Well, Dick, my boy, you've guessed it, though you weren't trying. Crane +would like to see the Porter mare coughin'.” + +“But you can't take a strange horse into their stable, an' him sick,” + objected the Trainer. + +“Right you are, Dick. But you could take the sickness there, if you had +a boy with the sabe.” + +“I was thinkin' of that,” said Langdon, reflectively; “I was wonderin' +if that's what the Boss meant.” + +“Sure thing--that's his way; he never wants to stand in for none of the +blame, but he likes to feel sure that he's goin' to win.” + +“It looks a bit like it, damn me if it don't; an' I believe he was +givin' me a pointer about the proper boy for the job, too. He said +Shandy would get at a horse quick enough if he was paid for it.” + +“There you are; what more do you want? Would you have Crane get out on +the housetop an' shout to you to go an' cruel Porter's mare? He's slick, +he is, an' if it can be done you've got a great chance.” + +“I'm a poor man,” whined Langdon, “an' I can't take no chances on +loosin' ten thousand, if it can be helped.” + +“It's got to be done right away, 'cause it'll take a couple of days to +get the mare coughin'.” + +“I told Shandy to come here,” said the Trainer; “he ought to be turnin' +up soon. When you hear him knock, just slip into that other room, an' +leave the door open a little so that you can hear what takes place. God +knows what that young imp wouldn't swear if a fellow had no witnesses. +I think he's comin' here to-night to ask me to pay him to do some dirty +job, an' I won't do it, see?” and he winked at Faust. “He's a bad boy,” + said the Bookmaker, in a tone of mock condemnation. + +“There he is now,” declared Langdon. “I hear a step on the gravel. +Quick, slip into the room; he'll be peepin' through the windows; he's +like a fox.” + +There was a knock at the door. When Langdon opened it Shandy shuffled +into the room with a peculiar little rocking-horse sort of gait, just +like the trot of a skunk. His whole appearance somehow suggested this +despised animal. + +“Have you heard anything from the Porter stable?” Langdon asked, when +the boy had taken a seat. + +“The little mare's well,” the boy answered, laconically. + +“That's bad luck for us, Shandy. We'll be poorer by the matter of a few +thousand if they win the Derby.” + +“Who's we?” questioned Shandy, with saucy directness. + +“The whole stable. A man has played The Dutchman to win a hundred +thousand, an' he's goin' to give the boys, one or two of them, five +hundred if it comes off.” + +The small imp's weak, red-lidded eyes took on a hungry, famished look. +“What're you givin' us is that straight goods?” he demanded, doubtingly. + +Langdon didn't answer the question direct; he said: “My man's afraid +somebody'll get at The Dutchman. There's a lot of horse sickness about, +an' if anyone was to take some of the poison from a sick horse's nose +and put it in The Dutchman's nostrils at night, why he'd never start in +the Derby, I reckon.” + +A look of deep cunning crept into the boy's thin freckled face; his eyes +contracted and blinked nervously. + +“What th' 'ell's the difference? If the Porter mare starts Redpath +thinks he's got a lead-pipe cinch.” + +“You'd lose your five hundred; that's the difference,” retorted Langdon. + +“An' if she doesn't start, an' our horse wins, I get five hundred? Is +that dead to rights?” + +“If The Dutchan wins you get the money,” replied the Trainer, +circumspectly. “You mustn't come to me, Shandy, with no game about +takin' the horse sickness from, our two-year-old an' fixin' Porter's +mare, 'cause I can't stand for that, see?” + +The boy would have interrupted, but Langdon motioned him to keep silent, +and proceeded: + +“You see, if it leaked out an' we'd won a lot of money over The +Dutchman, damn fools would say that I'd been at the bottom of it; an' +if they had me up in front of the Stewards I couldn't swear that I'd had +nothing to do with it.” + +He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket, held it in front of Shandy's +eyes, and said: “What did you write that letter for?” + +The boy stared in blank amazement. He trembled with fear; it was the +warning note he had sent to Crane. + +“Now if I was to show that to Faust he'd put a pug on to do you up, see? +I wouldn't give three cents for your carcass after they'd finished with +you.” + +“I didn't mean nothin', s' help me God, I didn't,” pleaded the boy; +“give it back to me, sir.” + +“You can take it, only don't play me the double cross no more. If you're +doin' anything crooked, don't mix me up in it. You couldn't get into +Porter's stable, anyway, if you tried to fix the mare.” + +“I didn't say I was goin' to do no bloomin' job; but I could get in +right enough.” + +“Well, I ain't puttin' you next no dirty work, but if you hear that the +mare gets this horse sickness that's goin' about, let me know at once, +see? Come here quick. If Faust got a chance to lay against the mare he +probably wouldn't say anythin' about that note, if he did know.” + +“I'll give you the office, sir, when she's took sick.” + +“That's right. You ain't got any too many friends, Shandy, an' you'd +better stick to them that'll help you.” + +“Do I get that five hundred, sure?” + +“If Lucretia don't beat The Dutchman, you get it.” + +When the boy had gone Faust came forth from his hiding like a badger. + +“That's a bad boy--a wicked boy!” he said, pulling a solemn face. +“You're a good man, Langdon, to steer him in the straight an' narrer +path. He'll take good care of The Dutchman for that five hundred.” + +“Yes, if you don't pay these kids well they'll throw you down; an' I +ain't takin' no chances, Faust.” + +“The Porter mare might catch the influenza, eh, Dick?” + +“If she does, I'll let you know at once, Jake. But I ain't in it. I +threatened to kick that kid out when he hinted at something crooked.” + +“I heard you, Langdon, I'll take my oath to that. But I must be off now. +You know where to find me if there's anything doin'.” + + + + +XXVIII + + +The next day, intent on persuading Porter to accept the money won over +Diablo, Crane took a run down to Ringwood farm. + +As Allis had foreshadowed, his visit was of no avail, so far as Porter's +acceptance of the winnings was concerned. + +With natural forethought Crane first talked it over with Mrs. Porter, +but that good lady would have felt a sort of moral defilement in +handling any betting money, much less this that seemed obscured in +uncertainty as to its rightful ownership. She believed very much in +Crane's bona fides, and had no doubt whatever but his statement of the +case was absolutely truthful. But Allis had refused to accept the money; +it would never do for her to go beyond her daughter's judgment. She even +thought it unadvisable for Crane to discuss the matter with her husband; +it would only worry him, and she was positive that, in his pride of +independence, he would refuse to touch a penny that was not actually due +him. + +“But there's a payment on Ringwood due in a few days,” Crane argued, +“and we must arrange for that at all events. If this money, which is +rightfully your family's, could be applied on that, it would make a +difference, don't you think?” + +“I suppose John must settle it,” she said, resignedly; “perhaps you had +better see him. I can't interfere one way or the other. I have no head +for business,” she added, apologetically; “I'm not sure that any of us +have except Allis. We just seem to drift, drift, drift.” + +Crane stated the facts very plausibly, very seductively, to John Porter. +Porter almost unreasonably scented charity in Crane's proposal. He +believed that the bet was a myth; Crane was trying to present him with +this sum as a compensation for having lost Diablo. It wasn't even +a loan; it was a gift, pure and simple. His very helplessness, his +poverty, made him decline the offer with unnecessary fierceness. If +Allis had refused it, if she were strong enough to stand without this +charity, surely he, a man, battered though he was, could pass it by. He +had received a hopeful message from Allis as to Lucretia's chances in +the Derby; they felt confident of winning. That win would relieve them +of all obligations. + +“I can't take it,” Porter said to Crane. “Allis is more familiar with +the circumstances of the bet--if there was one--than I. It must just +rest with her; she's the man now, you know,” he added, plaintively; “I'm +but a broken wreck, and what she says goes.” + +“But there's a payment on Ringwood falling due in a few days,” Crane +remonstrated, even as he had to Mrs. Porter. + +Porter collapsed, fretfully. He could stand out against prospective +financial stringency, but actual obligations for which he had no means +quite broke down his weakened energy. He had forgotten about this +liability, that is, had thought the time of payment more distant. +He would be forced to recall the money he had given Dixon to bet on +Lucretia for the Derby, to meet this payment to the bank. + +Quite despondently he answered the other man. “I had forgotten all about +it; this shake-up has tangled my memory. I can pay the money, though,” + he added, half defiantly; “it will hamper me, but I can do it.” + +A sudden thought came to Crane, an inspiration. “I've got it!” he +exclaimed. + +Porter brightened up; there was such a world of confidence in the +other's manner. + +“We'll just let this Diablo money stand against the payment which is +about due on Ringwood; put it in the bank to cover it, so to speak; +later we can settle to whom it belongs. At present it seems to be +nobody's money; it's seldom one sees a few thousand going abegging for +an owner,” he added, jocularly. “You say it isn't yours; I know it isn't +mine; and most certainly it doesn't belong to the bookmaker, for he's +lost it fair and square. We can't let him keep it; they win enough of +the public's money.” + +Reluctantly, Porter gave a half-hearted acquiescence. He would have +sacrificed tangible interests to leave the money that was in Dixon's +hands with him to bet on Lucretia. It would be like not taking the tide +at its flood to let her run unbacked when her chances of winning were so +good, and the odds against her great enough to insure a big return. + +It was after banking hours, quite toward evening, by the time Crane had +obtained this concession. He had brought the winnings for John Porter's +acceptance, should the latter prove amenable to reason. Now it occurred +to him that he might leave the money with one of the bank staff, who +could deposit it the next day. + +Crane drove back to the village and went at once to the cashier, Mr. +Lane's house. He was not at home; his wife thought perhaps he was still +in the bank. Crane went there in search of him. He found only Mortimer, +who had remained late over his accounts. From the latter Crane learned +that the cashier had driven over to a neighboring town. + +“It doesn't matter,” remarked Crane; “I can leave this money with you. +It's to meet a payment of three thousand due from John Porter about the +middle of June. You can put it in a safe place in the vault till the +note falls due, and then transfer it to Porter's credit.” + +“I'll attend to it, sir,” replied Mortimer. “I'll attach the money to +the note, and put them away together.” + +On his way to the station Crane met Alan Porter. + +“I suppose you'd like a holiday to see your father's mare run for the +Derby, wouldn't you, Alan?” he said. + +“I should very much, sir; but Mr. Lane is set against racing.” + +“Oh, I think he'll let you off that day. I'll tell him he may. But, +like your mother, I don't approve of young men betting--I know what it +means.” + +He was thinking, with bitterness, of his own youthful indiscretions. + +“If you go, don't bet. You might be tempted, naturally, to back your +father's mare Lucretia, but you would stand a very good chance of +losing.” + +“Don't you think she'll win, sir?” Alan asked, emboldened by his +employer's freedom of speech. + +“I do not. My horse, The Dutchman, is almost certain to win, my trainer +tells me.” Then he added, apologetic of his confidential mood, “I tell +you this, lest through loyalty to your own people you should lose your +money. Racing, I fancy, is very uncertain, even when it seems most +certain.” + +Again Crane had cause to congratulate himself upon the somewhat clever +manipulation of a difficult situation. He had scored again in his +diplomatic love endeavor. He knew quite well that Allis's determined +stand was only made possible by her expectation of gaining financial +relief for her father through Lucretia's winning the Derby. Should she +fail, they would be almost forced to turn to him in their difficulties. +That was what he wanted. He knew that the money won over Diablo, if +accepted, must always be considered as coming from him. The gradual +persistent dropping of water would wear away the hardest stone; he would +attain to his wishes yet. + +He was no bungler to attempt other than the most gently delicate +methods. + + + + +XXIX + + +Encouraged by Jockey Redpath's explanation of his ride on Lucretia, +Allis was anxious that Dixon should take the money her father had set +aside for that purpose and back their mare for the Brooklyn Derby. + +“We had better wait a day or two,” Dixon had advised, “until we see the +effect the hard gallop in the Handicap has had on the little mare. She +ain't cleanin' up her oats just as well as she might; she's a bit off +her feed, but it's only natural, though; a gallop like that takes it out +of them a bit.” + +It was the day after Crane's visit to Ringwood that Dixon advised Allis +that Lucretia seemed none the worse for her exertion. + +“Perhaps we'd better put the money on right away,” he said. “She's sure +to keep well, and we'll be forced to take a much shorter price race +day.” + +“Back the stable,” advised Allis, “then if anything happens Lucretia we +can start Lauzanne.” + +The Trainer laughed in good-natured derision. “That wouldn't do much +good; we'd be out of the frying pan into the fire; we'd be just that +much more money out for jockey an' startin' fees; he'd oughter been +struck out on the first of January to save fifty dollars, but I guess +you all had your troubles about that time an' wasn't thinkin' of +declarations.” + +“It may have been luck; if Lauzanne would only try, something tells me +he'd win,” contended the girl. + +“And somethin' tells me he wouldn't try a yard,” answered Dixon, in +good-humored opposition. “But I don't think it'll make no difference in +the odds we get whether we back the stable or Lucretia alone; they won't +take no stock in the Chestnut's prospects.” + +So Dixon made a little pilgrimage among the pencilers. He was somewhat +dismayed and greatly astonished that these gentry also had a somewhat +rosy opinion of Lucretia's chances. Her good gallop in the Brooklyn +Handicap had been observed by other eyes than Crane's. Ten to one was +the best offer he could get. + +Dixon was remonstrating with a bookmaker, Ulmer, when the latter +answered, “Ten's the best I'll lay--I'd rather take it myself; in fact, +I have backed your mare because I think she's got a great chance; she'll +be at fours race day. But I'll give you a tip--it's my game to see the +owner's money on,” and he winked at the Trainer as much as to say, “I'll +feel happier about it if we're both in the same boat.” + +“It'll be on, sure thing, if I can get a decent price.” + +“Well, you go to Cherub Faust; he'll lay you longer odds. I put my bit +on with him at twelve, see? If I didn't know that you an' Porter was +always on the straight I'd a-thought there was somethin' doin', an' +Faust was next it, stretchin' the odds that way. How's the mare doin--is +she none the worse?” Ullmer asked, a suspicious thought crossing his +mind. + +“We're backin' her--an' money talks,” said Dixon, with quiet assurance. + +“Well, Faust is wise to somethin'--he stands in with Langdon, an' I +suppose they think they've got a cinch in The Dutchman. Yes, that must +be it,” he added, reflectively; “they made a killin' over Diablo, an' +likely they got a good line on The Dutchman through him in a trial. +But a three-year-old mare that runs as prominent in the big Handicap +as Lucretia did, will take a lot of beatin. She's good enough for my +money.” + +Thanking him, Dixon found Faust, and asked of him a quotation against +Porter's stable. + +“Twelve is the best I can do,” answered the Cherub. + +“I'll take fifteen to one,” declared Dixon. + +“Can't lay it; some of the talent--men as doesn't make no mistake, is +takin' twelve to one in my book fast as I open my mouth.” + +“I want fifteen,” replied Dixon, doggedly. “Surely the owner is entitled +to a shade the best of it.” + +“What's the size of your bet?” queried the Cherub. + +“If you lay me fifteen, I'll take it to a thousand.” + +“But you want it ag'in' the stable, an' you've two in; with two horses +twelve is a long price.” + +“I'm takin' it against the stable just because it's the usual thing +to couple it in the bettin. It's a million to one against Lauzanne's +starting if Lucretia keeps well.” + +Faust gave a little start and searched Dixon's face, furtively. The +Trainer's stolid look reassured him, and in a most sudden burst of +generosity he said: “Well, I'll stretch a point for you, Dixon. Your +boss is up ag'in' a frost good and hard. I'll lay you fifteen thousand +to one ag'in' the stable, an' if Lauzanne wins you'll buy me a nice +tiepin.” + +His round, fat sides heaved spasmodically with suppressed merriment at +the idea of Lauzanne in the Brooklyn Derby. + +“They must have a pretty good opinion of The Dutchman,” Dixon thought, +as he moved away after concluding the bet. “I'm naturally suspicious of +that gang, when they get frisky with their money. It's a bit like I've +heard about the Sultan of Turkey always givin' a present to a man before +cutting his head off.” + +The Trainer told Allis what he had done. He even spoke of his distrust +at finding Faust laying longer odds against their mare than the other +bookmakers. “But I don't see what they can do,” he said, reflectively, +studying the grass at his feet, his brow quite wrinkled in deep thought. +“The mare's well, and we can trust the boy this time, I think.” + +“Yes, you can trust Redpath,” affirmed Allis, decisively. “If Faust is +in with Langdon, as you say, it just means that they're goin' on their +luck, and think their colt, The Dutchman, can't lose.” + +“It must be that,” concurred the Trainer, but in a hesitating tone that +showed he was not more than half satisfied. + +“You backed the stable?” queried Allis, as an afterthought. + +“Yes, an' Lauzanne'll have a chance to-day to show whether he's worth +the pencil that wrote his name beside Lucretia's.” + +“You are starting him to-day? I had almost forgotten that he was +entered.” + +“Yes, it'll give him a fair trial--it's a mile, an' there ain't no good +horses, that is, stake horses, in the race. I'll put Redpath up on +him, an' you might have a talk with the boy, if you like. You're onto +Lauzanne's notions better'n I am.” + +Allis gave Jockey Redpath the benefit of her knowledge of Lauzanne's +peculiarities. + +“I'm afraid he won't take kindly to you,” she said, regretfully; “he's +as notional as most of his sire's line. But if he won't try he won't, +and the more you fight him the sulkier he'll get. I wish I could ride +him myself,” she added, playfully; then fearing that she had hurt the +boy's feelings by discounting his ability, added, hastily: “I'm afraid +I've spoiled Lauzanne; he has taken a liking to me, and I've learned how +to make him think he's having his own way when he's really doing just +what I want him to do.” + +Redpath's admiration for Allis Porter was limited to his admiration +for her as a young lady. Being young, and a jockey, he naturally had +notions; and a very prominent, all-absorbing notion was that he could +manage his mount in a race much better than most boys. Constrained to +silent acquiescence by respect for Allis, he assured himself, mentally, +that, in the race his experience and readiness of judgment would render +him far better service than orders--perhaps prompted by a sentimental +regard for Lauzanne. + +The Chestnut was a slow beginner; that was a trait which even Allis's +seductive handling had failed to eradicate. + +When the starter sent Lauzanne off trailing behind the other seven +runners in the race that afternoon, Redpath made a faint essay, +experimentally, to hold to Allis's orders, by patiently nestling over +the Chestnut's strong withers in a vain hope that his mount would +speedily seek to overtake the leaders. But evidently Lauzanne had no +such intention; he seemed quite satisfied with things as they were. That +the horses galloping so frantically in front interested him slightly was +evidenced by his cocked ears; but beyond that he might as well have been +the starter's hack bringing that gentleman along placidly in the rear. + +“Just as I thought,” muttered the boy; “this skate's kiddin' me just as +he does the gal. He's a lazy brute--it's the bud he wants.” + +Convinced that he was right, and that his orders were all wrong, +the jockey asserted himself. He proceeded to ride Lauzanne most +energetically. + +In the horse's mind this sort of thing was associated with unlimited +punishment. It had always been that way in his two-year-old days; first, +the general hustle--small legs and arms working with concentric swing; +then the impatient admonishment of fierce-jabbing spurs; and finally +the welt-raising cut of a vicious, unreasoning whip. It was not a +pleasurable prospect; and at the first shake-up, Lauzanne pictured it +coming. All thoughts of overtaking the horses in front fled from +his mind; it was the dreaded punishment that interested him most; +figuratively, he humped his back against the anticipated onslaught. + +Redpath felt the unmistakable sign of his horse sulking; and he promptly +had recourse to the jockey's usual argument. + +Sitting in the stand Allis saw, with a cry of dismay, Redpath's +whip-hand go up. That Lauzanne had been trailing six lengths behind the +others had not bothered her in the slightest--it was his true method; +his work would be done in the stretch when the others were tiring, if at +all. + +“If the boy will only sit still--only have patience,” she had been +saying to herself, just before she saw the flash of a whip in the +sunlight; and then she just moaned. “It's all over; we are beaten again. +Everything is against us--everybody is against us,” she cried, bitterly; +“will good fortune never come father's way?” + +By the time the horses had swung into the stretch, and Lauzanne had not +in the slightest improved his position, it dawned upon Redpath that his +efforts were productive of no good, so he desisted. But his move had +cost the Porters whatever chance they might have had. Left to himself, +Lauzanne undertook an investigating gallop on his own account. Too much +ground had been lost to be made up at that late stage, but he came +up the straight in gallant style, wearing down the leaders until he +finished close up among the unplaced horses. + +Allis allowed no word of reproach to escape her when Redpath spoke of +Lauzanne's sulky temper. It would do no good--it would be like crying +over spilt milk. The boy was to ride Lucretia in the Derby; he was on +good terms with the mare; and to chide him for the ride on Lauzanne +would but destroy his confidence in himself for the other race. + +“I'm afraid the Chestnut's a bad actor,” Dixon said to Allis, after the +race. “We'll never do no good with him. If he couldn't beat that lot +he's not worth his feed bill.” + +“He would have won had I been on his back,” declared the girl, loyally. + +“That's no good, Miss; you can't ride him, you see. We've just got one +peg to hang our hat on--that's Lucretia.” + +Lauzanne's showing in this race was a great disappointment to Allis; she +had hoped that his confidence in humanity had been restored. Physically +he had undoubtedly improved; his legs had hardened and smoothed down. In +fact, his whole condition was perfect. + +She still felt that if Redpath had followed her advice and allowed +Lauzanne to run his own race he would have won. The race did not shake +her confidence in the horse so much as in the possibility of getting +any jockey to ride him in a quiescent manner. When it was impossible of +Redpath, who was eager to please her, whom else could they look to? They +might experiment, but while they were experimenting Lauzanne would be +driven back into his old bad habits. + +The next morning brought them fresh disaster; all that had gone before +was as nothing compared with this new development in their run of +thwarted endeavor. + +Ned Carter had given Lucretia a vigorous exercise gallop over the Derby +course. As Dixon led the mare through the paddock to a stall he suddenly +bent down his head and took a sharp look at her nostrils; another stride +and they were in the stall. The Trainer felt Lucretia's throat and ears; +he put his hand over her heart, a look of anxious dismay on his usually +stolid face. + +“She coughed a little, sir, when I pulled her up,” volunteered Carter, +seeing Dixon's investigation. + +“I'm afraid she's took cold,” muttered Dixon. “Have you had her near +any horses that's got the influenza?” he asked, looking inquiringly at +Carter. + +“She ain't been near nothing; I kept her away from everything, for fear +she'd get a kick, or get run into.” + +“I hope to God it's nothin',” said the Trainer; and his voice was +quite different from his usual rough tone. Then a sudden suspicion took +possession of him. Faust's readiness to lay long odds against the mare +had haunted him like a foolish nightmare. Had there been foul play? The +mare couldn't have taken a cold--they had been so careful of her; there +had been no rain for ten days; she hadn't got wet. No, it couldn't be +cold. But she undoubtedly had fever. A sickening conviction came that it +was the dreaded influenza. + +That morning was the first time she had coughed, so Faust could not have +known of her approaching illness, unless he had been the cause of it. + +The Trainer pursued his investigation among the stable lads. When he +asked Finn if he had noticed anything unusual about the mare, the boy +declared most emphatically that he had not. Then, suddenly remembering +an incident he had taken at the time to be of little import, he said: +“Two mornin's ago when I opened her stall and she poked her head out, I +noticed a little scum in her nose; but I thought it was dust. I wiped it +out, and there was nuthin' more come that I could see.” + +“What's the row?” asked Mike Gaynor, as he joined Dixon. + +When the details were explained to him Mike declared, emphatically, that +some one had got at the mare. Taking Dixon to one side, he said: “It's +that divil on wheels, Shandy; ye can bet yer sweet loife on that. I've +been layin' for that crook; he cut Diablo's bridle an' t'rew th' ould +man; an' he done this job, too.” + +“But how could he get at her?” queried the Trainer. “The stable's been +locked; an' Finn and Carter was sleepin' in the saddle room.” + +“That divil could go where a sparrer could. How did he git in to cut th' +bridle rein--t'rough a manure window no bigger'n your hat. He done that, +as I know.” + +“Well, if the mare's got it we're in the soup. Have you seen Miss Porter +about, Mike?” + +“I did a minute ago; I'll pass the word ye want to see her--here she +comes now. I'll skip. Damn if I want to see them gray eyes when ye tell +about the little mare. It'll just break her heart; that's what it'll do. +An' maybe I wouldn't break the back av the devil as put up this dirty +job. It isn't Shandy that's as much to blame as the blackguard that +worked him.” + +Dixon ran over in his mind many contorted ways of breaking the news +to Allis, and finished up by blurting out: “The mare's coughin' this +mornin', Miss; I hope it ain't nothin', but I'm afraid she's in for a +sick spell.” + +Coming to the course, the girl had allowed rosy hope to tint the gray +gloom of the many defeats until she had worked herself into a happy +mood. Lucretia's win would put everything right; even her father, +relieved of financial worry, would improve. The bright morning seemed +to whisper of victory; Lucretia would surely win. It was not within the +laws of fate that they should go on forever and ever having bad luck. +She had come to have a reassuring look at the grand little mare that was +to turn the tide of all their evil fortune. The Trainer's words, “The +mare's coughin',” struck a chill to her heart. She could not speak--the +misery was too great--but stood dejectedly listening while Dixon spoke +of his suspicions of foul play. + +What villains there were in the world, the girl thought; for a man to +lay them odds against their horse, knowing that she had been poisoned, +was a hundred times worse than stealing the money from their Dockets. + +“I don't suppose we'll ever be able to prove it,” declared Dixon, +regretfully; “but that doesn't matter so much as the mare being done +for; we're out of it now good and strong. If we'd known it two days ago +we might a-saved the money, but we've burned up a thousand.” + +“We'll have to start Lauzanne,” said Allis, taking a brave pull at +herself, and speaking with decision. + +“We might send him to the post, but that's all the good it'll do us, I'm +feared.” + +“I've seen him do a great gallop,” contended Allis. + +“He did it for you, but he won't do it for nobody else. There ain't no +boy ridin' can make him go fast enough for a live funeral. But we'll +start him, an' I'll speak to Redpath about takin' the mount.” + +Allis was thinking very fast; her head, with its great wealth of black +hair, drooped low in heavy meditation. + +“Don't engage him just yet, Dixon,” she said, looking up suddenly, the +shadow of a new resolve in her gray eyes; “I'll talk it over with you +when we go back to the house. I'm thinking of something, but I don't +want to speak of it just now--let me think it over a little.” + +Dixon was deep in thought, too, as he went back to his own stables. “We +haven't got a million to one chance,” he was muttering; “the money's +burned up, an' the race is dead to the world, as far as we're +concerned.” + +That Allis could evolve any plan to lift them out of their Slough of +Despond he felt was quite impossible; but at any rate he got a distinct +shock when, a little later, a slight-formed girl, with gray eyes, set +large and full in a dark face, declared to him that she was going to +ride Lauzanne in the Derby herself. + +“My God, Miss!” the Trainer exclaimed, “you can't do it. What would +people say--what would your mother say?” + +“People will say the race was well ridden if I'm any judge, and mother +won't be interested enough to know whether Lucretia was hitched to a +buggy in the Derby or not.” + +“But the Judge would never allow a girl--” + +“There'll be no girl in it;”. and Allis explained, in minute detail the +result of her deep cogitation. + +“It won't work; you never could do it,” objected Dixon, with despondent +conviction. “That big head of hair would give you dead away.” + +“The head of hair won't be in evidence; it will be lying in my trunk, +waiting to be made up into a wig after we've won.” + +“No, no; it won't do,” the Trainer reiterated; “everybody'd know you, +an' there'd be a fine shindy. I believe you could ride the horse right +enough, an' if he has a chance on earth you'd get it out of him. But +give up the idea, everybody'd know you.” + +The girl pleaded, but Dixon was obdurate. He did not contend for an +instant that she was not capable of riding the horse,--only in a race +with many jockeys she would find it different from riding a trial +gallop,--but his main objection was that she'd be known. Allis closed +the discussion by saying that she was going home to encourage her father +a little over the mare's defeat in the Handicap, and made Dixon promise +not to engage Redpath for Lauzanne till her return next morning. + +“He can't take another mount,” she said, “because he's retained for +Lucretia, and we haven't declared her out yet.” + +“I'm hopin' we may not have to,” remarked Dixon. “Anyway, there's no +hurry about switchin' the boy onto Lauzanne, so we'll settle that when +you come back.” + + + + +XXX + + +Allis's visit to Ringwood was a flying one. Filial devotion to her +father had been one motive, but not the only one. Her brother Alan's +wardrobe received a visitation from hands not too well acquainted with +the intricacies of its make-up. + +John Porter was undoubtedly brightened by the daughter's visit. +Lucretia's defeat in the Handicap had increased his despondency. To +prepare him gradually for further reverses Allis intimated, rather than +asserted, that Lucretia might possibly have a slight cold--Digon wasn't +sure; but they were going to run Lauzanne also. Like the Trainer, her +father had but a very poor opinion of the Chestnut's powers in any other +hands but in that of the girl's. + +“Who'll ride him?” he asked, petulantly. “It seems you can't trust any +of the boys now-a-days. If they're not pin-headed, they're crooked as a +corkscrew. Crane tells me that Redpath didn't ride Lucretia out in +the Handicap, and whether he rides the mare or Lauzanne it seems all +one--we'll get beat anyway.” + +“Another boy will have the mount on Lauzanne,” Allis answered. + +“What difference will that make? You can't trust him.” + +“You can trust this boy, father, as you might your own son, Alan.” + +“I don't know about that. Alan in the bank is all right, but Alan as a +jockey would be a different thing.” + +“Father, you would trust me, wouldn't you?” + +“I guess I would, in the tightest corner ever was chiseled out.” + +“Well, you can trust the jockey that's going to ride Lauzanne just as +much. I know him, and he's all right. He's been riding Lauzanne some, +and the horse likes him.” + +“It's all Lauzanne,” objected Porter, the discussion having thrown him +into a petulant mood. “Is Lucretia that bad--is she sick?” + +“She galloped to-day,” answered the girl, evasively. “But if anything +happens her we're going to win with the horse. Just think of that, +father, and cheer up. Dixon has backed the stable to win a lot of money, +enough to-enough to--well, to wipe out all these little things that are +bothering you, dad.” + +She leaned over and kissed her father in a hopeful, pretty way. The +contact of her brave lips drove a magnetic flow of confidence into the +man. “You're a brick, little woman, if ever there was one. Just a tiny +bunch of pluck, ain't you, girl? And, Allis,” he continued, “if you +don't win the Derby, come and tell me about it yourself, won't you? +You're sure to have some other scheme for bracing me up. I'm just a +worthless hulk, sitting here in the house a cripple while you fight the +battles. Perhaps Providence, as your mother says, will see you through +your hard task.” + +“I won't come and tell you that we've lost, dad; I'll come and tell you +that we've won; and then we'll all have the biggest kind of a blow-out +right here in the house. We'll have a champagne supper, with cider for +champagne, eh, dad? Alan, and Dixon, and old Mike, and perhaps we'll +even bring Lauzanne in for the nuts and raisins at desert.” + +“And the Rev. Dolman,--you've left him out,” added the father. + +They were both laughing. Just a tiny little ray of sunshine had +dispelled all the gloom for a minute. + +“Now I must go back to my horses,” declared Allis, with another kiss. +“Good-bye, dad--cheer up;” and as she went up to her room the smile of +hope vanished from her lips, and in its place came one of firm, dogged +resolve. Allis needed much determination before she had accomplished the +task she had set herself--before she stood in front of a mirror, arrayed +in the purple and fine linen of her brother. She had thought Alan +small, and he was for a boy, but his clothes bore a terribly suggestive +impression of misfit--they hung loose. + +Mentally thanking the fashion which condoned it, she turned the trousers +up at the bottom. “I'll use my scissors and needle on them to-night,” + she said, ruthlessly. Thank goodness, the jockeys are all little chaps, +and the racing clothes will fit better. + +The coat was of summer wear, therefore somewhat close-fitting for Alan; +but why did it hang so loosely on her? She was sure her brother was +not so much bigger. A little thought given to this question of foreign +apparel brought a possible solution. The undergarments she had tumbled +about in her search were much heavier than her own. Her crusade had its +side of comedy; she chuckled as, muttering, “In for a penny, in for a +pound,” she reincarnated herself completely, so far as outward adornment +was concerned. Then she examined herself critically in the glass. The +mirror declared she was a passable counterfeit of her brother; all but +the glorious crown of luxuriant hair. Perhaps she had better leave it +as it was until she had met with the approval of Dixon--the terrible +sacrifice might be for nothing. She wavered only for an instant--no +half measure would do. “In for a penny, in for a pound.” The slightest +weakness in carrying out her bold plan might cause it to fail. + +Twice she took up a pair of scissors, and each time laid them down +again, wondering if it were little short of a madcap freak; then, +shrinking from the grinding hiss of the cutting blades, she clipped +with feverish haste the hair that had been her pride. It was a difficult +task, and but a rough job at best when finished, but the change in +her appearance was marvelous; the metamorphosis, so successful, almost +drowned the lingering regret. She drew a cap over her shorn head, packed +her own garments and a few of her brother's in a large bag, buttoned her +newmarket coat tight up to her throat, and once more surveyed herself +in the glass. From head to foot she was ready. Ah, the truthful glass +betrayed the weak point in her armor--the boots. In an instant she +had exchanged them for a pair of Alan's. Now she was ready to pass her +mother as Allis in her own long cloak, and appear before Dixon without +it as a boy. That was her clever little scheme. + +Before going up to her room she had asked that the stableman might be +at the door with a buggy when she came down, to take her to the station. +When she descended he was waiting. + +“I'm taking some clothes back with me, mother,” she said. “Let Thomas +bring the bag down, please.” + +“You're getting dreadfully mannish in your appearance, daughter; it's +that cap.” + +“I have to wear something like this about in the open;” answered Allis. + +“But for traveling, girl, it seems out of place. Let me put a hat on +you. I declare I thought it was Alan when you came into the room.” + +“I can't wait; this will do. I must be off to catch my train. Goodbye, +mother; wish me good luck,” and she hurried out and took her seat in the +buggy. + + + + +XXXI + + +Some hours later Dixon, sitting in his cottage, oppressed by the +misfortune that had come to his stable, heard a knock at the door. When +he opened it a neatly dressed, slim youth stepped into the uncertain +light that stretched out reluctantly from a rather unfit lamp on the +center table. + +“Is this Mr. Dixon?” the boy's voice piped modestly. + +“Yes, lad, it is. Will you sit down?” + +The boy removed his cap, took the proffered chair, and said somewhat +hesitatingly, “I heard you wanted a riding boy.” + +“Well, I do, an' I don't. I don't know as I said I did, but,”--and he +scanned the little figure closely, “if I could get a decent lightweight +that hadn't the hands of a blacksmith, an' the morals of a burglar, I +might give him a trial. Did you ever do any ridin'--what stable was you +in?” + +“I've rode a good deal,” answered the little visitor, ignoring the +second half of the question. + +“What's your name?” + +“Mayne.” + +“Main what?” + +“Al Mayne,” the other replied. + +“Well, s'posin' you show up at the course paddocks to-morrow mornin' +early, an' I'll see you shape on a horse. D'you live about here--can +you bring your father, so if I like your style we can have things fixed +proper?” + +The boy's face appealed to Dixon as being an honest one. Evidently the +lad was not a street gamin, a tough. If he had hands--the head promised +well--and could sit a horse, he might be a find. A good boy was rarer +than a good horse, and of more actual value. + +“I guess I'll stay here to-night so as to be ready for the mornin',” + said the caller, to Dixon's astonishment; and then the little fellow +broke into a silvery laugh. + +“By Jimminy! If it isn't--well, I give in, Miss Allis, you fooled me.” + +“Can I ride Lauzanne now?” the girl asked, and her voice choked a +little--it might have been the nervous excitement, or thankfulness at +the success of her plan in this its first stage. + +“Do they know at home?” the Trainer asked. + +“No, nobody is to know but you, Mr. Dixon--you and Mrs. Dixon.” + +This suggested a thought to the Trainer. “The good wife's at work in the +kitchen; I'll bring her in. Perhaps she'd like to hire a help,” and he +chuckled as he opened a door and called, “Come here for a minute. This +is a boy”--he turned his head away--“I'm takin' on for Lauzanne.” + +“Oh,” said Mrs. Dixon. Then, with severe politeness, “Good evenin', +young man.” + +The two figures in male attire broke into a laugh simultaneously. The +good lady, oblivious to the humorous side of her greeting, flushed in +anger. “Appears to be mighty funny,” she said. “What's the joke?” + +“Oh, nuthin',” replied the husband, speaking hastily. “Can you give the +lad a bed? He wants to bunk here.” + +“Why, Andy, you know I can't. There's only Miss Allis's room.” + +“Give her--him that.” + +“Are you crazy, Andy?” + +“It's too bad, Mrs. Dixon; I sha'n't let your husband tease you any +more. I am Allis; but I'm glad you didn't know.” + +“Oh, Miss Allis, where's your beautiful hair gone? Surely you didn't cut +that off just for a joke?” + +Then she was taken fully into their confidence; and before Allis retired +Dixon had been quite won over to the plan of Allis's endeavor. + +In the morning the Trainer asked the girl whether she would ride +Lauzanne a working gallop to get accustomed to the new order of things, +or would she just wait until race day and take her place in the saddle +then. + +“I'm afraid Mike'll spot you,” he said--“even Carter may.” + +“I'll ride to-day,” declared Allis; “I musn't take any chances of losing +this race through my inexperience. Even Lauzanne will hardly know me, +I'm afraid. Mike and Carter needn't see much of me--I can slip away as +soon as I've ridden the gallop.” + +“Here's a boy's sweater, then,” said Dixon; “the collar'll half hide +your face. I'll get a pair of ridin' breeches an' boots for you by +tomorrow. The little mare's in for it sure,” he added; “her legs are +swellin', an' she's off her feed--just nibbles at a carrot. I feel as +bad as if it was a child that was sick, she's that gentle. She can't +start, an' I'll just tell Redpath that he can take another mount if he +gets it. You're still bound to ride the Chestnut?” he asked, by way of +assurance. + +“Yes, I am.” + +“Well, we'll get five pounds off the weight for 'prentice +allowance--that's somethin'. I'll arrange about a permit for you. What +did you say your name was, mister?” + +“Al Mayne, please, sir,” this in the humble tone of a stable-boy. + +“Well, Miss--Al, I mean--you can carry Lauzanne around the course at +nine o'clock sharp; then you'd better come back here an' rest up all +day--lay low.” + +“A new boy, I'm tryin',” Dixon explained to Gaynor, after he lifted +a little lad to Lauzanne's back at the paddock gate, and they stood +watching the big Chestnut swing along with his usual sluggish stride. + +“He's got good hands,” said Mike, critically, “though he seems a bit +awkward in the saddle. Ye couldn't have a better trial horse fer a new +b'y. If Lauzanne's satisfied with him he can roide onythin'.” + +When Allis, who was now Al Mayne, the boy, came around and back to the +paddock, she slipped quietly from the horse, loitered carelessly about +for a few minutes, and then made her way back to Dixon's quarters. +Nobody had paid any attention to the modest little boy. Riding lads were +as plentiful as sparrows; one more or less called for no comment, no +investigation. Even Mike lost interest in the new boy in wondering why +Miss Allis had not made her usual appearance. + +“How did the horse like it?” Dixon asked of the girl when he returned +home. + +“Oh, he knew. I whispered in his ear as we cantered along, and he'll be +all right--he'll keep my secret.” + +“Well, I think he's due for a pipe opener to-morrow. It's just three +days till the Derby, an' we've got to give him a strong workout. +Besides, it'll put you next what you've got to do in the race. To-morrow +mornin' you had better canter him just slow around once, an' then send +him a full mile-an'-aquarter as though there was money hung up for it. +I'll catch his time, an' we'll get wise to what he can do.” + +This programme was carried out; and as Dixon looked thrice at his watch +after the gallop to make sure that he was not mistaken in the time, +2:11, he began to wonder if, after all, the girl was not nearly right +in her prophetic hope that the despised Lauzanne would win the Brooklyn +Derby. + +“He can move; he surprised me,” the Trainer said to Allis as she +dismounted. “He's not blown, either; he's as fresh as a daisy. Gad! +we'll do those blackguards up yet, I believe.” + +The gallop had attracted Mike's attention also. As Allis moved away +he called after her, “I say, b'y, hould on a minute. What's yer name, +ennyway?” + +“Al,” answered the small voice. + +“Well, by me faith, ye didn't put up no bad roide. Ye handled that horse +foine. Don't run away, lad,” he added, hurrying after the retreating +Allis. + +Before she could escape him, he had her by the arm, and turned about +face to face. Even then he didn't recognize her, for Allis had taken a +most subtle precaution in her make-up. The delicate olive of her cheeks +was hidden under a more than liberal allowance of good agricultural +cosmetique. It had been well rubbed in, too, made of a plastic adherence +by the addition of mucilage. + +“Lord, what a doirty face!” exclaimed Mike. “But ye kin ride, b'y; so +dirt don't count; clean ridin's the thing.” + +If Allis hadn't laughed in his face, being full of the happiness of +hope, Mike would not have recognized her--even then he didn't hit it off +quite right. + +“Alan Porter!” he gasped. “Bot' t'umbs up! Is it ye, b'y?” + +“Hush!” and a small warning finger was held up. + +“Don't fear, b'y, that I'll give it away. Mum's the word wit' me. But +I'm dahmned if I t'ought ye could roide like that. It's jus' in the +breed, that's what it is; ye take to it as natural as ducks--” Mike had +a habit of springing half-finished sentences on his friends. “Yer father +could roide afore ye; none better, an' Miss Allis can sit a horse foiner +nor any b'y as isn't a top-notcher. But this beats me, t'umbs up, if it +doesn't. I onderstand,” he continued, as Allis showed an inclination +to travel, “ye don't want the push to get on to ye. They won't, +nayther--what did ye say yer name was, sonny?” + +“Al Mayne.” + +“Ye'r a good b'y, Al. I hope Dixon lets ye roide the Chestnut in the +Derby. I'd give wan av me legs--an' I needs 'em bot'--to see ye beat out +that gang av highway robbers that got at the mare. They'll not git at +the Chestnut, for I'll slape in the stall me self.” + +As Allis moved away, Mike stood watching the neat figure. + +“That's the game, eh?” he muttered to himself; “the gal don't trust +Redpath no more'n I do; palaver don't cut no ice wit' her. The b'y +didn't finish on Lucretia, an' that's all there is to it. But how's Alan +goin' to turn the trick in a big field of rough ridin' b'ys? If it was +the gurl herself” a sudden brilliant idea threw its strong light through +Mike's brain pan. He took a dozen quick shuffling steps after Allis, then +stopped as suddenly as he had started. “Mother a' Moses! but I believe +it's the gurl; that's why the Chestnut galloped as if he had her on +his back. Jasus! he had. Ph-e-e-w-w!” he whistled, a look of intense +admiration sweeping over his leather-like face. “Bot' t'umbs! if that +isn't pluck. There isn't a soul but meself'll git ontil it, an' she all +but fooled me.” + + + + +XXXII + + +The news that Lucretia was sick had got about. The Porter's stable +traveled out in the betting for the Brooklyn Derby until a backer--if +there had been one--could have written his own price, and got it. + +Langdon had informed Crane of this change in their favor, though he said +nothing about the deal with Shandy which had brought about the poisoning +of the mare. + +“I'm sorry that Porter's mare has gone wrong,” Crane said. “I think we +would have won anyway, but it'll just about ruin them.” + +Figuratively, Langdon closed one eye and winked to himself. Crane must +know that it was his implied desires that had led up to the stopping of +Lucretia. Langdon thought Crane just about the most complete hypocrite +he'd ever met; that preacher face of his could look honorably pious +while its owner raked in a cool forty thousand over the Trainer's dirty +work. However, that cut no figure, it was his ten thousand dollars +Langdon was after. + +Just as they thought they had destroyed the chances of their strongest +opponent, came a new disturbing feature. Other eyes than Dixon's has +seen Lauzanne's strong gallop; other watchers than his had ticked of the +extraordinary good time, 2:11 for the mile and a quarter, with the +horse seemingly running well within himself, never urged a foot of +the journey, and finishing strong, was certainly almost good enough to +warrant his winning. + +This information had been brought to Langdon, but he also had observed +the gallop. And the same boy was to ride Lauzanne in the race, he +understood, for Redpath had been released, and was looking for another +mount. It wasn't in the natural order of things that one small stable +would have in it two horses good enough to win the Derby, especially +when one of them was a cast-off; but there was the gallop; time, like +figures, didn't lie, not often; and as he thought of it Langdon admitted +that he had never seen such an improvement in a horse as had been made +in Lauzanne. Shandy had told him that it was Miss Porter's doing, that +she had cured him of his sulky moods; the gallop Langdon had witnessed +seemed to bear out the truth of this. What was he to do? They couldn't +repeat the trick they had played on Lucretia. The Dutchman might win; he +had worked the full Derby distance, a mile and a half, in 2:45, nearly +all out at the finish. Lauzanne's gallop was only a mile and a quarter; +he might not be able to stay the additional quarter. But there was +ten thousand dollars at stake--for Langdon. He sought to discover the +identity of Lauzanne's rider; but nobody knew him--Dixon had picked him +up somewhere. Perhaps he could be got at; that would simplify matters +greatly. + +The morning after her fast work on Lauzanne, Allis, draped as she was +into the personification of Al Mayne, arrived at the course before their +horses. As she was leaning over the paddock rail waiting for Lauzanne +to come, Langdon, who had evidently determined upon a course of action, +sauntered up carelessly to the girl and commenced to talk. After a free +preliminary observation he said, “You're the boy that's ridin' for Andy +Dixon, ain't you?” + +The small figure nodded its head. + +“I seen you gallop that Chestnut yesterday. Where you been ridin--you're +a stranger here, I reckon?” + +“Out West,” answered Allis, at a hazard. + +“Oh, San Francisco, eh? Are you engaged to Dixon?” + +“I'm just on trial.” + +“Goin' to ride the Chestnut in the race?” + +Again the boy nodded; under the circumstances it wasn't wise to trust +too much to speech. + +“He ain't no good--he's a bad horse. I guess I've got the winner of that +race in my stable. If he wins, I'd like to sign you for a year. I like +the way you ride. I ain't got no good lightweight. I might give you a +thousand for a contract, an' losin' and winnin' mounts when you had a +leg up. How do you like ridin' for Dixon?” he continued, the little chap +not answering his observations. + +“I ain't goin' to ride no more for him after this race,” answered the +other, quite truthfully enough, but possessed of a curiosity to discover +the extent of the other's villainy. + +“I don't blame you. He's no good; he don't never give his boys a chance. +If you win on the Chestnut, like as not they'll just give you the +winnin' mount. That ain't no good to a boy. They ain't got no money, +that's why. The owner of my candidate, The Dutchman, he's a rich man, +an' won't think nothin' of givin' a retainer of a thousand if we won +this race. That'll mean The Dutchman's a good horse, and we'll want a +good light boy to ride him, see?” + +Allis did see. Langdon was diplomatically giving her as A1 Mayne to +understand that if she threw the race on Lauzanne, she would get a place +in their stable at a retainer of a thousand dollars. + +“We can afford it if we win the race,” he continued, “for we stand a big +stake. Come and see me any time you like to talk this over.” + +After he had gone, just as Allis was leaving the rail, she was again +accosted; this time by Shandy. She trembled an instant, fearing that the +small red-lidded ferret eyes would discover her identity. But the boy +was too intent on trying to secure his ill-earned five hundred dollars +to think of anything else. + +“Good mornin', boy,” he said, cheerily. “I used to be in Dixon's stable. +It's hell; and he's a swipe. I see my boss talkin' to you just now. Did +he put you next a good thing?” + +Allis nodded her head, knowingly. + +“He's all right. So's the other one--the guy as has got the mun; he's +got a bank full of it. I'm on to him; his name's Crane--” + +Allis started. + +“You don't know him,” continued the imp; “he's too slick to go messin' +about. But if the old man promised you anything, see, God blast me, +you'll git it. Not like that other skin-flint hole where you don't git +nothin'. I stand in five hundred if our horse wins the Derby.” + +“Do you ride him?” asked Al Mayne. + +“Ride nothin'. I don't have to. I've did my job already.” + +“I don't believe they'll give you five hundred for nothin',” said Allis, +doubtingly, knowing that the boy's obstinate nature, if he were crossed, +would probably drive him into further explanation. + +“Say, you're a stiff. What'd the ole man want you to do--pull Lauzanne?” + +Allis nodded. + +“I knowed it. What was the use of stoppin' the mare an' let the Chestnut +spoil the job?” + +“Is that what you get the five hundred for?” asked Allis, a sudden +suspicion forcing itself upon her. + +“Say, what d' you take me fer, a flat car? But she's sick, ain't she? +An' you jes' take care of the Chestnut now, an' I'll give you a hundred +out of my five, God bli' me if I don't.” + +As he spoke Shandy looked hastily about to see that no one was +listening, then he continued: “If you give me the double cross an' +peach, I'll split yer head open.” His small eyes blazed with venomous +fury. “Besides, it won't do no good, my word's as good as yours. But +I'll give you the hundred, s'help me God! I will, if you don't ride the +Chestnut out. Mum's the word,” he added, bolting suddenly, for Dixon had +entered the paddock with his horses. + +With the horses also came Mike Gaynor. While their blankets were being +taken off and saddles adjusted, he came over to Allis. There was a +suppressed twinkle of subverted knowledge in his weatherbeaten eyes. + +“Good mornin', Al,” he said, nodding in a very dignified manner, and +putting a strong accent on the name. + +Now Mike had determined to keep from the girl the fact that he had +penetrated her disguise. With proper Irish gallantry, crude as it might +be in its expression, but delicate enough in its motive, he reasoned +that his knowledge might make her uncomfortable. + +“I see that fly-by-night divil Shandy talkin' to ye as I come in. What +new mischief is he up to now?” + +“He wants me to pull Lauzanne.” + +“He ain't got no gall, has he? That come from headquarters; it's Langdon +put him up to that.” + +“He was talkin' to me, too.” + +“I t'ought he would be. But he didn't know ye, Miss Allis--” + +Heavens! It was out. Mike's sun-tanned face turned brick-red; he +could have bitten off his unruly Irish tongue. The girl stared at him +helplessly, her cheeks, that were scarlet, tingling under the hot rush +of blood. + +“There ye are, an' believe me, I didn't mean it. I was goin' to keep me +mouth shut, but I never could do that.” + +“You knew then, yesterday?” + +“Indade I didn't, an' that's a good sign to ye nobody'll know. But whin +I t'ought wit' meself I knowed that Alan couldn't ride Lauzanne the way +ye did; an' ye didn't deny ye was him, an' if ye wasn't him ye must be +yerself, see?” which more or less lucid explanation seemed to relieve +Mike's mind mightily. “I think ye're Jes doin' roight, Miss--Al, I mean; +I must get used to that name; s'help me, I believe ye'll win on the +Chestnut--that gallop was good enough.” + +“Do you think I can do it, Mike, among all those jockeys?” + +“Sure thing, ye can, A--Al, me b'y; he won't need no ridin' in yer +hands; all ye'll have to do is sit still an' keep him straight. +He'll win the race in the stretch, an' there won't be many there to +bother--they'll all be beat off. Now, it's a good thing that I do know +about this, for I'll just kape close to ye an' kape any wan that's +likely to spot ye away, if I have to knock him down.” + +Mike had worked himself up to a fine frenzy of projected endeavor; he +cast about for further services he could render his admired mistress. + +“An' ye know Carson the starter; he's jes the loveliest Irishman; there +isn't a b'y on earth could git an inch the best av it from him on a +start, not if they was to give him gold enough to weigh a horse down. +But I'll jes' tip him the wink that ye'r a gurl, and--” + +“Mike, what are you saying? Do you mean to ruin everything?” + +The rosy hue of eager joyousness that had crept into Gaynor's suntanned +face vanished; his jaw drooped, and a pathetic look of sheepish apology +followed. + +“That's so,” he ejaculated, mournfully; “bot' tumbs up! but it's a pity. +Carson's an Irish gintleman, an' if I could till him ye was a gurl, he'd +knock the head plumb off any b'y that 'ud bother ye. Ye'd git away well, +too.” + +Then the girl told Mike all that Shandy and Langdon had said. It only +confirmed Mike's opinion that between them they had poisoned Lucretia. +He felt that with a little more evidence he would be able to prove both +crimes--the one with Diablo and the one with Lucretia. + +The Brooklyn Derby was to be run the next day. Allis was glad that it +was so near; she dreaded discovery. She was like a hunted hare, dodging +everyone she fancied might discover her identity. She would have to run +the gauntlet of many eyes while weighing for the race, and at the time +of going out; even when she returned, especially if she won. But in +the excitement over the race, people would not have time to devote to a +strange jockey's visage. She could quite smear her face with dirt, for +that seemed a natural condition where boys were riding perhaps several +races in one afternoon. The jockey cap with its big peak well pulled +down over her head would add materially to her disguise. Mike would +fetch and carry for her, so that she would be in evidence for very +few minutes at most. Dixon even, opposed to the idea as he had been at +first, now assured her quite confidently that nobody would make her out. + +“It's the horses they look at,” he said, “and the colors. An apprentice +boy doesn't cut much ice, I can tell you. Why, I've been racin' for +years,” he went on with the intent of giving her confidence, “an' many a +time I see a boy up on a horse that must have rode on the tracks over a +hundred times, an' I can't name him to save my neck.” + +At any rate there was nothing more to do until she made the great +endeavor, until she went to the track at the time set for the Brooklyn +Derby, dressed in the blue jacket with the white stars of her father's +racing colors; that was the plan adopted. A buggy, with Mike driving, +would take her straight to the paddock quite in time for the race. + + + + +XXXIII + + +After Crane left the money for Porter's note with Mortimer the latter +took the three one-thousand-dollar bills, pinned them to the note, +placed them in a cigar box and put the box away carefully in the bank +safe, to remain there until the 14th of June, when it became due. +Incidentally Mortimer mentioned this matter to Alan Porter. + +Crane in writing to the cashier about other affairs of the bank touched +upon the subject of Porter's obligation, stating that he had left the +money with Mr. Mortimer to meet the note when it matured. + +The day before the Derby, the 12th of the month, Alan asked his day's +leave and got it. The cashier more readily granted Alan's request, as +Crane had intimated in his letter that it would please him if the lad +were to have a holiday. + +Alan went up to New York that evening. Earlier in the day he somewhat +hesitatingly confided to Mortimer that he had backed Lucretia when she +was well and looked to have a good chance to win her race; now she was +scratched, and his money was lost. Bearing in mind what Crane had said +about The Dutchman's chances of winning, even with Lucretia in the race, +he felt now that it appeared almost like a certainty for Crane's horse. +If he could have a bet on The Dutchman he would surely recoup his +losses. Alan explained all these racing matters very minutely and with +great earnestness to Mortimer, for the latter was quite unfamiliar +with the science of race gambling. Having stated his predicament and +hoped-for relief, as an excuse for so doing, he wound up by asking his +companion for a loan of two hundred dollars. + +Mortimer had little less horror of betting and its evil influence than +Mrs. Porter, but under the circumstances he would perhaps have complied +with the boy's request had he been provided with sufficient funds. As it +was, he said: “I don't like the idea of lending you money to bet with, +Alan; your mother wouldn't thank me for doing so; besides, if you lost +it you'd feel uncomfortable owing me the money. At any rate, I haven't +got it. I couldn't lend you two hundred, or half of it. I suppose I +haven't got a hundred to my credit.” + +“Oh, never mind then,” answered Alan, angrily, stiffening up, because of +Mortimer's lecture. + +“I'll lend you what I've got.” + +“I don't want it. I can get it some other place.” + +“You'd better take--” + +“Take nothing--I don't want it.” + +“Very well, I'm sorry I can't oblige you. But take my advice and don't +bet at all; it'll only get you into trouble.” + +“Thanks; I don't need your advice. I was a fool to ask you for the +money.” + +“I say, Alan,” began Mortimer, in a coaxing tone. + +“Please don't 'Alan' me any more. I can get along without your money and +without your friendship; I don't want either.” + +Mortimer remained silent. What was the use of angering the boy further? +He would come to see that he had meant it in good part, and would be all +right in a day or two. + +During the rest of the day Alan preserved a surly distance of manner, +speaking to Mortimer only once--a constrained request for a bunch of +keys in the latter's possession which unlocked some private drawers in +the vault. + +The next morning it suddenly occurred to Mortimer that Porter's note +fell due that day--either that day or the next, he wasn't sure. The +easiest way to settle the question was to look at the date on the note. + +He stepped into the vault, took out the little cigar box, opened it, and +as he handled the crisp papers a sudden shock of horror ran through +his frame. One of the bills was gone; there were only two +one-thousand-dollar notes left. + +The discovery paralyzed him for an instant. He was responsible; the +money had been left in his charge. Then he looked at the note; it +matured the next day. All the money had been in the box the morning +before, for he had looked at it. Only the cashier and Alan Porter knew +that it was in the vault. + +The whole dreadful truth came clearly to Mortimer's mind with absolute +conviction. Alan, infatuated with the prospect of winning a large sum +over The Dutchman, and failing to borrow from him, had taken the money. + +The gravity of the situation calmed Mortimer, and his mind worked with +a cool method that surprised him. Bit by bit he pieced it out. The boy, +inconsistently enough, had reasoned that the money was his father's, and +that he was only borrowing family property. No doubt he had felt sure +of winning, and that he would be back in time to replace the thousand +before it was needed. This sophistical reasoning had, without doubt, +tempted the lad to commit this--this--Mortimer felt a reluctance to +bestow the proper name upon Alan's act, but undoubtedly it was stealing. + +And if the boy lost the money, what would happen? He couldn't repay it; +the shortage would be discovered and Allis's brother would be ruined, +branded as a 'thief. + +Mortimer would willingly put the money back himself for Allis's sake; +but he hadn't it. What was he to do? If he could find Alan and force him +to give up the stolen money he could yet save the boy. But Alan had gone +to Gravesend. + +Like an inspiration the thought came to Mortimer that he must go after +him and get the money before it was lost. He shoved the box back in its +place, and came out into the office. + +It was half past ten by the clock. Luckily the cashier had not come yet. +Mortimer's mind worked rapidly. He must make some excuse and get away; +anything; he must even lie; if he saved the boy it would be justifiable. +Why did not the cashier come, now that he was ready for him? Each minute +seemed an age, with the honor of Allis's brother hanging in the balance. +He would need money. He drew a check for a hundred dollars. A hasty +inspection showed that he still had a trifle more than this amount to +his credit. Why he took a hundred he hardly knew; fate seemed writing +the check. He had barely finished when the cashier appeared. At once +Mortimer spoke to him. + +“I want leave of absence to-day, sir,” he said, speaking hurriedly. + +The cashier frowned in astonishment. “Impossible We are short-handed +with young Porter away.” + +“I'll be back in the morning,” pleaded Mortimer. “My mother is very ill. +I've opened up, and Mr. Cass can manage, I'm sure, if you'll let me go. +I wouldn't ask it, but it's a matter of almost life and death.” He had +nearly said of honor. + +Unwillingly the cashier consented. It probably meant extra work for him; +he would certainly have to take a hand in the office routine. Theirs was +not a busy bank, and that day was not likely to be a very pressing one, +but still he would have to shoulder some of the labor. + +Full of the terrible situation, Mortimer cared not who worked, so that +he got away in time to save Allis's brother from himself. At last he was +free. He almost ran to the station. + +Looking from the window of the bank, the cashier seeing Mortimer's rapid +pace, muttered: “I guess the poor man's mother is pretty bad; I'm glad I +let him go. He's a good son to that mother of his.” + +At eleven o'clock Mortimer got a train for New York. During the wait at +the station he had paced up and down the platform with nervous stride. A +dozen times he looked at his watch--would he be too late? He had no idea +how long it would take to reach Gravesend; he knew nothing of the race +track's location. As the train whirled him through Emerson, where +his mother lived, he could see the little drab cottage, and wondered +pathetically what the good woman would say if she knew her son was going +to a race meeting. At twelve he was in New York. + + + + +XXXIV + + +Mortimer found that he could take an “L” train to the Bridge, and +transfer there to another taking him direct to the course. At the Bridge +he was thrust into a motley crowd, eager, expectant, full of joyous +anticipation of assured good luck. He was but a tiny unit of this +many-voiced throng; he drifted a speck on the bosom of the flood that +poured into the waiting race train. He was tossed into a seat by +the swirling tide, and as the train moved he looked at his +fellow-passengers. There was a pleasant air of opulence all about him. +Gold chains of fair prominence, diamonds of lustrous hue, decorated the +always rotund figures. He fell to wondering why the men were all of a +gross physique; why did the ladies wear dresses of such interminable +variety of color; from whence came the money for this plethora of rich +apparel? + +The race literature that had come Mortimer's way had generally dealt +with the unfortunate part of racing. Somehow he had got the impression +that everybody lost money at it. He was sure Alan Porter had, also the +father. + +True, on the train were some bearing undeniable evidences of poverty; +but not many. One man of this latter unfortunate aspect sat next him. +His whole appearance was suggestive of the shady side of life. With the +industry of a student he pored over a disheveled sporting paper for half +an hour, then throwing it under the seat he cast a furtive look at his +neighbor, and presently said, “Dere'll be big fields to-day.” + +“That's too bad,” Mortimer answered, through ignorance, thinking that +the other referred to perhaps a considerable walk across country to +reach the course. + +“I like it,” declared the man of sad drapery; “it means long odds if +you're next somethin' good.” + +Mortimer confined his remarks to a brief “Oh!” for the other man might +as well have been speaking Choctaw. + +“Have you doped 'em out for de Derby?” asked the stranger. + +Mortimer shook his head. Whatever it was it was connected with horse +racing, and he felt sure that he hadn't done it. + +“Well, I'll tell you somethin'--will you put down a good bet if I steer +you straight?” + +Mortimer was growing weary; his mind, troubled by the frightful disaster +that threatened Allis's family, wanted to draw within itself and ponder +deeply over a proper course of action; so he answered: “My dear sir, I'm +afraid you're mistaken. I never bet on races. But I thank you for your +kind offer.” + +The unwashed face looked at him in blank amazement, then it wrinkled in +a mirthful laugh of derision. “What d' 'ell you goin' to Gravesend +for, den? Blamed if I don't believe you dough--you look it. Say, is dat +straight goods--did you never have a bet in your life?” + +“Never did.” + +“Well, I'm damned! Say, I believe you've got de best of it, dough. Wish +I'd never bucked ag'in' de bookies.” + +“Why don't you stop it now, then?” + +“Say, pard, do you drink?” + +“No.” + +“Smoke?” + +“No.” + +A hopeless air of utter defeat came into the thin, sharp face. Its +owner had been searching for a simile. He wanted to point a moral and +he couldn't find it. The young man at his elbow was too immaculate. +He tried to explain: “Racin's like any other locoed t'ing--it's like +tobacco, or drink, or stealin' money out of a bank--” + +Mortimer shivered. He had felt a moral superiority in denying the +implied bad habits. + +“It's like any of 'em,” continued the ragged philosopher; “a guy +starts simply as a kid, an' he gets de t'row-down. He takes a bracer at +himself, and swears he'll give it de go-by, but he can't--not on your +life.” + +Mortimer had read much about confidence men, and half expected that +his self-imposed acquaintance would try to borrow money, but he was +disillusionized presently. + +“But de ring ain't broke Ole Bill yet. I'll clean up a t'ousand +to-day--say, I like your mug; you ain't no stiff, or I miss my guess, +an' I'll put you, next a good t'ing, damme if I don't, an' you don't +need to divvy up, neither. Dere's a chestnut runnin' in de Derby what +dey call Larcen, an' I'm goin' to plank down a hun'red chicks on him.” + +He detected a look of incredulous unbelief in Mortimer's face, +evidently, for he added, “You t'ink I ain't got no dough, eh?” He dug +down into the folds of his somewhat voluminous “pants” and drew forth a +fair-sized roll. “See? That wad goes to Larcen straight. I see him do +a gallop good enough for my stuf; but dey got a stable-boy on him, an' +dat's why he'll be ten to one. But dat don't cut no ice wit' me. He'll +be out for de goods; it's a gal owns him, an' dere'll be nut'in' doin'. +Gal's name's Porter.” + +Again Mortimer started. What a little world it was, to be sure! Even +here on the ferry boat, crowded with men of unchristian aspect, he heard +the name of the woman he loved, and standing symbolical of honesty. + +“What's the name of this--this horse?” he asked. + +“Larcen.” + +“Do you mean Lauzanne?” + +“Yes, dat's it. I jes' heered it, an' I t'ought it was Larcen. You've +got it straight, stranger. Say, are you wise to anyt'in'?” + +“Not about the horse; but I know the people--the young lady; and they'll +win if they can--that's sure.” + +“Dere won't be many dead 'uns in de Derby. First money's good enough fer +most of de owners. First horse, I see him gallop like a good 'un. An' +I'm a piker; I like a bit of odds fer my stuff.” + +Mortimer saw the other occupants of the train moving toward the front +end. + +“I guess we're dere,” said his companion; “perhaps I'll see you on +de course. If you make a break to-day, play Larcen; he'll win. Say, I +didn't catch your name.” + +“Mortimer.” + +“Well, take care of yourself, Mr. Morton. See you later.” + +* * * * * * * * * * + +In his ignorance of a race meet Mortimer had felt sure he would be able +to find Alan Porter without trouble. The true difficulty of his quest +soon dawned upon him. Wedged into the pushing, shoving, hurrying crowd, +in three minutes he had completely lost himself. A dozen times he +rearranged his bearings, taking a certain flight of steps leading up +to the grand stand as the base of his peregrinations; a dozen times +he returned to this point, having accomplished nothing but complete +bewilderment. + +He asked questions, but the men he addressed were too busy to bother +with him; some did not hear, others stared at him in distrust, and many +tendered flippant remarks, such as “Ask a policeman;” “You'll find him +in the bar;” “He's gone to Europe.” + +Even Mortimer's unpracticed mind realized speedily that it would be +nothing short of a miracle if he were to find anyone in all those +inpatient thousands who even knew the person he was seeking. One young +man he spoke to declared that he knew Alan Porter quite well; he was a +great friend of his; he'd find him in a minute. This obliging stranger's +quest led them into the long race track bar room, which somehow or other +suggested to Mortimer a cattle shambles. + +Behind the bar young men in white coats, even some in their shirt +sleeves, were setting forth on its top, with feverish haste, clinking +glasses that foamed and fretted much like the thirsty souls who called +vociferously for liquid refreshment. Everybody seemed on fire--burnt up +by the thirst of a consuming fever, the fever of speculation. + +Mortimer's new friend suggested that they indulge in beer while waiting +for the sought one's appearance, and waxing confidential he assured his +quarry that he had a leadpipe cinch for the next race--it couldn't +lose. The trainer was a bosom friend of his; a sort of hybrid brother in +friendship. He himself was no tipster, he was an owner; he even went +the length of flashing a bright yellow badge, as occult evidence of his +standing. + +These matters did not interest the searcher in the slightest; they only +wasted his precious time. If he did not find Alan Porter soon the stolen +money would be lost, he felt sure. + +“I must find my friend,” he said, cutting the garrulous man short. +“Excuse me, I'll go and look for him.” + +But the other was insistent; ferret-like, he had unearthed good meat--a +rare green one--and he felt indisposed to let his prey escape. His +insistence matured into insolence as Mortimer spoke somewhat sharply to +him. Ignorant of racing as the latter was, he was hardly a man to take +liberties with once he recognized the infringement. The enormity of +his mission and the possibility that it might be frustrated by his +undesirable tormentor, made him savage. Raised to quick fury by a +vicious remark of the tout who held him in leash, he suddenly stretched +out a strong hand, and, seizing his insulter by the collar, gave him +a quick twist that laid him on his back. Mortimer held him there, +squirming for a full minute, while men gathered so close that the air +became stifling. + +Presently a heavy hand was laid on Mortimer's shoulder and a gruff +policeman's voice asked, “What's the matter here?” + +“Nothing much,” Mortimer replied, releasing his hold and straightening +up; “this blackguard wanted me to bet on some horse, and when I refused, +insulted me; that's all.” + +The other man had risen, his face purple from the twist at his throat. +The officer looked at him. + +“At it again, Mr. Bunco. I'll take care of him,” he continued, turning +to Mortimer. “He's a tout. Out you go,” this to the other man. Then, +tickled in the ribs by the end of the policeman's baton, the tout was +driven from the enclosure; the spectators merged into a larger crowd, +and Mortimer was left once more to pursue his fruitless search. + +As he emerged into the open of the lawn he saw a gentleman standing +somewhat listlessly, self-absorbed, as though he were not a party to the +incessant turmoil of the others, who were as men mad. + +With a faith born of limited experience, Mortimer risked another +hazard. He would ask this complacent one for guidance. What he had to do +justified all chances of rebuke. + +“Pardon me, sir,” he began, “I am looking for a young friend of mine +whose people own race horses. Where would I be likely to find him?” + +“If he's an owner he'll probably be in the paddock,” replied the +composed one. + +“Could you tell me where the paddock is?” + +“To the right,” and sweeping his arm in that direction the stranger sank +back into his inner consciousness, and blinked his eyes languidly, as +though the unusual exertion of answering his inquisitor's questions had +decidedly bored him. + +“That man is one in a thousand; yea, forty thousand, for he is a +stranger to excitement,” Mortimer said to himself, as he strode rapidly +across the grass to a gate which opened in the direction the other had +indicated. His eagerness had almost carried him through the gateway +when a strong arm thrown across his chest, none too gently, barred his +further progress. + +“Show your badge, please,” cried a voice. + +Mortimer exposed the pasteboard he had acquired on his entry to the +stand. + +“You can't pass in here,” said the guardian; “that's only good for the +stand.” + +“But,” began Mortimer. + +“Stand aside--make room, please!” from the gatekeeper, cut short his +conversation. + +Others were waiting to pass through. In despair he gave up his untenable +place, and once more was swallowed in the maelstrom of humanity that +eddied about the stand enclosure. + +As he was heading for his rock of locality, the stairway, hurrying +somewhat recklessly, he ran with disturbing violence full tilt into a +man who had erratically turned to his left, when according to all laws +of the road he should have kept straight on. + +“I beg pardon--” began Mortimer; then stared in blank amazement, cutting +short his apology. The victim of his assault was Mr. Crane. The latter's +close-lidded eyes had rounded open perceptibly in a look of surprise. + +“Mr. Mortimer!” he exclaimed, “You here? May I ask who's running the +bank?” + +Anxious about the stolen money the sudden advent of Crane on his +immediate horizon threw the young man into momentary confusion. “My +mother was ill--I got leave--I had to see Alan Porter--I've come here to +find him. They'll manage all right at the bank without me.” + +He fired his volley of explanation at his employer with the rapidity of +a Maxim gun. Truth and what he considered excusable falsehood came forth +with equal volubility. Crane, somewhat mollified, and feeling that at +first he had spoken rather sharply, became more gracious. At sight of +Mortimer he had concluded that it was to see Allis the young man had +come, perhaps at her instigation. + +“Have you seen Alan Porter, sir?” Mortimer asked, anxiously. + +“I did, but that was about an hour ago. You will probably find him”--he +was going to say--“in the paddock with his sister,” but for reasons he +refrained; “let me see, most likely sitting up in the grand stand.” + +As Mortimer stood scanning the sea of faces that rose wave on wave above +him, Mr. Crane said, “I hope you found your mother better. If I see Alan +I'll tell him you are looking for him.” + +When Mortimer turned around Crane had gone. He had meant to ask about +the race Porter's horse Lauzanne was in, but had hesitated for fear he +should say something which might give rise to a suspicion of his errand. +He heard the rolling thunder of hoof beats in the air. From where he +stood, over the heads of many people he could see gaudy colored silk +jackets coming swiftly up the broad straight boulevard of the race +course; even as he looked they passed by with a peculiar bobbing +up-and-down motion. The effect was grotesque, for he could not see the +horses, could not see the motive power which carried the bright-colored +riders at such a terrific pace. + +A thought flashed through his mind that it might be the Derby. + +“What race is that?” he asked of one who stood at his elbow. + +The man's face wore a sullen, discontented look, and no wonder, for he +had, with misplaced confidence, wagered many dollars on a horse that was +even then prancing gaily in many yards behind the winner. + +“Do you know what race that was?” Mortimer repeated, thinking the silent +one had not heard him. + +“Why don't you look at your race card?” retorted the jaundiced +loser, transporting himself and his troubles to the haven of liquid +consolation. + +His answer, curt as it was, gave Mortimer an inspiration. He looked +about and saw many men consulting small paper pamphlets; they were like +people in an art gallery, catalogue in hand. + +By chance, Mortimer observed a young man selling these race catalogues, +as he innocently named them. He procured one, and the seller in answer +to a question told him it was the third race he had just seen, and the +next would be the Brooklyn Derby. + +There it was, all set forth in the programme he had just purchased. +Seven horses to start, all with names unfamiliar except The Dutchman +and Lauzanne. He had almost given up looking for Alan; it seemed so +hopeless. At any rate he had tried his best to save the boy's honor; +told deliberate lies to do it. Now it was pretty much in the hands of +fate. He remembered what Alan had said about The Dutchman's certain +chance of winning the coming race. He felt that if the horse won, Alan +would put back the stolen thousand dollars; if not, where would the boy +get money to cover up his theft? + +It had seemed to Mortimer a foolish, desperate thing to risk money on +anything so uncertain as a horse race; but here was at stake the honor +of a bright, splendid young man--even the happiness of his parents, +which the poor, deluded boy had wagered on one horse's chance of winning +against six others. It was terrible. Mortimer shuddered, and closed his +eyes when he thought of the misery, the shame, that would come to Allis +and her mother when they knew, as they must, if Crane's horse were +beaten, that the son was a thief. Oh, God! why couldn't he find the boy +and save him before it was too late? Probably Alan had already betted +the money; but even if that were so, he had vain visions of forcing the +man who had received the stolen thousand to disgorge. No one had a right +to receive stolen money; and if necessary, Mortimer would give him to +understand that he was making himself a party to the crime. + +But the mere fact that he couldn't find Alan Porter rendered him as +helpless as a babe; he might as well have remained in the bank that day. +How willingly he would have hastened back and replaced the money if he +but had it. For Allis's sake he would have beggared himself, would have +sacrificed a hundred times that sum to save her from the unutterable +misery that must come if her brother were denounced as a felon. The love +that was in him was overmastering him. + +He was roused from his despondent train of thought by speech that struck +with familiar jar upon his ear. It was the voice of the man who had +descanted on the pleasures of betting during their journey from New +York. + +“What dye t'ink of it, pard?” was the first salutation. + +Mortimer stammered the weak information that he didn't know what to +think of it. + +“Dere ain't no flies on us to-day--I'm knockin' 'em out in great shape. +Can't pick a loser, blamed if I can. I've lined up for a cash-in tree +times, an' I'll make it four straight, sure. Larcen'll come home all +alone; you see if he don't.” + +“I hope so,” rejoined Mortimer. + +“I say, Mister Morton, put down a bet on him--he's good business; put a +'V' on, an' rake down fifty--dat'll pay your ex's. De talent's goin' for +De Dutchman, but don't make no mistake about de other, he'll win.” + +In an instant the young man knew why this persistent worrier of a +tortured spirit had been sent him. Fate gave him the cue; it whispered +in his ear, “Put down a hundred--you have it--and win a thousand; then +you can save Alan Porter--can keep this misery from the girl that is to +you as your own life.” + +Mortimer listened eagerly; to the babbler at his side; to the whisper in +his ear; to himself, that spoke within himself. Even if it were not +all true, if Lauzanne were beaten, what of it? He would lose a hundred +dollars, but that would not ruin him; it would cause him to save and +pinch a little, but he was accustomed to self-denial. + +“Will the betting men take a hundred dollars from me on this horse, +Lauzanne?” he asked, after the minute's pause, during which these +thoughts had flashed through his mind. + +“Will dey take a hundred? Will dey take a t'ousand! Say, what you givin' +me?” + +“If Lauzanne won, I'd win a thousand, would I?” + +“If you put it down straight; but you might play safe--split de hundred, +fifty each way, win an' show; Larcen'll be one, two, tree, sure.” + +“I want to win a thousand,” declared Mortimer. + +“Den you've got to plump fer a win; he's ten to one.” + +Mortimer could hardly understand himself; he was falling in with the +betting idea. It was an age since he stood at his desk in that bank, +abhorrent of all gambling methods, to the present moment, when he was +actually drawing from his pocket a roll of bills with which to bet on a +horse. + +He took a despairing look through the thicket of human beings that made +a living forest all about, in a last endeavor to discover Alan Porter. +Not three paces away a uniquely familiar figure was threading in and out +the changing maze-it was Mike Gaynor. + +Mortimer broke from his friend, and with quick steps reached the +trainer's side. + +“I want to find Alan Porter,” he said, in answer to Gaynor's surprised +salutation. + +“He was in the paddock a bit ago,” answered Mike; “he moight be there +still.” + +Almost involuntarily Mortimer, as he talked, had edged back toward his +friend of disconsolate raggedness. + +“I wanted to go in there--I'd like to go now to find him, but they won't +let me through the gate.” + +“No more they will,” answered Mike, with untruthful readiness, for all +at once it occurred to him that if Mortimer got to the paddock he might +run up against Allis and recognize her. + +“De gent could buy a badge and get in,” volunteered Old Bill. + +The lid of Mike's right eye drooped like the slide of a lantern, as he +answered: “He couldn't get wan now--it's too late; just wait ye here, +sir, and if the b'y's there wit' the nags, I'll sind him out.” + +Old Bill made no comment upon Mike's diplomatic misstatement anent the +badge, for he had observed the wink, and held true to the masonry which +exists between race-course regulars. + +“Yes, please send him out then, Mr. Gaynor; it's important.” + +“I'm in a hurry meself,” said Mike; “I just come out fer a minute; see +here,” and he nodded his head sideways to Mortimer. The latter walked by +his side for a few steps. + +“Who's that guy?” asked the Trainer. + +“I don't know; he calls himself Old Bill.” + +“Well, ye best look out--he looks purty tough. What's he playin' ye +fer?” + +“He advised me to bet money on Lauzanne.” + +“The divil he did! What th' yellow moon does he know about the Chestnut; +did ye back him?” + +“Not yet.” + +“Are ye goin' to?” + +“I don't know. Do you think Lauzanne might come in first?” + +A slight smile relaxed the habitually drawn muscles of Mike's grim +visage; it was moons since he had heard anybody talk of a horse “coming +in first;” he was indeed a green bettor, this, young man of the counting +house. What was he doing there betting at all, Mike wondered. It must be +because of his interest in the girl, his reason answered. + +“I tink he'll win if he does his best for her.” + +“Does his best for who?” + +Mike got to cover; his ungoverned tongue was always playing him tricks. + +“Miss Allis is managin' the horses,” he explained, very deliberately, +“an' there's a new b'y up on Lauzanne's back, d'ye onderstand; an' if +the Chestnut doesn't sulk, does his best fer the young misthress that'll +be watchin' him here in the stand wit' tears in her eyes, he moight +win--d'ye onderstand?” + +Yes, Mortimer understood; it seemed quite clear, for Mike had been to +some pains to cover up the slip he had made. + +“Now I must go,” he continued; “an' ye needn't come in the paddock--if +the b'y is there, I'll sind him out.” + +When Alan's seeker returned to Old Bill, he said, “Mr. Gaynor thinks +your choice might come in first.” + +“Why was Irish steerin' you clear of de paddock?” asked the other. + +“I suppose it was to save me the expense of buying a ticket for it.” + +The other man said nothing further, but the remembrance of Mike's wink +convinced him that this was not the sole reason. + +They waited for young Porter's appearance, but he did not come. “The +geezer yer waitin' fer is not in dere or he'd a-showed up,” said Old +Bill; “an' if yer goin' to take de tip, we'd better skip to de ring an' +see what's doin'.” + +Mortimer had once visited the stock exchange in New York. He could not +help but think how like unto it was the betting ring with its horde of +pushing, struggling humans, as he wormed his way in, following close on +Old Bill's heels. There was a sort of mechanical aptness in his leader's +way of displacing men in his path. Mortimer realized that but for his +guide he never would have penetrated beyond the outer shell of the +buzzing hive. Even then he hoped that he might, by the direction of +chance, see Alan Porter. The issue at stake, and the prospect of its +solution through his unwonted betting endeavor, was dispelling his +inherent antipathy to gambling; he was becoming like one drunken with +the glamour of a new delight; his continued desire to discover young +Porter was more a rendering of tithes to his former god of chastity +which he was about to shatter. + +Two days before betting on horse races was a crime of indecent enormity; +now it seemed absolutely excusable, justified, almost something to be +eagerly approved of. Their ingress, though strenuous, was devoid of +rapidity; so, beyond much bracing of muscles, there was little to take +cognizance of except his own mental transformation. Once he had known a +minister, a very good man indeed, who had been forced into a fight. The +clergyman had acted his unwilling part with such muscular enthusiasm +that his brutish opponent had been reduced to the lethargic condition of +inanimate pulp. Mortimer compared his present exploit with that of his +friend, the clergyman; he felt that he was very much in the same boat. +He was eager to have the bet made and get out into the less congested +air; his companions of the betting ring were not men to tarry among in +the way of moral recreation. + +The mob agitated itself in waves; sometimes he and Old Bill were carried +almost across the building by the wash of the living tide as it set in +that direction; then an undertow would sweep them back again close +to their starting point. The individual members of the throng were +certainly possessed of innumerable elbows, and large jointed knees, and +boots that were forever raking at his heels or his corns. They seemed +taller, too, than men in the open; strive as he might he could see +nothing--nothing but heads that topped him in every direction. Once the +proud possessor of a dreadful cigar of unrivaled odor became sandwiched +between him and his fellow-pilgrim; he was down wind from the weed and +its worker, and the result was all but asphyxiation. + +At last they reached some sort of a harbor; it was evidently an inlet +for which his pilot had been sailing. A much composed man in a tweed +suit, across which screamed lines of gaudy color, sat on a camp stool, +with a weary, tolerant look on his browned face; in his hand was a +card on which was penciled the names of the Derby runners with their +commercial standing in the betting mart. + +Old Bill craned his neck over the shoulder of the sitting man, scanned +the book, and turning to Mortimer said, “Larcen's nine to one now; +dey're cuttin' him--wish I'd took tens; let's go down de line.” + +They pushed out into the sea again, and were buffeted of the human +waves; from time to time Old Bill anchored for a few seconds in the tiny +harbor which surrounded each bookmaker; but it was as though they were +all in league--the same odds on every list. + +“It's same as a 'sociation book,” he grunted; “de cut holds in every +blasted one of 'em. Here's Jakey Faust,” he added, suddenly; “let's try +him.” + +“What price's Laxcen?” he asked of the fat bookmaker. + +“What race is he in?” questioned the penciler. + +“Din race; what you givin' me!” + +“Don't know the horse.” + +Mortimer interposed. “The gentleman means Lauzanne,” he explained. + +Faust glared in the speaker's face. “Why th' 'll don't he talk English +then; I'm no Chinaman, or a mind reader, to guess what he wants. +Lauzanne is nine to one; how much dye want?” + +“Lay me ten?” asked Old Bill of the bookmaker. + +“To how much?” + +“A hun'red; an' me frien' wants a hun'red on, too.” + +“I'll do it,” declared Faust, impatiently. “Ten hundred to one, +Lauzanne!” he called over his shoulder to his clerk, taking the bettor's +money; “an' the number is--?” + +“Twenty-five, tree-four-six!” answered Old Bill. “Pass him yer dust,” he +continued, turning to his companion. + +The latter handed his money to Faust. + +“Lauzanne!” advised Old Bill. + +“A thousand-to-hundred-Lauzanne, win; an' the number is” he stretched +out his hand, and turning over Mortimer's dangling badge, read aloud, +“Twenty-five, three-five-seven.” + +He took a sharp look at the two men; his practised eye told him they +were not plungers, more of the class that usually bet ten dollars at +the outside; they were evidently betting on information; two +one-hundred-dollar bets coming together on Lauzanne probably meant +stable money. + +“Let's git out, mister,” cried Old Bill, clutching Mortimer's arm. + +“Don't I get anything--a receipt, or--” + +Faust heard this and laughed derisively. “You won't need nothin' to show +for this money,” he said. + +“We'll be roun' at de back in a few minutes fer a couple of t'ou',” + retorted Old Bill. “Let's cut trough here,” he added to his companion, +making a passage between the bookmakers. + +Bill's knowledge of the local geography was good, and skirting the crowd +they were soon out on the lawn. + +“Let's watch de parade,” Mortimer's adjutant suggested, and he led the +way down to the course, where they stood against the rail, waiting. + + + + +XXXV + + +During this time there was a bustle of much interest in the paddock. +Allis, ready dressed in the Porter colors, had been driven to the +course half an hour before the time set for the Derby. Her face was as +satisfactorily disguised with dust as though she had ridden three races. + +Mike assiduously attended to every detail; even the weighing, thanks to +his officious care, was a matter of not more than one minute. The girl's +weight was one hundred and ten pounds, the saddle brought it up to +one hundred and thirteen. She would have to ride at least two pounds +overweight, for the horse's impost was one hundred and eleven. Lauzanne +was being led in a circle by a boy, so Allis shielded herself from the +general gaze in his empty stall. She felt quite sure that nobody there +would recognize her, unless, perhaps, Philip Crane. He was rarely seen +in the paddock, but might this day come out to view The Dutchman. The +latter horse came in for a great deal of attention, for he had been +steadily backed down to the position of equal favorite with White Moth. + +At last there was the summons to saddle, and Lauzanne was brought into +the stall by Dixon. Then the door was shrouded by an ever-changing +semicircle of curious observers. Allis gave a little start and turned +her head away as Crane, pushing through the others, stood just inside +the stall and spoke to Dixon. + +“Your horse looks very well; I hope you win, if I don't.” + +“He's as good as we could make him,” answered the Trainer, as he +adjusted the weight cloth. + +“Is Miss Porter here?” were Crane's next words, quite in the tone of a +casually interested friend. + +“She may be in the stand,” Dixon answered, without turning his head. +Mike had deliberately interposed his body between Allis and the doorway. +To the girl's relief, without further comment, Crane quietly moved away. + +“Excuse me, Al, fer standin' in front av ye,” said Mike, “but these +outsiders is enough to make a b'y narvous the way they stare at him. +Alan Porter was in the paddock a minute ago askin' fer his sister, but I +hustled him out, telling him ye--I mean she--was in the stand.” + +“Thank you, Mike; you're a good friend,” replied the girl, gratefully. + +Dixon had never taken so much care over the preparation of a horse for a +race in all his life; and at last everything was as perfect as it could +possibly be made. Lauzanne's behavior gladdened the girl's heart; he was +as supremely indifferent to the saddling, to the staring of the people, +to the scent of battle that was in the soft summer air, as though he +were in his own stable at home. Not a muscle of his huge flank trembled. +Once, as the bridle rein was loosened for an instant, he half turned in +the stall, curved his neck and stretched his golden nozzle toward the +small figure in blue silk, as though he fain would make sure by scent +that one of his natural enemies, a man jockey, had not been thrust upon +him. Allis understood this questioning movement, and reaching out her +hand rubbed the gray velvet of his nose. But for the restraining rein, +tightened quickly by the boy who held him, Lauzanne would have snuggled +his head against his little mistress. + +“They understand each other,” said Dixon to Mike, in an undertone; +“we'll get all that's in him this trip.” + +“Bot' t'umbs up! if he doesn't come home alone I'll eat me hat. The +sharks'll get a knock this journey, that'll make 'em take a tumble to +themselves.” + +Dixon stepped back to the corner where Allis was and said: “I guess I +can't give you no orders. He's a bit sluggish at the post, an' a few +false breaks won't hurt him none. Just don't be afraid, that's all. A +mile an' a half's a long journey, an' you'll have plenty of time to +take their measure. He's sure to get away last, but that won't matter; +there'll be plenty of openin's to get through after you've gone a mile. +Just keep your eye on The Dutchman--he's a stayer from 'way back; an' +Westley may kid you that he's beat comin' up the stretch, for he's slick +as they make them, an' then come with a rattle at the finish an' nose +you out on the post. Don't never let up once you're into the stretch; +if you're ten lengths ahead don't let the Chestnut down, but keep a good +holt on him, an' finish as though they was all lapped on your quarter. +There's a horse in the race I don't understand; he can no more get a +mile an' a half than I could; it's the Indian, an' why they're puttin' +up the startin' price beats me, unless”--and he lowered his voice to a +whisper--“there's a job to carry Lauzanne, or White Moth, or somethin' +off their feet. Just watch the Indian, an' don't let him shut you in on +the rail if you can help it. They've put up Redpath, an' that beats +me, too, for I think he's straight. But the Indian hasn't a ghost of a +chance to win. You'd better take a whip.” + +“I don't want either whip or spurs,” answered the girl. “Lauzanne will +do better without them.” + +“I know that, but take a whip--something else in the race might need it; +an' if you have to use it, use it good an' strong. If Langdon lodges an +objection I can make him quit.” + +Over at The Dutchman's stall there was a very confident party. Their +horse would go to the post as fit as any thoroughbred had ever stripped. +Langdon was a great trainer--there was no doubt about that; if there had +been Crane would have discovered it and changed his executive officer. +The tall son of Hanover was lean of flesh, but gross in muscle. He was +as though an Angelo had chiseled with sure hand from his neck, and ribs, +and buttocks all the marble of useless waste, and left untouched +in sinewy beauty layer on layer, each muscle, and thew, and cord. +Flat-boned and wide the black-glossed legs, and over the corded form +a silken skin of dull fire-red. From the big eyes gleamed an expectant +delight of the struggle; not sluggishly indifferent, as was Lauzanne's, +but knowing of the fray and joyous in its welcome. + +“He'll win on a tight rein,” confided Langdon to Jockey Westley; “he's +the greatest Hanover in the land. There's a dozen races bottled up in +that carcass”--and he slapped the big Bay lovingly on the rump”--but if +you're put to it, Bill, you can call on him fer the full dozen today. +There's nothin' to it but yourself and White Moth.” + +Carelessly he stepped to the back of the stall, touching Westley as he +passed. Kicking the loose dirt with his toes, and bending his head to +bury his voice, Langdon continued in a subdued tone: “The Indian'll cut +out the pace so fast that it'll choke off Lauzanne. The Chestnut's a +plugger an' ain't no good when it comes to gallopin'. If you was to all +loaf aroun' he might hang on an' finish in front; but the pace'll kill +him--it'll break his heart; the fast goin'll lay out White Moth, too, +for she'll go to the front an' die away after a mile an' a quarter. Just +nurse the Bay, an' let the others fight the Indian. But don't loaf an' +let Lauzanne get near you, fer he can keep up a puddlin' gait all day. +There ain't nothin' else in the race I'm afraid of; there ain't one of +them can last a mile an' a half.” Then he added, with a disagreeable +chuckle--it was like the slobbering laugh of a hyena--“I miss my guess +if the boy on Lauzanne kills himself tryin' to win anyway. He seems a +fair lad, but you can ride rings 'round him, Bill.” + +“I'll put up a good ride on The Dutchman, an' I think we'll ketch the +Judge's eye,” replied Westley. “It doesn't seem to stand for it that a +stable-boy on a bad horse like Lauzanne is goin' to beat me out.” + +“The boss says you're to have two thousand fer winnin', Westley, so +don't make no mistake. I wasn't goin' to tell you this afore you went +out, fer fear it'd make you too eager. Many a race's been thrown away +by a boy bein' too keen, an' makin' his run too early in the game; but +you've a good head and might as well know what you're to have. There's +the bugle; get up.” + +Eager hands stripped the blanket that had been thrown over The Dutchman; +Westley was lifted into the saddle, and the gallant Bay led out by +Langdon. + +In front strode White Moth; one by one the others, and last, seventh, +Allis's fatal number, lagged Lauzanne, lazily loafing along as though he +regretted leaving the stall. + +As the horses passed to the course, Crane, who had followed The Dutchman +to the gate, raised his eyes from scanning Lauzanne to the rider on his +back. It was just a look of languid interest in the apprentice boy Dixon +had put up instead of such a good jockey as Redpath. The face rivetted +his attention; something in the line of the cheek recalled a face he had +constantly in view. + +“For an instant I thought that was Alan Porter on Lauzanne,” he said +to Langdon, who was at his elbow. “A strange fancy--I'm going up to the +stand to watch the race:” + +“It's all roight but the win now,” said Mike to Dixon. “I'm goin' in be +the Judges' box to watch the finish. You'll be helpin' the b'y pass the +scales, Andy.” + +As Allis passed the Judges' Stand in the parade she cast a quick, +furtive look toward the people on the lawn. She seemed pilloried on an +eminence, lifted up in pitiless prominence; would anyone detect her at +the last moment? Hanging over the rail in the very front she saw a pale +face that struck a chill of fear to her heart--it was Mortimer's. +She had not even thought of his being there. She had eluded the close +scrutiny of all the others who were likely to recognize her, but there, +within ten yards were eyes almost certain to penetrate her disguise. The +girl turned her face away; she knew Mortimer well enough to think that +if he did recognize her he would make no sign. + +“That's our horse,” declared Old Bill, as Lauzanne passed. “He's all +right, bet yer life; he's fit ter go all day. De geezer as trains him +ain't no mug. Let's go up in de stand, where we can see de whole show; +den we'll come down an' cash in. Say, pard, if dis goes through I'll +blow you off to a bottle of de best; wine ain't none too good fer dis +coop.” + +Altogether it was as though Destiny had found pleasant domicile in the +ancient clothing of Old Bill, and was using their unique wearer as a +protective agent to ward off evil from both Mortimer and the girl. As +they jogged toward the starting post Allis allowed Lauzanne to lag; +she wished to avoid Redpath. But the Indian was a horse of uncertain +temperament, and presently, with a foolish side rush, he cannoned fair +into Lauzanne. In the melee Redpath looked full into Allis's eyes at +short range. His face went white in an instant. + +“You!” he cried, pulling hard at his horse's mouth; “it's you, Miss--” + He stopped suddenly. “God! I'm glad I know this,” he jerked between set +teeth, as he fought the Indian, who was nearly pulling him out of the +saddle. + +“It's because he'll gallop for you, isn't it? You didn't think I was a +wrong one--it wasn't because you couldn't trust me you took the mount +away, was it?” + +The Indian, quieted by the sleepy Chestnut, was going steadier. “No; +it's because Lauzanne won't give his running for anyone but me,” the +girl answered. + +The boy remained silent, thinking over why he was on the Indian. There +was a moral obliquity about his present position; the new light of his +discovery showed him this strongly. His feelings had been played upon by +the owner of the Indian, at Langdon's instigation. + +He had been told that the Porters had not given him the mount on +Lauzanne because they distrusted him. He had been put on the horse +to make running for The Dutchman. There was nothing really patently +dishonest about this arrangement, and Redpath's mind had been dulled to +fine discrimination by the idea that he was falsely distrusted. + +Presently the boy spoke with sharp decision, in quick broken sentences, +for they were nearing the Starter. “I'm in to make the running; this +crock's got no license to win. Don't you bother about him--he'll come +back to the others fast enough when he's done. When you want an opening +to get through just come bang into me--I'll be next the rail; yell +'Lauzanne,' an' I'll pull out. I'll give them blasted crooks something +to stare at. Don't gallop your mount's head off chasing this sprinter; +he'll be beat when we swing into the stretch. Don't go wide at the turn; +you can have my place; I'll make it wide for something else though.” + +They were at the post. Allis had not spoken; she had listened gratefully +to Redpath's string of kindly directions. The presence of a friend +in the race cheered her; the discovery she had dreaded had come as a +blessing. + + + + +XXXVI + + +Crane's words had started a train of thought in Langdon's mind. All at +once he remembered that the face of Lauzanne's rider had a dream-like +familiarity. He had not given it much thought before; but his owner's +suggestion that the boy was like Alan Porter echoed in his ears. He had +wondered where Dixon had got this new boy; why he was putting him up on +Lauzanne instead of Redpath; it seemed a foolish thing to give the mount +to an apprentice when a good jockey was to be had. Could it be that it +really was Alan. The whole family were natural-born jockeys, father and +son, even the girl, Allis. + +Langdon knew nothing of Alan Porter's movements--had not been interested +enough to know. He had heard derogatory remarks about Redpath's +riding of Lucretia in the Brooklyn Handicap; the Porters, no doubt +dissatisfied--suspicious of the jockey--had put up Alan to insure an +honest ride. + +Langdon had thought these thoughts as he passed swiftly from the paddock +to the stand inclosure, where he stood not far from the rail, trying +to get a good look at the lad on Lauzanne. Allis's persistently averted +face thwarted this. The boy was inscribed on the jockey board “Al +Mayne;” the permit to ride must be under that name. If it were really +Alan Porter, why had he been called Mayne? But the boy had retained the +name “Al”--that was a contraction of Alan, no doubt. + +While Langdon labored over the problem of Mayne's Identity he had +watched the horses at the post through his glasses. The Dutchman was +behaving well, his trifle of eagerness to break away was even better +than Lauzanne's indolent indifference. The other five were acting as +three-year-olds are wont to act--with erratic indecision; one minute +violent desire, and the next obstinate reluctance characterizing their +interminable twistings, backings, and plungings. It was not for long; +a neck or a length at the start meant little when a mile and a half +stretched its tiring length between them and the finish post. + +Langdon's perplexity was cut short by the cry, “They're off!” the jingle +of a bell, and the scurrying of many feet, as eager men rushed for +higher points of observation in the stand. + +As the seven horses came thundering by, pulling double in eager +ignorance of the long journey that lay before them, Langdon saw with +evil satisfaction that the Indian was well out in the lead. + +The Dutchman was sixth, and behind, with a short awkward strength in his +gallop, loafed Lauzanne. + +There was smoothness in the stride of Hanover's big son, The Dutchman; +and his trainer, as he watched him swing with strong grace around +the first turn, mentally fingered the ten thousand dollars that would +shortly be his. + +“That skate win!” he sneered, as Lauzanne followed; “he gallops like a +fat pig. He can't live the pace--he can't live the pace,” he repeated, +and his voice was mellow with a cheerful exultation. + +His observations seemed eminently truthful; Allis's horse trailed +farther and farther behind the others. Out in front galloped with +unseeming haste the Indian--a brown blotch of swift-gliding color. Two +lengths from his glinting heels raced four horses in a bunch--two bays, +a gray, and a black; so close together that they formed a small mosaic +of mottled hue against the drab-gray background of the course stables +beyond. Then The Dutchman, with his powerful stride, full of easy +motion--a tireless gallop that would surely land him the winner, Langdon +thought, as he hung with breathless interest on every move of Westley's +body. + +Up in the stand Old Bill was expressing in florid racetrack speech to +Mortimer his deductions. + +“Days a good kid on Larcen. See what he's doin'; he's trailin' 'em. +Dat's where our horse gits it; he's a stretch runner, he is. Dey'll have +bellows to mend when he tackles 'em.” + +To Mortimer it appeared very much as though the other horses were too +fast for Lauzanne. “Isn't he losing?” he asked of his exuberant friend. + +“Losin' nut'in'! De kid ain't moved on him yet. De others is gallopin' +der heads off; dey're chasm' de crazy skate in front. Dere's only two +jocks in de race worth a damn--Bill Westley an' de kid on our horse. +He knows he's got to beat Dutchy, an' he's lyin' handy by. When you see +Dutchy move up Larcen'll come away, or I'm a goat.” + +Mike Gaynor had taken his place on the little platform at the top of +the steps leading to the stand. He was watching the race with intense +interest. Would Lauzanne do his best for the girl--or would he sulk? +He saw the terrific pace that the Indian had set the others. Would it +discourage their horse. His judgment told him that this fast pace could +not last, and that Lauzanne could gallop as he was going from end to +end of the mile and a half; even faster if he so wished. Would his rider +have the patient steadiness of nerve to wait for this fulfillment of the +inevitable or would she become rattled and urge the horse. Mike set +his teeth, and his nails were driven hard into his rough palms as he +strained in sympathy with the girl's quietude. + +How long the Indian held on in his mad lead! Perhaps even he might upset +all clever calculation and last long enough to win. Already the gray, +White Moth, had drawn out from the bunch and was second; the other three +were dropping back in straggling order to The Dutchman, who was still +running as he had been, strong. That was at the mile. At the mile and an +eighth, White Moth was at the Indian's heels; The Dutchman had moved up +into third place, two lengths away; and Lauzanne had become merged in +the three that were already beaten. At the mile and a quarter a half +thrill of hope came to Mike, for Lauzanne was clear of the ruck, and +surely gaining on the leaders. And still his rider was lying low on the +withers, just a blue blur on the dark gold of the Chestnut. + +“Bot' t'umbs! but they're a pair,” muttered the Irishman; “be me soul, I +t'ink they'll win.” + +At the bottom turn into the stretch Mike could see that White Moth and +The Dutchman had closed up on the Indian, so that they swung around the +corner as one horse. + +“Gad, she's shut off!” he muttered. It was a living wall, and through +little chinks in its quivering face he could see specks of blue close up +where raced Lauzanne. + +“Poor gurl!” he gasped, “they've got her in a pocket. Damn them b'ys. +Why did she hug the rail--she's fair t'rowed away the last chance.” + +Halfway up the steps stood Langdon, and his coarse, evil face took on a +look of unholy joy as Lauzanne was blotted into oblivion by the horses +in front. + +“Pocketed, by God! Clever Mister Dixon to put up a kid like that ag'in +Westley an' the others,” he sneered. + +Then a deafening roar went up from the stand. Somebody thrust a pair +of broad shoulders in front of Mike's face; he leaned out far past the +intruder, and saw the Indian sway drunkenly in his stride away from the +rail, carrying White Moth and The Dutchman out; and into the opening he +had left, glued to the rail, crept the chestnut form of Lauzanne. + +A wild yell of Irish joy escaped Mike; then he waited. Now it would be a +race; but Lauzanne was trying, trying all by himself, for the rider was +as still as death. Already the clamor of many voices was splitting the +air; all over the stand it was, “The favorite wins! The Dutchman wins!” + Even yet there was no beckoning call for Lauzanne; but Mike knew. He had +said to Allis before she went out, “If ye ever get level wit' 'em in the +straight, ye can win.” + +And now Lauzanne's yellow head was even with the others; and soon it +was in front. And then there were only two battling--Lauzanne and The +Dutchman; and on the Bay, Westley was riding with whip and spur. + +“In a walk--in a walk, I tell you!” fairly screamed Old Bill, clutching +at Mortimer's arm; “didn't I tell you? We're a tousand to de good. Look +at him, look at him!” He had climbed halfway up Mortimer's strong back +in his excitement. “Look at de kid! Never moved--in a walk, in a walk! +Larcen all the way for a million!” + +His voice generally weak and tattered like his clothes; had risen to a +shrill scream of exultation. + +It was past all doubt. Lauzanne, a length in front of The Dutchman, was +opposite the stand; in two seconds they had flashed by the Judges' box, +and Lauzanne had won. + +The wave of humanity that swept down the steps carried Mike in its front +wash. He took his stand close to the Judges' box; there he would be +handy for whatever might be needed. He saw Langdon with a face dark and +lowering, full of an evil discontent, standing there too. Back the seven +runners cantered. Lauzanne's rider saluted the judge with whip, and +slipping from the horse stripped him of the saddle with deft fingers, +and passed quickly into the scales. The weight was right. One after +another the boys weighed. + +Watching, Mike saw Langdon pass up to the Stewards. There was a short +consultation, the hush of something wrong, and a murmur of an objection. + +“What's the matter?” a voice questioned in Mike's ear. It was Alan +Porter that had spoken. + +Mike pushed his way to the small gate, even through it, that led up to +the Stewards' Stand. As he did so Langdon came back down the steps. One +of the Stewards, following him with quick eyes, saw Mike and beckoned +with a finger. + +“There's an objection to the rider of Lauzanne,” said the official; +“Trainer Langdon says Alan Porter rode the horse under a permit +belonging to a boy named Mayne.” + +“He's mistook, sir.” answered Mike, respectfully; “there's Alan Porter +standin' down there in the crowd. I'll sind him up, sir, an' ye can ask +him yerself.” + +Gaynor passed hurriedly down the steps, seized Porter by the arm, and +whispered in his ear, “Tell the judge yer name--that a b'y named Mayne +rode Lauzanne. Quick now.” + +Then he stepped up to Langdon. The latter had seen Alan Porter go up +the steps, and realized he had made a mistake. Mike drew him inside the +little enclosure that surrounded the stand. + +“There's Alan Porter wit' the Stewards,” Gaynor whispered close to the +man's face; “an' ye'll withdraw the objection at once. If ye don't ye'll +have to settle wit' the Stewards fer tryin' to bribe the b'y Mayne to +pull Lauzanne. And Shandy has owned up that he was to get five hundred +dollars fer dosin' Lucretia. Ye'll withdraw now, or get ruled off fer +life; besides, p'isinin' a horse is jail business; an' I'll take me oath +before God I can prove this, too. Now go an' withdraw quick. Ye're a +damn blackguard.” + +Mike had meant to restrict himself to diplomatic pressure, but his Irish +was up like a flash, and he couldn't resist the final expression of +wrath. + +A crowd of silent men had gathered about the box in a breathless wait. +Fortunes depended upon the brief consultation that was being held +between the Stewards. + +As Alan Porter came down Langdon went up the steps with nervous haste. +“I've made a mistake, gentlemen,” he said to the Stewards, “with your +permission I'll withdraw the objection.” + +“Yes, it's better that way,” returned one of the Stewards; “the best +horse won, and that's what racing's for. It would be a pity to spoil +such a grand race on a technicality.” + + + + +XXXVII + + +After his first burst of aboriginal glee, ecstatically uncouth as it +was, Old Bill's joy over the victory of Lauzanne took on a milder form +of expression. + +“Let's line up fer a cash-in,” he exclaimed to Mortimer, making a break +down the steps to the lawn. On the ground he stopped, his mind working +at fever heat, changing its methods quickly. + +“Let's wait till de kid's passed de scales; dere's no hurry. Dere won't +be many drawin' down money over Larcen; he's an outsider.” + +They were still waiting when the rumor of an objection floated like an +impalpable shadow of evil through the enclosure. Old Bill's seamed face +shed its mask of juvenile hilarity, and furrowed back into its normal +condition of disgruntled bitterness. He had seen the slight mix-up when +the Indian swerved in the straight. The objection must have to do with +that, he thought. “What th' 'ell's th, difference,” he said in fierce, +imprecating anger; “de kid on Larcen didn't do no interferin', he jes +come t'rough de openin' an' won-dey can't disqualify him.” + +“What does it mean?” asked Mortimer; “what's wrong?” + +“De push's tryin' to steal de race; de favorite's beat, an' it's win, +tie, or wrangle wit' 'em. If dey take de race away from Larcen we don't +get de goods, see? Our t'ou's up de spout. Dere he goes, dere he goes; +look at de knocker,” as Langdon came down from the Stewards. + +Mortimer's heart sank. An exultation such as he had never experienced in +his life had flushed his breast hot; the back of his scalp had tickled +in a creepy way as Lauzanne flashed first past the winning post. He had +felt pride in the horse, in the boy on his back, in himself at having +overcome his scruples; he would be able to save Alan Porter from +dishonor. His heart had warmed to the tattered outcast at his side, +who had been the means to this glorious end. It had been all over, +accomplished; now it was again thrust back into the scales, where it +dangled as insecure as ever. It wasn't the money alone that teetered in +the balance, but the honor of Allis Porter's brother. + +He gave a sharp cry of astonishment, for going up the steps in front of +them was the boy himself, Alan. Presently he came down again, his face +looking drawn and perplexed. In his ignorance of everything pertaining +to racing Mortimer feared for an instant the theft of the thousand +dollars had been discovered, and the present inquiry had something to do +with that, else why was Alan mixed up in it. + +As the boy came through the little gate Mortimer accosted him. “Hello, +Alan!” he exclaimed, very gently, “what's the trouble?” + +“Just a silly mistake,” answered Porter, a weak laugh following his +words; “Langdon has claimed that I rode Lauzanne.” + +“Is dat it?” interposed Old Bill; “an' did you tell dem dey was wrong-de +stiffs! Dere's cutt'roat Langdon up again; here he comes back, looking +as tough he'd been fired fer splint--de crook! Hello! it's all right +Hoo-ray! Lauzanne gits de race!” For already the cry of “All right!” + was ringing through the betting ring. “Come on, pard,” called Old Bill, +eagerly, to Mortimer; “let's go an' rake down de dough.” + +“In a minute,” the other answered; and turning to Alan Porter, took +him by the arm and led him to one side. “I suppose you lost over The +Dutchman,” he said. + +“Yes, I'm broke,” answered the boy, with a plaintive smile. + +“Well, I've won.” + +“You betting!” exclaimed Alan, in astonishment. + +“Yes--strange, isn't it? But I'm going to put that money of your +father's back.” + +The boy said nothing, and Mortimer fancied that his face flushed +guiltily. + +“Yes, I can put it back now that Lauzanne's won,” continued Mortimer; +“but don't say a word to a soul about it, I don't want anybody to know I +was betting.” + +“But what money?” began Alan. + +“I've won a thousand dollars on Lauzanne--” + +“Come on, pard,” said Old Bill, impatiently interrupting them, “let's +get our rake off, an' den you kin buck to yer chum after.” + +Mortimer yielded to the tattered one's command, for without his guidance +he never would be able to find the man that held the money. + +“I'll be back in a little while,” he said to young Porter; “don't go +away.” + +There was delay over the cashing in; being late, they found a line of +Lauzanne men in front of them at the bookmaker's stand. + +When Mortimer returned to the lawn with eleven hundred dollars in his +pocket Alan Porter had gone. He had dreaded that perhaps the boy might +do something desperate, fearing discovery of the theft; he had thought +even of taking Alan back to Brookfield with him; however, he had told +him that the money would be replaced, the boy would understand that +nothing could happen him and would go back, Mortimer felt sure. He spent +a short time searching for Alan, but his former fruitless quest had +shown him the hopelessness of trying to find a person in that immense +throng. He thought kindly of the enveloping mob that had kept him hidden +from Allis, as he thought. He had feared to meet her--something in his +presence might cause her to suspect that something was wrong. The whole +episode was like a fairy dream. It was a queer twist of Fate's web, +his winning enough over Lauzanne--he, a man who had never betted in his +life--to replace the money the brother had stolen. + +All at once it occurred to him that some reward was due the instigator +of his success. The thousand he must keep intact. He had a few loose +dollars in his pocket beyond his original hundred, quite sufficient +to take him back to Brookfield. Taking the hundred from his pocket and +turning to Old Bill, who was still with him, he said: “I'm going +home, I've had enough horse racing for one day; you've done me a great +kindness--will you take this hundred--I need the thousand badly, so +can't spare more than this.” + +“Not on yer life, pard. I give you de tip first, but you got de office +straight from Irish, an' we're quits, see? I wasn't playin' you fer +a sucker, an' yer straight goods. Jes' shove de boodle in yer breast +pocket, an' don't show it to no one. Dere's some here as would take it +off you quick enough.” + +“But--” + +“Dere ain't no buts in dis game--it's a straight deal, an' we've split +even. If you'd been a crook, well, God knows how we'd a-panned out. But +you ain't no geezer of dat sort--yer square, an' Old Bill wishes you +good luck till de robins nest again. Yer goin', eh? Say, pard, I'd +a-been wearin' diamon's if I could quit when I was 'head of de game. Yer +dead onto it. Here's my hand, Mr. Morton.” + +“Mortimer--George Mortimer.” + +“Well, shake, George. Where do you hang out?” + +“Brookfield.” + +“My address is New York. Dat's as close a fit as I knows at present. +If de run o' luck keeps up p'r'aps I'll write you from de Waldorf. +Good-bye, of man.” + +With a light heart Mortimer hastened from Gravesend, not waiting for +the other races, and took his way to Brookfield. A genuine admiration of +buffeted Old Bill filled his mind. + +In the morning he would be at the bank bright and early, and replace the +stolen thousand dollars; nobody would know that it had been taken. The +narrow escape that had come to Alan Porter might prove his salvation. +Surely it would cure him of his desire to bet. Out of all this evil +positive good would accrue. + + + + +XXXVIII + + +After winning on Lauzanne Allis had dodged the admiring crowd of paddock +regulars that followed her. As Lauzanne was being blanketed she had +kissed the horse's cheek and given him a mighty squeeze of thankfulness. +How nobly he had done his part; good, dear old despised, misjudged +Lauzanne. He had veritably saved her father from disaster; had saved her +from--from many things. + +She had slipped into her long coat and stood waiting for Mike to drive +her to Dixon's cottage when the rumor came of an objection. Then there +had been the misery of terrible suspense, a wait of uncertainty. Was her +sacrifice of womanly instinct to go for nothing? Dixon had hurried to +the scene of investigation; then he had come back after a little with +Mike, and the good news that they had been given the race. If it had not +been for prying eyes she would have knelt there at Lauzanne's feet and +offered up a prayer of thankfulness. She had done all a woman could do, +almost more; Providence had not forsaken her and her stricken father. + +Then Mike had hurried her to the buggy just as Crane, leaving the beaten +Dutchman and Langdon, had come, asking Dixon where Miss Porter was, +that he might tender congratulations. He wanted to see the boy that had +ridden Lauzanne, also--wanted to take his hand and tell him what a grand +race he had ridden. But Dixon had been ready with excuses; the boy was +dead beat after the race--he was only a kid--and had gone to Dixon's +home. Miss Porter was perhaps in the stand, or perhaps she had gone home +also. Crane knew of Langdon's objection. It was a silly thing, he said, +due to overeagerness. He had taken no part in it, he assured Dixon. Alan +Porter, too, came into the paddock, asking for his sister; but fared +pretty much as Crane had. He would certainly find her at the cottage, +Dixon assured him. + +That night Allis wired the joyful tidings to her father, and that she +would be home in the morning. + +Dr. Rathbone's prophecy as to the proper medication for John Porter +stood a chance of being fulfilled in one day. Allis's telegram proved +that the doctor had understood the pathology of Porter's treatment, for +he became as a cripple who had touched the garment of a magic healer. + +It was thus that Allis found him when she reached Ringwood. Oh, but she +was glad; and small wonder. What she had done was as nothing; it shrank +into insignificance under the glamourous light of the change that had +come over the home. What a magic wand was deserved success; how it +touched with fairy aspect all that drooped with the fearsome blight of +anticipated decay! And even then they did not know the full extent of +her endeavor. Mingled with her mother's gentle welcome, and her father's +full-throated thanks, was praise for the, to him unknown, boy that had +ridden Lauzanne so gallantly. + +The girl found tears of thankfulness glistening in her eyes as she +listened to the praise that was wholly hers, though given in part to the +jockey. They had not even heard his name--it had not mattered before; +and now when her father asked for it, she answered that Mike called him +Al something. Her father, generous in his salvation, was most solicitous +as to a fitting present; a thousand dollars, or perhaps two, or even +more, if Dixon advised so. What had he promised the lad? But there +were so many things to talk over and settle, and laugh about, and +congratulate each other upon. Good fortune was a generous dame. They +were all like children in their happiness. \ “Yes, Alan had been there,” + the girl answered to a question from her father. Also it was a strange +happening, a distortion of fate that Crane had beaten them in the +Brooklyn with Diablo, and now they had beaten his horse, The Dutchman, +with Lauzanne the Despised. All was content after the turmoil of +endeavor. And of the horses, Lauzanne, who would gallop for no one but +Allis, would be brought back to Ringwood, to be petted and spoiled +of his young mistress for the good he had done. Lucretia, when +convalescent, would also come to the farm to rest and get strong. + +In the midst of it all Dr. Rathbone came in, and of course, man-like and +doctor-like, with pretended pomposity, said: “I told you so. What did +I say? Now Mrs. Porter, no more scolding over the ways of horses, a good +horse is a delight, and a good daughter a joy forever.” + +Dear old Dr. Rathbone, wise in his generation and big of heart! + + + + +XXXIX + + +At the bank down in the village--well, at nine o'clock Mortimer, feeling +the virtue of early effort, with the money of redemption in his pocket, +entered into the resumption of his duties. At the earliest moment after +the vault was opened he made his way to the box that contained +the Porter payment. One thing troubled him slightly. It was a +thousand-dollar bill that had been taken; the money he had to replace +was in hundreds and fifties. As he slipped them quietly into the box he +thought it wouldn't really matter; he would transfer the three thousand +to the account himself, and nobody would know of the change. Leaving the +box where it was for a little, in the way of subtle strategy, he came +out and busied himself over other matters. + +To Mortimer's slight astonishment, presently the cashier, Mr. Lane, +came out from his office, and speaking somewhat carelessly, said: “Mr. +Mortimer, you have that Porter note and money in charge. It is due +today, isn't it?” + +Looking up, Mortimer saw Lane's eye fixed upon his face with piercing +intensity. He flushed out of sheer nervousness. + +“Yes, sir,” he stammered, “it is. I'll attend to it at once.” + +“Ah!” there was a peculiar drawl in the cashier's voice as he spoke; +“ah, I had a communication from Mr. Porter yesterday, asking if the note +had been paid.” + +Mortimer felt his knees shake-something was choking hire. Had the +devil of mischance taken the salvation of Alan's good name out of his +hands--had his work been for nothing. + +“I couldn't understand it,” went on the cashier. His voice sounded like +the clang of a fire bell to the listening man, though it was evenly +modulated, cold and steady in its methodical precision. “I thought +Porter knew the money was here to meet the note,” said Lane, still +speaking, “but my attention being called to the matter, I looked up the +papers. I found one thousand dollars missing!” He was looking steadily +at Mortimer; his eyes were searching the young man's very soul. There +was accusation, denunciation, abhorrence in the cashier's gaze. + +Mortimer did not speak. He was trying to think. His brain worked in +erratic futility. The slangy babble of Old Bill thrust itself upon him; +the roar of the race course was in his ears, deadening his senses; not +a sane, relevant word rose to his lips. He was like a child stricken by +fear. In an indistinct way he felt the dishonor that was Alan Porter's +being given to him. The cashier waited for Mortimer to say something; +then he spoke again, with reproach in his voice. + +“I at once sent a messenger to ask you to return from your home at +Emerson to clear up this matter; he discovered that you had not +been there; that your mother was not ill. May I ask where you were +yesterday?” + +“I was at Gravesend, sir--at the races,” answered Mortimer, defiantly. + +This speech broke the lethargy that was over him; his mind cleared--he +commenced to think sanely. + +“Can you tell me,” proceeded Lane, “where the balance of Mr. Porter's +three thousand dollars is?” + +“It's in the box.” + +“That's a--it is not.” + +“It's in the box,” repeated Mortimer, firmly. + +“We can soon settle that point,” declared the cashier, going hurriedly +into the vault and reappearing instantly with the box in his hand. + +He opened it and stared at the package of bills that rose up when +freed from the pressure of the lid. With nervous fingers he counted the +contents. + +“I beg your pardon,” he exclaimed in a quick, jerky way. “The three +thousand dollars is here, but these bills have been put in the box this +morning; they were not there last night. It is not the money that was +taken away, either. That was one bill, a thousand-dollar note; and +here are”--he counted them again--“six one hundreds and eight fifties, +besides the original two of one thousand. You put those notes back, Mr. +Mortimer,” he said, tapping the desk with two fingers of the right hand. + +“I did.” + +“And you took the money yesterday or the day before?” + +“I did not.” + +“Ah!” Lane repeated in a drier, more severe tone than he had used +before. This “Ah” of the cashier's, with its many gradations of tone, +had been a most useful weapon in his innumerable financial battles. It +could be made to mean anything--everything; flung out at haphazard it +always caught his opponent off guard; it was a subtle thrust, and while +one pondered over its possible meaning, Lane could formulate in his mind +more decisive expressions. + +“Ah,” he repeated, adding, “if you did not steal the money, who did? And +if you did not take it, why did you put it back?” + +With an expressive sweep of the hand outward the cashier stood waiting, +his tall, narrow head, topped by carefully brushed gray hair, thrust +forward in the attitude of a parrot about to strike with its beak. + +“I can't answer those questions,” answered the man he was grilling. “The +money to pay Mr. Porter's note is here; and I fancy that is all the +bank needs to concern itself about. It was entrusted to me, and now I am +prepared to turn it over.” + +“Quite true; ah, yes, quite true; but it might have been vastly +different. That is the point that most concerns the bank. Whoever took +the money”--and he bowed, deprecatingly, with ironical consideration +to Mortimer--“must have needed a thousand dollars for--well, some +speculative purpose, perhaps. Good fortune has enabled the some one to +make good, and the money has been replaced.” + +The cashier straightened up, threw his head back, and actually smiled. +He had scored linguistically--by a clever manipulation of the sentence +he had made the some one who had stolen the money the some one who who +had replaced it. That was accusation by inference, if you like. As the +other did not speak, Lane added: “I will wire for Mr. Crane to come at +once; this is a matter for investigation.” + +Mortimer bowed his head in acquiesence; what could he say--what other +stand could the bank take? + +“You might remain at your desk,” the cashier said, “if there is any +mistake we'll discover it, no doubt.” + +Mortimer felt like one dead, indeed as a dishonored man he were better +dead. The bank was like a mausoleum, and he a lost spirit haunting +its precincts in quest of the undefiled body that had been his but +yesterday. Cass, the teller, certainly shunned him as he would a leper. +Lane, vindictively pleased that he had unearthed the villain, drew his +small soul into a shell of cold, studious politeness; much as a sea +spider might house his unpleasant body in a discarded castle of pink and +white. + +Alan Porter was late--he had not come yet. Mortimer waited in suffering +suspense for his appearance. What would come of it all. Now that the +money was replaced, if the boy admitted his guilt to Crane, probably no +further action would be taken, but he would be dishonored in the sight +of his employer. Mortimer had sought to avert this; had not denounced +Alan in the first instance; by good fortune had been able to replace +the money; even now had refused to divulge the name of the thief. He was +well aware of the mass of circumstantial evidence, the outcome of his +own hurried actions, that pointed to himself as the guilty one. Better +this than that he should denounce the boy. Dishonor to the lad might +kill his father; for Mortimer was well aware of the doctor's edict. And +Allis, the girl he loved as his life, would hang her head in shame for +evermore. He was anxious to see Alan before the cashier did; he did not +want the boy to deny taking the money at first, as he might do if he +were unaware of the circumstances; it would place him in a wrong light. + +Just before twelve Alan Porter came hurriedly in. He had missed his +train the night before, he explained in a general way to all. Mortimer +stepped up to him almost at once, speaking with low, earnest rapidity; +the cashier was in his own office and Mr. Cass was not within earshot. + +“I put the money back, but its loss had been discovered yesterday. I +have been accused of taking it, but have denied it, accusing no one. I +want you to say that you borrowed it, thinking it no great harm, as it +was your father's money.” + +Alan would have interrupted him, but Mortimer said, “Wait till I +finish;” and then continued: “There will be nothing done to you, I feel +sure, if you will take this stand, because of your father's connection +with Crane. It will save me from dishonor--” + +“Mr. Porter.” + +It was the cashier's voice of Damascus steel cutting in on Mortimer's +low, pleading tones. + +Alan turned his head, and Mr. Lane, beckoning, said, “Will you step into +my office for a minute?” + +The cashier's one minute drew its weary length into thirty; and when +Alan Porter came out again, Mortimer saw the boy sought to avoid him. +Had he denied taking the money? My God! the full horror of Mortimer's +hopeless position flashed upon him like the lurid light of a destroying +forest fire. He could read in every line of the boy's face an accusation +of himself. He had trembled when it was a question of Alan's dishonor; +now that the ignominy was being thrust upon him, the bravery that he +possessed in great part made him a hero. If through his endeavor to +save the boy he was to shoulder the guilt, not of his own volition, but +without hope of escape, he would stand to it like a man. What would it +profit him to denounce the boy. + +Harking back with rapidity over his actions, and Alan's, he saw that +everything implicated him. Once he thought of his mother and wavered; +but she would believe him if he said he had not committed this dreadful +crime. But all the world of Brookfield would despise the name of her +son if it were thought that he had sought to testify falsely against his +friend. And was not Alan the brother of Allis? + +Mentally his argument, his analysis of the proper course to pursue was +tortuous, not definable, or to be explained in concise phraseology; but +the one thought that rose paramount over all others was, that he must +take his iniquitous punishment like a man. He had fought so strongly +to shield the brother of the girl he loved that the cause in all its +degradation had accrued to him. + +At one o'clock the president, Crane, arrived from New York, and in him +was bitterness because of his yesterday's defeat. He had sat nearly the +whole night through mentally submerged in the double happening that had +swept many men from the chess board. Lauzanne, the despised, had kept +from his hand a small fortune, even when his fingers seemed tightening +on the coin, too. That was one happening. John Porter had gained over +twenty thousand dollars. This made him quite independent of Crane's +financial bolstering. The Banker's diplomacy of love had been weakened. +That was the other happening. + +Crane was closeted with the cashier not more than ten minutes when +Mortimer was asked to join the two men who had so suddenly become deeply +interested in his affairs. + +The cashier's hand had been strengthened by Crane's contribution of +evidence. Mortimer had told the same falsehood about his mother being +ill to him at the race course. From Alan the cashier had learned that +Mortimer had been betting heavily; he had admitted to the boy that he +had won enough to replace the thousand dollars he had stolen. Mortimer's +words had been contorted into that reading in their journey through +two personalities. He had even begged young Porter not to speak of +his betting transactions. He had denied taking the money--that was but +natural; he had been forced to admit replacing it--that was conclusive. +Indeed it seemed a waste of time to investigate further; it was utterly +impossible to doubt his guilt. Mesh by mesh, like an enthralling net, +all the different threads of convicting circumstances were drawn about +the accused man. + +“Let us question him?” said Crane; and in his heart was not sorrow, +nor hate, nor compassion, nor anything but just joy. Greater than the +influence of money in his love ambition would be this degradation, this +reducing to a felon a man he felt stood between him and Allis Porter. + +Yesterday they had won; to-day victory, almost, to him had come. Yes, +bring the deliverer in; he would feast his eyes, the narrow-lidded +eyes, upon the man whose young love might have conquered over all his +diplomacy, and who would go forth from his hands branded as a felon. + +The probing of the already condemned man elicited nothing beyond a +repeated denial of theft. With the precision of Mam'selle Guillotine, +Cashier Lane lopped off everything that could possibly stand in +Mortimer's defense, grafting into the cleaved places individual facts +which confirmed his guilt. Mortimer contended nothing, threw suspicion +upon no one. Was it Alan Porter? Was it Cass?--but that was impossible. +Was it the cashier himself? Still more impossible. Mortimer answered +nothing. He had not taken the money. Yes, he had replaced it--because he +was responsible for its custody. + +“Can't you see,” cried Crane, impatiently, “that this simple denial +of yours is of no value as against so much that points to your--” he +hesitated--“your implication?” + + + + +XL + +While Mortimer was still in the cashier's improvised inquisition room, +Allis Porter came into the bank to arrange the payment of her father's +note. + +The sunshine seemed to come with her into the counting house that was +all gloom. Her glorious success, the consequent improvement in her +father, the power to pay off his indebtedness--all these had turned that +day into a day of thankfulness. The happiness that was in her rippled +her face into smiles. When the door creaked on its hinges as it swung +open, she laughed. It was a thriftless old door, such as bachelors kept, +she murmured. Her brother's face, gloomy behind the iron screen, tickled +her fancy. “You're like a caged bear, Alan,” she cried, with a smile of +impertinence; “I should hate to be shut up a day like this--no wonder +you're cross, brother.” + +“I'm busy,” he answered, curtly. “I'll see you after bank hours, Sis; I +want to see you.” + +“I've come to pay father's note, busy-man-of-importance,” she flung +back, with the swagger of a capitalist. + +“It's paid, Allis.” + +“Paid! I thought--” + +“Wait, I'll come out;” and opening a door in the rail, he passed around +to the girl. + +“Father's note is paid,” he resumed, “but there's fierce trouble over +it. Crane left the money, three thousand dollars, with Mortimer, and he +stole”--the boy's voice lowered to a hoarse whisper--“a thousand of it +to bet at Gravesend.” + +“That's not true, Alan; God knows it's not true. Mortimer wouldn't +steal.” + +“Yes, he did,” persisted the brother, “and he begged of me to take the +blame. He said it would ruin him, but that Crane wouldn't do anything to +me. He's a vile, sneaking thief, Allis!” + +“Hush, Alan; don't say that. It's all some dreadful mistake. The money +will be found somewhere.” + +“It has been found; Mortimer put it back. Why should he replace the +money if he had not stolen it?” + +“Where is Mr. Mortimer, Alan?” + +The boy pointed with his thumb to the door of the cashier's office. +“Crane's in there, too. I hope Mortimer owns up. He can't do anything +else; they caught him putting the money back.” + +Allis remembered that she had seen Mortimer on the race course. + +“Mr. Mortimer doesn't bet,” she said. + +“Yes, he does; he did yesterday, anyway; and when he saw that I knew +about it, he begged me to say nothing--practically admitted that he had +taken the money, and was going to put it back.” + +“Why should he tell you that, Alan?” + +“I don't know, unless he feared it might be found out while he was away; +or, perhaps he was so excited over winning a thousand dollars that he +didn't know what he was saying. At any rate, he took it right enough, +Allis, and you ought to cut him.” + +“I shan't do that. He's innocent, I know he is--I don't care what they +say. If he replaced the money, it was to shield the man who took it.” + She was looking searchingly into her brother's eyes--not that she was +accusing him of the theft, she was just searching for the truth. + +“Do you mean it was to shield me--that I took it? No one could have +taken the money except Mortimer or myself.” + +“I don't know,” answered the girl, wearily; “it's all so terribly new; I +only know that Mortimer did not steal it.” + +While she was still speaking, the accused man came from the cashier's +office, holding his head as erect as an Indian, not at all as a +half-convicted felon should have slunk through the door; yet withal in +his face was a look of troubled gravity. + +When Mortimer saw Allis his face flushed, then went pale in an instant. +He felt that she knew; he had seen her talking earnestly to her brother. +Probably she, too, would think him a thief. He admitted to himself that +the evidence was sufficient to destroy anyone's faith in his innocence, +and he was helpless, quite helpless; he was limited to simple denial, +unless he accused her brother; even had he been so disposed, there was +nothing to back up a denunciation of the boy. He felt a twinge of pain +over Alan's ingratitude; the latter must know that he had put his neck +in a noose to save him. Now that one of them needs be dishonored, why +did not Alan prove himself a man, a Porter--they were a hero breed--and +accept the gage of equity. Even worse, Alan was shielding himself behind +this terrible bulwark of circumstantial evidence which topped him, the +innocent one, on every side. + +As he resumed his place at his desk close to the brother and sister, +Alan looked defiantly at him. He could see in the boy's eyes malignant +detestation, a glimmer of triumph, as though he felt that Mortimer +was irrevocably in the toils. The lad was like a strippling Judas; his +attitude filled Mortimer with loathing. He stole a look into the girl's +face. Would she, too, say with her, eyes, “Behold, here is Barabbas!” + +A thrill of ecstatic comfort warmed his being. In Allis's eyes was the +first touch of kindness he had known in this hour of trial; faith, and +sorrow, and cheer, and love were all there, striving for mastery; +no furtive weakening, no uncertain questioning, no remonstrance of +reproval--nothing but just unlimited faith and love. If the boy's look +had angered him, had caused him to waver, had made the self-sacrifice +seem too great when repaid with ingratitude, all these thoughts vanished +in an instant, obliterated by that one look of unalterable love. In the +hour of darkness the girl stood by him, and he would also stand firm. +She would believe in him, and his sacrifice would be as nothing. He had +undertaken to avert the sorrow of dishonor from her, from her brother, +from her parents, and he would continue to the end. He would tell no +one on earth but his mother the full truth; she must know. Then with the +faith of the two women he loved, still his, he could brave the judgment +of all others. Perhaps not willingly in the first place would he have +taken upon himself the brand of Barrabas, but out of good motive he had +incurred it. + +Mortimer heard the brother say, “I think you had better not,” then the +girl's voice, clear and decisive, answering, “I will, I must.” + +In anger Alan left his sister's side, and she, stepping up to the +wicket, said, “Will you please come out for a minute, Mr. Mortimer, I +want to speak with you.” + +He passed around to her side. Crane and the cashier were still closeted +in the latter's office. + +“Let us go out into the sunshine,” Allis said. “Can you--will it make +any difference?” + +“I don't think it matters much,” he answered, despondently; “things are +as bad as they can be, I suppose.” + +He took it for granted that she knew everything; but he was possessed of +no shame, no diffidence, no reserve; he was innocent, and her eyes had +assured him that she knew it. As they passed through the door it +creaked again on its dry hinges. Before she had laughed at the weird +complaining; now it sounded like a moan of misery. Outside the village +street was deserted; there was no one to listen. + +“What is this dreadful thing all about?” and she laid her hand on his +arm in a gesture of amity, of association. Her touch thrilled him; she +had never gone that length in friendly demonstration before. He marveled +at her generous faith. All but dishonored, the small, strong hand lifted +him to a pedestal-her eyes deified him. + +“A thousand dollars was stolen from the bank, and I am accused of taking +it,” he answered, bitterly. + +“You didn't, did you? I know you didn't, but I want to hear you say so.” + +He looked full into the girl's eye, and answered with deliberate +earnestness, “I did not steal the money.” + +“Some one took it?” + +“Yes.” + +“And you know who it was?” + +“I do not.” + +“But you suspect some one?” + +He did not answer. + +“Did you put the money back?” + +He nodded his head. + +“To protect somebody's good name?” + +“Because it had been in my charge. I can't talk about it,” he broke in, +vehemently; “all I can say is, that I am innocent. If you believe that +I don't care what they do. They'll be able to prove by circumstantial +evidence that I took it,” he added, bitterly, “and nothing that I can +say will make any difference. My mother won't believe me guilty, and, +thank God, you don't; and I am not; God knows I am not. Beyond that +I will say nothing; it is useless--worse than useless; it would be +criminal--would only cast suspicion on others, perhaps innocent. I +don't know what they'll do about it; the money has been repaid. They may +arrest me as a felon--at any rate I shall be forced to leave the bank +and go away. It won't make much difference.--I am as I was before, an +honest man, and I shall find other openings. It's not half so hard as I +thought it would be; I feared perhaps that you--” + +She stopped him with an imploring gesture. + +“Let me finish,” he said. “I must go back to the office. I thought that +you might believe me a thief, and that would have been too much.” + +“You cared for my poor opinion?” she asked. The quiver in her voice +caused him to look into her face; he saw the gray eyes shrouded in +tears. He was a queer thief, trembling with joy because of his sin. + +“Yes, I care,” he answered; “and it seemed all so dark before you +brought the sunlight in with you; now I'm glad that they've accused me; +somebody else might have suffered and had no one to believe in him. But +I must go back to--my prison it seems like now--when I leave you;” this +with a weary attempt at brave mockery. + +Allis laid a detaining hand on his arm, the small gloved hand that +had guided Lauzanne to victory. “If anything happens, if you are going +away--I think you are right to go if they distrust you--you will see me +before you leave, won't you?” + +“Will you care to see me if I stand branded as a thief?” The word came +very hard, but in his acridity he felt like not sparing himself; he +wanted to get accustomed to the full obloquy. + +“Promise me to come to Ringwood before going away,” she answered. + +“Yes, I will; and I thank you. No matter how dark the shadow may make my +life your kindness will be a hope light. No man is utterly lost when a +good woman believes in him.” + +The creaking bank door wailed tremulously, irritably; somebody was +pushing it open from the inside. With a whine of remonstrance it swung +wider, and Crane stepped out on the sidewalk. He stared in astonishment +at Mortimer and Allis, his brow wrinkled in anger. Only for an instant; +the forehead smoothed back into its normal placidity and his voice, +well in hand, said, in even tones: “Good afternoon, Miss Porter. Are you +going back to Ringwood?” and he nodded toward Allis's buggy. + +“Yes, I am. I'm going now. Good day, Mr. Mortimer,” and she held out her +hand. + +Mortimer hesitated, and then, flushing, took the gloved fingers in his +own. Without speaking, he turned and passed into the bank. + +“May I go with you?” asked Crane; “I want to see your father.” + +“Yes, I shall be glad to drive you over,” the girl answered. + + + + +XLI + + +When they had passed the edge of the village the Banker said: “I doubt +if you would have shaken hands with Mr. Mortimer if you knew--I mean, +he is under strong suspicion, more than strong suspicion, for he is +practically self-accused of having stolen a sum of money from the bank. +In fact, I'm not sure that it wasn't from your father he really stole +it.” + +“I do know of this terrible thing,” she answered. “I shook hands with +him because I believe him innocent.” + +“You know more than we do?” It was not a sneer; if so, too delicately +veiled for detection; the words were uttered in a tone of hopeful +inquiry. + +“Mr. Mortimer could not steal--it is impossible.” + +“Have you sufficient grounds for your faith--do you happen to know who +took the money, for it was stolen?” + +The girl did not answer at once. At first her stand had simply been one +of implicit faith in the man she had conjured into a hero of all that +was good and noble. She had not cast about for extenuating evidence; she +had not asked herself who the guilty man was; her faith told her it +was morally impossible for Mortimer to become a thief. Now Crane's +questions, more material than the first deadening effects of Alan's +accusation, started her mind on a train of thought dealing with motive +possibilities. + +She knitted her small brows, and tapping the jogging horse's quarter +with the whip sat for many minutes silently absorbed. + +Her companion waited for an answer with his usual well-bred patience. +Perhaps the girl had not heard him. Perhaps she did not wish to answer a +question so unanswerable. He waited. + +Mortimer, being innocent, replaced the stolen money, Allis's mind +tabulated--she tickled this thought off on the horse with her whip--it +was to shield some one. Her heart told her, his eyes had told her, that +he would have taken upon himself this great risk but for one person, +her brother. Yes, Mortimer was a hero! The horse, lazily going, jumped +a little in the traces; she had struck him a harder tap with the whip. +Allis continued her mental summing up. Why did Mortimer go to Gravesend? +It must have been to see Alan--the boy was there. If he had discovered +that the money was missing, and thought Alan had taken it, he would +do this; if he had suspected some other person he would have made the +matter known to the cashier. He did not replace the money at once, +because he hadn't it. She knew that Mortimer was poor. He had failed to +find Alan until after Lauzanne's victory; her brother had told her this +much, and that Mortimer had won a lot of money over the horse. Why he +had bet on Lauzanne she knew not; perhaps Providence had guided, had +helped him that much. But surely that was the money, his winnings, with +which he had replaced the thousand dollars. + +The girl's mind had worked methodically, following sequence of action +to sequence, until finally the conviction that Mortimer had sought to +shield her brother, and chance or Providence working through herself +and Lauzanne had placed in his hands the necessary funds, came to her as +fixedly as though the whole past panorama of events lay pictured before +her eyes. + +She saw all this mentally; but would it avail anything in actuality? If +the boy disclaimed guilt, as he had; if Mortimer limited his defense to +a simple denial, refusing to implicate her brother, what could she do +except give her moral support? To her it seemed such a small reward for +his heroism; her faith would not save him from the brand of felony, and +to follow out her convictions publicly she must denounce her brother, +cast upon him the odium of theft. Truly her position was one of extreme +hopelessness. Two men she loved stood before her mentally, one accused +of others as a thief, and one--her own brother--charged by her reason +with the crime. + +Under the continued silence Crane grew restless; the girl, almost +oblivious of his presence, deep in the intricacies of the crime, gave no +sign of a desire to pursue the discussion. + +“Of course I am anxious to clear the young man if he is innocent,” + hazarded the banker, to draw her gently back into the influence that he +felt must be of profit to himself. This assertion of Crane's was only +assimilatively truthful. As president of the bank, naturally he should +wish to punish none other than the guilty man; as a rival to Mortimer +for the girl's affection, he could not but be pleased to see the younger +man removed from his path, and in a way which would forever preclude his +aspiring to Allis's hand. Believe in Mortimer as she might, he felt sure +that she would not run counter to the inevitable wishes of her mother +and marry a man who stood publicly branded as a thief. + +Allis answered his observation--he distinctly felt the vibration of pain +in her voice--with a startling depth of analytical discernment:-- + +“While I believe in Mortimer's innocence, and will always believe in +it, I am afraid that he has drawn such a web of circumstantial evidence +about him, trying to shield some one else, that--that--it is too +terrible!” she broke off, passionately--“he is innocent. For God's sake, +Mr. Crane”--she took the reins in her whip hand, and put her left on his +arm, pleadingly--“for God's sake, for his mother's sake, save him. You +can do it--you can believe that he is innocent, and stop everything. The +money has been paid back.” + +“It isn't that, Miss Allis”--his voice was so cuttingly even after +the erratic pump of her own--“in a bank one must not have a dishonest +person. We must investigate to the end, and if Mortimer can clear +himself by fastening the crime upon the perpetrator--” + +“He will never do that; he cannot if he would.” + +“What can I do then, Miss Allis? But why shouldn't he?” + +“Can't you see--don't you understand the man? He commenced by shielding +some one, and he will carry it through to the bitter end.” + +“I am afraid there was no one to shield but himself--everything points +to this conclusion. The money was locked up, he had the keys, no one +touched them--except your brother, and that but for a minute--but if +any suspicion could attach to your brother it is all dissipated by +Mortimer's subsequent actions. It's unpleasant to even hint at such a +contingency, but if Mortimer is innocent, then your brother must be the +guilty one.” + +He expected the girl to denounce indignantly such a possibility; he was +surprised that she remained silent. Her non-refutation of this deduction +told him as conclusively as though she had uttered the accusation that +she thought Alan had taken the money and Mortimer was shielding him. It +was but a phase of blind love; it was the faith women place in men they +love, of which he had read and scoffed at. + +Against all evidence she was holding this man honest, believing her +brother the thief. + +Surely a love like that was worth winning; no price was too great to +pay. Her very faith in Mortimer, through which she sought to save him +by inspiring Crane, determined the latter to crush utterly the man who +stood between him and this great love. Intensity of hate, or love, or +cupidity, never drew Crane out of his inherent diplomacy; he took refuge +behind the brother of Allis. + +“You see,” he said, and his voice was modulated with kindness, “I can't +save Mortimer except at the expense of Alan; you would not have me +do that. Besides, it is impossible--the evidence shines as clear as +noonday.” + +“If you bring this home to Mr. Mortimer you will punish him, arrest +him?” + +“That would be the usual course.” + +She had taken her hand off his arm; now she replaced it, and he could +feel the strong fingers press as though she would hold him to her +wishes. + +“You will not do this,” she said, “for my sake you will not.” + +“You ask this of me, and it is for your sake?” + +“Yes, if there is no other way; if Mr. Mortimer, innocent, must take +upon himself this crime, then for my sake you will not punish him.” + +The gray eyes were violet-black in their intensity. + +“If I promise--” He had been going to ask for reward, but she broke in, +saying: “You will keep your word, and I will bless you.” + +“Nothing more--is that all?” + +The magnetism of the intense eyes broke down his reserve; he slipped +back twenty years in a second. Love touched him with a fire-wand, and +his soul ignited. Cold, passionless Philip Crane spoke in a tongue, +unfamiliar as it was to him, that carried conviction to the girl--just +the conviction that he was in earnest, that he was possessed of a +humanizing love. She listened patiently while he pleaded his cause with +much mastery. It was beyond her understanding, that, though Mortimer +through all time had spoken not at all of love to her--at least not in +the passionate words that came from this man's lips--yet she now +heard as though it were his voice and not Crane's. Love was a glorious +thing--with Mortimer. + +Crane's intensity availed nothing. When he asked why she held faith to a +man who must be known for all time as a thief, her soul answered, “It is +nothing--because he is innocent.” + +Because of her Crane would do anything; the matter should be dropped as +though it were all a hideous mistake. Mortimer might remain in the bank; +his employer would even try to believe him innocent, taking the girl's +protestation m conclusive proof. Her mother, her father, everyone +would demand of her, however, that she give the dishonest one up as a +possibility. Even in his vehemence he lost no delicacy of touch. Why +should she chain herself to an impossibility? It would but ruin the man +she professed to regard. + +The banker made no threat, but Allis shuddered. She knew. The +narrow-lidded eyes had closed perceptibly when their owner talked of the +alternative. He, Crane, loved her--she felt that was true. He was rich; +for her father, for her brother, for herself, even for Mortimer, he +would use his wealth. He pleaded his cause like a strong man, and when +he spoke of failure because of her preference for Mortimer, an acridity +crept into his voice that meant relentless prosecution. + +She could not hold this full power over Crane without feeling its value. +To pledge herself to him as wife was impossible; she could not do it; +she would not. Fate played into his hands without doubt, but Fate was +not Providence. A decree of this sort, iniquitous, was not a higher +command, else she would not feel utter abhorrence of the alliance. +Paradoxically the more vehemently Crane's love obtruded itself the more +obnoxious it became; it was something quite distinct from the man's own +personality. She did not detest him individually, for the honesty of +his love impressed her; mentally she separated Crane from his affection, +anal while rejecting his love absolutely as a compelling factor, +appealed to him as a man having regard for her, a woman he believed in. + +It was a most delicate cleavage, yet unerringly she attained to its +utmost point of discrimination. Perhaps it was the strength of her +love for Mortimer that enabled her to view so calmly this passionate +declaration. A year before, unsophisticated as she had been, it would +have thrown her into an agitated confusion, but she was developing +rapidly; responsibility had tempered fine the great will power which was +hers in such a marked degree. + +“I am sorry, Mr. Crane,” she began, conventionally enough, “I am, sorry; +I couldn't marry a man without loving him. What you have just told me +must win regard for you, because I know that you feel strongly, and I +think any woman should take an offer of honest love as the greatest of +all compliments.” + +“But I don't even ask for your love now,” he interrupted. + +“Ah, but you should. You shouldn't marry a woman unless she loves you. +At any rate I feel that way about it. Of course, if there were a chance +of my coming to care for you in that way we could wait, but it would be +deceiving you to give hope.” + +“Is it because you care for--Mortimer?” he asked. + +“I think it is. I suppose if I am to help him I must be quite honest +with you. I do not want to talk about it--it seems too sacred. I have +even spoken less to Mr. Mortimer of love,” she added, with a painful +attempt at a smile. “You have said that you care for me, Mr. Crane, and +I believe you; you have been generous to my father, also. Now won't you +promise me something, just for the sake of this regard? I suppose it +is impossible to prove Mr. Mortimer's innocence”--she felt her own +helplessness, and who else could or would care to accomplish it “but it +is in your power to lessen the evil. Won't you take my word that he +is innocent and stop everything? As you say, either he or Alan must be +suspected, and if it were brought home to my brother it would crush me, +and my mother and father.” + +“What can I do?--” + +“Just nothing. I know Mr. Mortimer has determined to accept the +disgrace, and he will go away. You can make his load as light as +possible, for my sake.” + +The small hand on his arm was drawing him to acquiesence. He did not +answer at once, but sat moodily diagnosing his position. If he refused +and prosecuted Mortimer, the girl, more determined than many men, would +change from a state of possibility, from simply not loving him, to a +vigorous hate. If he hushed the matter up Mortimer would go away under a +cloud, and his removal from the presence of Allis might effect a change +in her regard. He would accelerate this wished-for elision of love by +procuring absolutely indisputable proof of Mortimer's dishonesty. He saw +his opening to that end; he could do it under the guise of clearing the +innocent one of the suspected two; for Allis alone this would be. To +him there was not the slightest ground for supposing Alan had taken the +money, but blinded by her love, evidently Allis thought Mortimer was +shielding her brother. Though it was to Crane's best interests, he +pretended to consent out of pure chivalry. “What you ask,” he said, “is +very little; I would do a thousand times more for you. There is nothing +you could ask of me that would not give me more pleasure than anything +else in my barren life. But I could not bear to see you wedded to +Mortimer; he is not worthy--you are too good for him. I don't say this +because he is more fortunate, but I love you and want to see you happy.” + +The girl was like a slim poplar. The strong wind of Crane's clever +pleading and seeming generosity swayed her from her rigid attitude only +to spring back again, to stand straight and beautiful, true to her love +and faith in Mortimer. + +“You are kind to me,” she said, simply; “I wish I could repay you.” + +“Perhaps some day I may get a reward out of all proportion to this small +service.” + +She looked fair into his eyes, and on her lips hovered a weak, +plaintive, wistful smile, as though she were wishing he could accept the +inevitable and take her regard, her gratitude, her good opinion of him +and not wed himself to a chimera which would bring only weariness of +spirit in return for his goodness. + +“You will be repaid some day,” she answered, “for I feel that Mr. +Mortimer's name will be cleared, and you will be glad that you acted +generously.” + +“Well, this will give him a better chance,” he said, evasively; “it's +not good to crush a man when he's down. I will see that no one connected +with the bank shows him the slightest disrespect. Of course he'll have +to go, he couldn't remain under the circumstances--he wouldn't.” + +The horse had jogged slowly. Allis had purposely allowed the old Bay to +take his time. Unused to such a tolerance he had scandalously abused the +privilege; once or twice he had even cast longing glances at a succulent +bunch of grass growing by the roadside, as though it were a pure waste +of opportunity to neglect the delicacy for work when he had to do with +such indifferent overseers. But now Ringwood was in sight, and there was +still the matter of the money that had been paid on her father's note to +speak of. She asked Crane where it had come from. + +“You won it over Diablo in the Brooklyn Handicap,” he answered, bluntly. + +“You won it,” she corrected him; “I refused to accept it.” + +“I remember that eccentricity,” he replied. “I'm a busy man, and +having the money thrown back on my hands, as it was not mine, caused me +considerable inconvenience. I deposited three thousand of it against the +note to save both your father and myself needless worry. There are still +some hundreds due you, and I wish you would please tell me what I am to +do with it.” + +“I'd rather pay you back the three thousand now.” + +“I can't accept it. I have enough money of my own to worry along on.” + +“Well, I wash my hands of the whole affair. When father gets stronger he +must settle it.” + +They had turned into the drive to Ringwood House. + +“We are home now,” she added, “and I want to say again that I'll never +forget your kind promise. I know you will not repent of your goodness.” + +Mrs. Porter saw Allis and Crane together in the buggy; it pleased the +good woman vastly. Allis's success with Lauzanne had taken a load from +her spirits. She was not mercenary, but there had been so much at stake. +Now in one day Providence had averted disaster, and she had awakened +from a terrible nightmare of debt. The sunshine of success had warmed +her husband's being into hopeful activity, a brightness was over his +spirits that had not been there for months. It was like an augury of +completed desire that Crane should come the day of their good fortune +with Allis. If she would but marry him there would be little left to +worry about. So it was that Crane, perplexed by his recent love check, +and Allis, mired in gloom over her hero's misfortune, stepped into a +radiancy of exotic cheerfulness. + +The girl bravely sought to shake off her gloom, chiding her heavy +heart for its unfilial lack of response. Crane, accustomed to mental +athletics, tutored his mind into a seeming exuberance, and playfully +alluded to his own defeat at the hands of Allis and the erratic +Lausanne. There was no word of the bank episode, nothing but a paean of +victory. + +Crane's statement to Allis that he was going out to Ringwood to see +her father was only an excuse. He soon took his departure, a stableboy +driving him back to the village. There he had a talk with the cashier. +Mortimer was to be asked to resign his position as soon as his place in +the bank could be filled. No further prosecution was to be taken against +him unless Crane decided upon such a course, “In the meantime you can +investigate cautiously,” he said, “and keep quite to yourself any new +evidence that may turn up. So far as Mr. Mortimer is concerned, the +matter is quite closed.” + +The cashier had always considered his employer a hard man, and, in +truth, who hadn't? He could scarcely understand this leniency; he had +expected a vigorous prosecution of Mortimer; had almost dreaded its +severity. Personally he had no taste for it; still, he would feel +insecure if the suspected man, undeniably guilty, were to remain +permanently in the bank. His dismissal from the staff was a wise move, +tempered by unexpected clemency. If there were not something behind +it all--this contingency always attached itself to Crane's acts--his +employer had acted with fine, wise discrimination. + + + + +XLII + + +Crane returned to New York, his mind working smoothly to the hum of the +busy wheels beneath his coach. + +This degrading humiliation of his rival must certainly be turned to +account. With Allis Porter still believing in Mortimer's innocence the +gain to him was very little; he must bring the crime absolutely home to +the accused man, but in a manner not savoring of persecution, else +the girl's present friendly regard would be turned into abhorrence. In +addition to this motive he felt an inclination to probe the matter +to its utmost depths. It was not his nature to leave anything +to conjecture; in all his transactions each link in the chain of +preparation for execution was welded whole. He felt that it would be +but a matter of manipulation to environ Mortimer completely with the +elements of his folly. He firmly believed him guilty; Allis, misled by +her infatuation, mentally attributed the peculation to her brother. + +The Banker would go quietly to work and settle this point beyond +dispute. He might have hesitated, leaving well enough alone, had he been +possessed of any doubts as to the ultimate results of his investigation, +but he wasn't. He reasoned that Mortimer had taken the thousand-dollar +note thinking to win three or four thousand at least over his horse, The +Dutchman, and then replace the abstracted money. Crane was aware that +Alan Porter had told Mortimer of The Dutchman's almost certain prospect +of winning; in fact, the boy had suggested that Mortimer had taken it +for this purpose. Mortimer would not have changed the note; would have +taken it straight to the race course. He must have lost it to some +bookmaker over The Dutchman. Crane knew the number of the stolen note. +The three one-thousand-dollar bills were new, running in consecutive +numbers, B 67,482-83-84; he had noticed that quite by chance at the +time; it was the middle one, B 67,483, that was missing. So he had a +possible means of identifying the man who had taken the money. Mentally +he followed Mortimer during the day at Gravesend. From Alan he knew of +his winnings over Lauzanne. + +Crane reasoned that Mortimer, having risked the thousand on his horse, +had been told that Lauzanne might win. This had perhaps frightened him, +and being unfamiliar with the folly of such a course had backed two +horses in the same race--had put a hundred on Lauzanne at ten to one to +cover his risk on The Dutchman, feeling this made him more secure. He +would either win a considerable stake or have sufficient in hand to +cover up his defalcation. The first thing to do was to find the note if +possible. Faust would be the man for this commission. + +Immediately upon his arrival in New York, Crane telephoned for Faust, +asking him to bring his betting sheet for the second last day of the +Brooklyn Meet. When Faust arrived at Crane's quarters the latter said, +“I want to trace a thousand-dollar note, number B 67,483. I think it was +betted on the Brooklyn Derby, probably on my horse.” + +Faust consulted his betting sheet, Crane looking over his shoulder. “I +didn't have no thousand in one bet on that race,” he said. + +“What are those flgures,” asked the other, pointing to two consecutive +numbers of one thousand each. + +“That was the other way about,” answered the Bookmaker; “that was pay. +A thousand to one hundred twice over Lauzanne. I think it must have been +stable money, for one of the guys was like a big kid; he didn't know +'nough to pick a winner in a thousand years.” + +The coincidence of this amount with the win attributed to Mortimer, +appealed to Crane's fancy. “You remember the man who made this bet, +then?” he asked. + +“Yes, sure thing. There was two of 'em, as you see. I remember him +because it took some explainin' to get the bet through his noddle. He +was a soft mark for a bunco steerer. I've seen some fresh kids playin' +the horses, but he had 'em all beat to a standstill. It must abeen +first-time luck with him, for he cashed.” + +“Can you describe him?” + +The Cherub drew an ornate verbal picture, florid in its descriptive +phraseology, but cognate enough to convince Crane it was Mortimer who +had made one of the bets. His preconceived plan of the suspected man's +operations was working out. + +“Now find this thousand-dollar note for me,” he said; “take trouble over +it; get help if necessary; go to every bookmaker that was in line that +day. If you find the note, exchange other money for it and bring it to +me.” + +“There may be a chance,” commented Faust, scratching his fat poll +meditatively; “the fellows like to keep these big bills, they're +easier in the pocket than a whole bundle of flimsies. The next day was +getaway-day, an' they wouldn't be payin' out much. I'll make a play fer +it.” + +The next afternoon Faust reported at Crane's rooms with the rescued +note in his possession. He had been successful. “I give a dozen of 'em a +turn,” he said, “before I run again' Jimmie Farrell. He had it snuggled +away next his chest among a lot of yellow-backs, good Dutchman money.” + +“Does he know who bet it?” + +“Not his name--some stranger; he'd know him if he saw him, he says.” + +Crane grasped this new idea with avidity, the scent was indeed getting +hot. Why not take Farrell down to Brookfield to identify Mortimer. He +had expected the searching for evidence would be a tedious matter; his +fortunate star was guiding him straight and with rapidity to the goal he +sought. + +“I'm much obliged to you,” he said to Faust. “I won't trouble you +further; I'll see Farrell myself. Give me his address.” + +That evening the Banker saw Farrell. “There was a little crooked work +over that thousand Faust got from you,” he said, “an' if you could find +time to go with me for an hour's run into the country, I think you could +identify the guilty party.” + +“I can go with you,” Farrell answered, “but it's just a chance in a +thousand. I should be on the block down at Sheepshead, but, to tell you +the truth, the hot pace the backers set me at Brooklyn knocked me out a +bit. I'm goin' to take a breather for a few days an' lay again' 'em next +week. Yes, I'll go with you, Mr. Crane.” + +In the morning the two journeyed to Brookfield. + +“I won't go to the bank with you,” Crane said; “I wish you would go in +alone. You may make any excuse you like, or none at all. Just see if the +man you got this note from is behind the rail. I'll wait at the hotel.” + +In fifteen minutes he was rejoined by Farrell. + +“Well?” he asked. + +“He's there, right enough.” + +“A short dark little chap?” questioned Crane, hesitatingly, putting Alan +Porter forward as a feeler. + +“No. A tall fellow with a mustache.” + +“You are sure?” + +“Dead sure, unless he's got a double, or a twin brother.” + +Crane felt that at last he had got indisputable proof; evidence that +would satisfy even Allis Porter. He experienced little exhilaration over +the discovery--he had been so sure before--yet his hand was strengthened +vastly. Whatever might be the result of his suit with Allis, this must +convince her that Mortimer was guilty, and unworthy of her love. There +was also satisfaction in the thought that it quite cleared Alan of his +sister's suspicion. + +How he would use this confirmation Crane hardly knew; it would come up +in its own proper place at the right time, no doubt. + +“We can go back now,” he said to Farrell; “we may as well walk leisurely +to the station; we can get a train”--he pulled out his watch--“in twenty +minutes.” + +Crane had made up his mind not to show himself at the bank that day. He +wished to bold his discovery quite close within himself--plan his +course of action with habitual caution. It meant no increased aggression +against Mortimer's liberty; it was of value only in his pursuit of Allis +Porter. + +As they walked slowly toward the station Crane met abruptly the girl +who was just then so much in his thoughts. Her sudden appearance quite +startled him, though it was quite accidental. She had gone in to do some +shopping, she explained, after Crane's greeting. + +Farrell continued on when his companion stopped. A sudden determination +to tell the girl what he had unearthed took quick possession of Crane. +His fine sense of reasoning told him that though she professed positive +faith in Mortimer, she must have moments of wavering; it seemed only +human. Perhaps his presiding deity had put this new weapon in his hands +to turn the battle. He began by assuring her that he had prosecuted the +inquiry simply through a desire to establish the innocence of either +Mortimer or her brother, or, if possible, both. + +“You understand,” he said, quite simply, “that Alan is like a brother--” + he was going to say “son,” but it struck him as being unadvisable, +it aged him. He related how he had traced the stolen note, how he had +discovered it, how he had brought the bookmaker down, and how, without +guidance from him, Farrell had gone into the bank and identified +Mortimer as the man who had betted the money. + +“It clears Alan,” he said, seeking furtively for a look into the +drooping face. + +The bright sun struck a sparkle of light from something that shot +downward and splashed in the dust. The girl was crying. + +“I'm sorry,” he offered as atonement. “Perhaps I shouldn't have told +you; it's too brutal.” + +The head drooped still lower. + +“I shouldn't have spoken had it not been for your brother's sake. I +didn't mean to. It was chance drew you across my path just now. Though +it is cruel, it is better that you should know. No man has a right to +deceive you, you are too good. It is this very constancy and goodness +that has taught me to love you.” + +“Don't,” she pleaded; “I can't bear it just now. Please don't talk of +love, don't talk of anything. Can't you see--can't you understand?” + +“Yes, I know--you are suffering, but it is unjust; you are not fair to +yourself. If this man would steal money, what difference would your +love make to him? He would be as unfaithful to you as he has been to his +trust in the bank. You must consider yourself--you must give him up; you +can't link your young, beautiful life to a man who is only saved from +the penitentiary because of your influence.” + +“Don't talk that way, Mr. Crane, please don't. I know you think that +what you say is right, but what difference does it all make to me? You +know what love is like, you say it has come to you now. My heart tells +me that Mortimer is guiltless. The time has been so short that he has +had no chance to clear himself. If I didn't believe in him I wouldn't +love him; but I still love him, and so I believe in him. I can't help +it--I don't want to help it; I simply go on having faith in him, and my +love doesn't falter. Can't you understand what a terrible thing it would +be even if I were to consent to become your wife? I know it would please +my mother. But if afterward this other man was found to be innocent, +wouldn't your life be embittered--wouldn't it be terrible for you to be +tied to a woman who loved another man?” + +“But it is impossible that he is innocent, or will ever be thought so.” + +“And I know that he is innocent.” + +“Your judgment must tell you that this is only fancy.” + +“My heart tells me that he is not guilty of this crime. My heart is +still true to him; so, shall I decide against myself? Don't--don't stab +me to death with words of Mortimer's guilt; it has no effect, and only +gives me pain. I must wait--we must all wait, just wait. There is no +harm in waiting, the truth will come out at last. But you will keep your +promise?” she said, lifting her eyes to his face. + +“Yes, I meant no harm to Mortimer in searching for this evidence; it was +only to clear your brother.” + +They had come to the station by now. + +“Would you like to speak to Mr. Farrell?” Crane asked. “You are taking +my word.” + +“No, it is useless. I can do nothing but wait; that I can and will do.” + +“Don't think me cruel,” Crane said, “but the wait will be so long.” + +“It may be forever, but I will wait. And I thank you again for your--for +your goodness to me. I'm sorry that I've given you trouble. If you +can--if you can--make it easier for Mortimer--I know he'll feel it +if you could make him think that you didn't altogether believe him +as--dishonest--will you, for my sake?” + +It was generally supposed that Crane's heart had been mislaid at his +inception and the void filled with a piece of chiseled marble; for years +he was a convert to this belief himself; but as he stood on the platform +of the primitive little station and looked into the soft luminous gray +eyes, swimming moist in the hard-restrained tears of the pleading girl, +he became a child. What a wondrous thing love was! Mountains were as +mole-hills before such faith. In the unlimited power of her magnetism, +what a trifle she had asked of him! With an influence so great she had +simply said, “Spare of censure this man for my sake.” In thankfulness +rather than in condescension he promised. + +Even in disgrace--a felon--how Mortimer was to be envied! Above all else +was such abiding love. In his, Crane's, victory was the bitterness of +defeat; the other, beaten down, triumphed in the gain of this priceless +love. + +A sharp material whistle, screeching through its brass dome on the +incoming train, cut short these fantastically chaotic thoughts. + +“Good-bye, and thank you,” said the girl, holding out her hand to Crane. + +“Good-bye,” he repeated, mechanically. + +What had he accomplished? He had beaten lower his rival and wedded +firmer to the beaten man the love he prized above all else. In his ears +rang the girl's words, “Wait, wait, wait.” Irresponsibly he repeated to +himself, “All things come to them that wait.” + +Seated in the car swift whirled toward the city, he was almost surprised +to find Farrell by his side. He was like a man in a dream. A vision +of gray eyes, blurred in tears of regret, had obliterated all that was +material. In defeat his adversary had the victory. He, Philip Crane, the +man of calculation, was but a creature of emotion. Bah! At forty if a +man chooses to assume the role of Orlando he does it to perfection. + +With an effort he swept away the cobweb of dreams and sat +upright--Philip Crane, the careful planner. + +“You nearly missed the train,” said Farrell. + +“Did I?” questioned Crane, perplexedly. “I thought I got on in plenty of +time.” + +Farrell smiled knowingly, as befitted a man of his occupation--a +New Yorker, up to snuff. The veiled insinuation disgusted Crane. +Was everything in the world vile? He had left a young life swimming +hopelessly in the breakers of disaster, buoyed only by faith and love; +and at his side sat a man who winked complacently, and beamed upon him +with senile admiration because of his supposed gallantry. + +Perhaps a year before this moral angularity would not have affected +him; it would not have appealed to him as being either clever or +objectionable; he would simply not have noticed it at all. But Allis +Porter had originated a revolution in his manner of thought. He even +fought against the softer awakening; it was like destroying the lifelong +habits of a man. His callousness had been a shield that had saved him +troublous misgivings; behind this shield, even in rapacity, he had +experienced peace of mind, absence of remorse. If he could have put +away from him his love for the girl he would have done so willingly. Why +should he battle and strive for an unattainable something as intangible +as a dream? It was so paradoxical that Allis's love for Mortimer seemed +hopeless because of the latter's defeat, while his, Crane's love, was +equally hopeless in his hour of victory. + +Farrell's voice drew him from this psychological muddle in tones that +sounded harsh as the cawing of homing ravens at eventime. + +“Will it be a court case?” he queried. + +“What?” asked Crane, from his tangled elysium. + +“That high roller in the bank.” + +“Oh! I can't say yet what it will lead to.” Crane's caution always +asserted itself first. + +“Well, I've been thinking it over. That's the guy, right enough, but +when it comes to swearing to a man's identity in court, it's just a bit +ticklish.” + +Crane frowned. He disliked men who hedged. He always planned first, +then plunged; evidently his companion had plunged first, and was now +verifying his plans. + +Farrell continued, “You see what I mean?” + +“I don't,” answered Crane, shortly. + +“You will if you wait,” advised Farrell, a tinge of asperity in his +tone. “I'm makin' a book, say. All the blazin' idiots in Christendom is +climbin' over me wantin' to know what I'll lay this and what I'll lay +that. They're like a lot of blasted mosquitos. A rounder comes up an' +makes a bet; if it's small p'r'aps I don't twig his mug at all, just +grabs the dough an' calls his number. He may be Rockefeller, or a tough +from the Bowery, it don't make no difference to me; all I want is his +goods an' his number, see? But a bettor of the right sort slips in an' +taps me for odds to a thousand. Nat'rally I'm interested, because he +parts with the thousand as though it was his heart's blood. I size him +up. There ain't no time fer the writin' down of earmarks, though most +like I could point him out in a crowd, an' say, 'That's the rooster.' +But sposin' a judge stood up another man that looked pretty much like +him, an' asked me to swear one of the guys into ten years in Sing Sing, +pr'aps I'd weaken. Mistaken identity is like grabbin' up two kings an' a +jack, an' playin' 'em fer threes.” + +“Which means, if I understand it, that you're guessing at the man--that +I've given you all this trouble for nothing.” + +Crane wished that Farrell had kept his doubts to himself; the case had +been made strong by his first decision, and now the devil of uncertainty +would destroy the value of identification. + +“Not by a jugful!” ejaculated Farrell. “I'm just tellin' you this to +show you that we've got to make it complete--we've got to get collateral +to back up my pickin'.” + +“You mean some one else to identify him also?” + +“No, not just that; but that's not a bad thought. My clerk, Ned Hagen, +must have noticed him too. I mean that the bettor's badge number will be +in line with that bet, an' you can probably find out the number of the +badge this rooster wore.” + +An inspiration came with Farrell's words--came to Crane. Why had he +not thought of that before? Still it didn't matter. The badge number, +Mortimer's number, would be in Faust's book where had been entered the +hundred dollars Mortimer put on Lauzanne. He could compare this with the +number in Farrell's book; no doubt they would agree; then, indeed, +the chain would be completed to the last link. No man on earth could +question that evidence. + +“It's a good idea, Farrell,” he said. + +“Bet yer life, it's clear Pinkerton. You'd better come round to my place +to-morrow about ten, an' we'll look it up.” + +“I will,” Crane answered. + + + + +XLIII. + + +The old bay horse that crawled back to Ringwood with Allis Porter after +her interview with Crane must have thought that the millennium for +driving horses had surely come. Even the ambition to urge the patriarch +beyond his complacent, irritating dog trot was crushed out of her by the +terrible new evidence the banker had brought in testimony against her +lover. + +“I didn't need this,” the girl moaned to herself. In her intensity of +grief her thoughts became audible in expressed words. “Oh, God!” she +pleaded to the fields that lay in the silent rapture of summer content, +“strengthen me against all this falseness. You didn't do it, George--you +couldn't--you couldn't! And Alan! my poor, weak brother; why can't you +have courage and clear your friend?” + +Her heart rose in angry rebellion against her brother, against Crane, +against Providence, even against the man she loved. Why should he +sacrifice both their lives, become an outcast himself to shield a boy, +who in a moment of weakness had committed an act which might surely be +forgiven if he would but admit his mistake? yes, it might even be called +a mistake. The punishment accepted in heroic silence by Mortimer was +out of all proportion to the wrong-doing. It meant the utter ruin of two +lives. Firmly as she believed in his innocence, a conviction was forced +upon her that unless Alan stood forth and boldly proclaimed the truth +the accumulated guilt--proof would cloud Mortimer's name, perhaps until +his death. Even after that his memory might linger as that of a thief. + +The evening before Alan had been at Ringwood and Allis had made a final +endeavor to get him to clear the other's name by confessing the truth +to Crane. On her knees she had pleaded with her brother. The boy had +fiercely disclaimed all complicity, protested his own innocence with +vehemence, and denounced Mortimer as worse than a thief in having +poisoned her mind against him. + +In anger Alan had disclosed Mortimer's treachery--as he called it--and +crime to their mother. Small wonder that Allis's hour of trial was a +dark one. The courage that had enabled her to carry Lauzanne to victory +was now tried a thousandfold more severely. It seemed all that was left +her, just her courage and faith; they had stood out successfully against +all denunciation of Lauzanne, and, with God's help, they would hold her +true to the man she loved. + +Even the pace of a snail lands him somewhere finally, and the unassailed +Bay, with a premonition of supper hovering obscurely in his lazy mind, +at last consented to arrive at Ringwood. + +Allis crept to her father like a fearsome child avoiding goblins. +Providentially he had not been initiated into the moral crusade against +the iniquitous Mortimer, so the girl clung to him as a drowning person +might to a plank of salvation. She longed to tell him everything--of her +love for Mortimer, perhaps he had guessed it, for he spoke brave words +often of the sturdy young man who had saved her from Diablo. Perhaps she +would tell him if she felt her spirit giving way--it was cruel to stand +quite alone--and beseech him, as he had faith in her, to believe in her +lover. + +Allis went to the tea table by her father's side, fearing to get beyond +his hearing; she dreaded her mother's questioning eyes. What could be +said in the accused man's defense, or in her own? Nothing; she could +only wait. + +A square old-fashioned wooden clock on the mantelpiece of the sitting +room had just droned off seven mellow hours, when the faint echo of its +music was drowned by the crunch of gravel; there was the quick step of +somebody coming up the drive; then the wooden steps gave hollow notice. +The visitor's advent was announced again by the brass knocker on the +front door. + +“I'll go,” said Allis, as her mother rose. The girl knew who it was +that knocked, not because of any sane reason; she simply knew it was +Mortimer. + +When she opened the door he stepped back hesitatingly. Was he not a +criminal--was he not about to leave his position because of theft? + +“Come in,” she said, quietly; “I am glad you have come.” + +“Shall I? I just want to speak to you for a minute. I said I would come. +But I can't see anybody--just you, alone.” + +“I understand,” she answered. “Come inside.” + +“I am going away,” he began; “I can't stand it here.” + +“You have done nothing--nothing to clear yourself?” + +“Nothing.” + +“And you won't?” + +“No.” + +“Is this wise?” + +“It is the inevitable.” + +They were silent for a little; they were both standing. The girl broke +the stillness. + +“I am glad you have come, because I can tell you again that I know you +are innocent. I know it, because my heart repeats it a thousand times a +day. I listen to the small voice and I hear nothing else.” + +“You never waver--you never doubt?” + +“Never.” + +“You never will?” + +“Never.” + +“Then I care not. Other men have had misfortune thrust upon them and +have borne it without complaint, have had less to solace them than you +have given me now, and I should be a coward if I faltered. Some day +perhaps, you will know that I am worthy of your faith: God grant that +the knowledge brings you no fresh misery--there, forgive me, I have said +too much; I am even now a coward. If you will say good-bye I'll go.” + +“Good-bye, my hero.” She raised her eyes, blurred with tears, and +held out her hand gropingly, as one searches in the dark, for the room +whirled like a storm cloud, and just faintly she could see the man's +strong face coming to her out of the gloom like the face of a god. He +took her hand. “Good-bye,” his voice vibrated brokenly; “if--if Justice +wills that my innocence be known some day, may I come back? Will you +wait, believing in me for a little?” + +“Forever.” + +He drew her to him by the hand he still clasped, and put his strong arms +about her. What mattered it now that he had been falsely accused--what +mattered it to either of them that he must accept the grim penalty of +his endeavor? With them in the soft gloom was nothing but love, and +faith, and innocence; and within the strong arms a sense of absolute +security, as though the false accusing world had been baffled, beaten +down, and the victory theirs--love. + +He raised the girl's face and kissed her. “Let God witness that I press +your brave lips in innocence,” he said; “and in this pledge I love you +forever and ever.” + +“Amen,” came from Allis involuntarily; it sounded to them both like the +benediction of a high priest. + +“Amen,--” he responded. To speak again would have been sacrilege. + +He put her from him gently, turned away and walked quickly from the +house. + +The girl sat for a long time a gray shadow in the gathering darkness. +He was gone from her. It seemed as though she had scarce spoken the +encouragement she wished to give him. It had been a meeting almost +without words; but she felt strangely satisfied. The accusing revelation +that had come from Crane in the afternoon had been a crushing blow. It +was a mistake, of course; it wasn't true--somehow it wasn't true, but +still it had stunned. Now in the gloaming she sat with an angel of +peace; big, steadfast, honest eyes, full of thankfulness, looked +lovingly at her from where he had stood. If she could sit there forever, +with the echo of his deep “Amen” to their love lingering in her ears, +she would ask no further gift of the gods. + +Mortimer, as with swinging stride he hurried toward the village, let his +mind flit back to the room of gray shadows. How little he had said! +Had there been aught spoken at all? The strong arms still tingled with +tender warmth where the impress of an angel had set them thrilling +ecstatically. Yes, what mattered their speech? There had been little +of the future--no promise to send word of his well-being--but let the +future look to itself. In the present he was king of a love realm that +was greater than all the world. + +Field after field flitted by, studded here and there by square, gray +specters of ghost-like houses that blinked at him with red dragon eyes. +Sub-consciously he knew the eyes were searching out the secret that made +him in all his misery of misfortune so happy. And he would answer to the +eyes, dragon or human, without fear and without shame--because he was +innocent--that it was love, the greatest thing in all the world, the +love and faith sublime of a good, true woman. Woman had he said?--an +angel! + + + + +XLIV + + +As Farrell had suggested, Crane sought him at the office the next day at +ten o'clock. + +Farrell and his clerk were busy planning an enterprising campaign +against men who had faith in fast horses for the coming week at +Sheepshead Bay. + +“Ah!” the Bookmaker exclaimed when Crane entered, “you want that +badge number. Hagen, get the betting sheet for the second last day at +Gravesend, and look up a bet of one thousand dollars we roped in over +Mr. Crane's horse. I want the number to locate the man that parted--I +wish there'd been more like him.” + +“Do you mean Billy Cass?” queried the clerk. + +“Who the devil's Billy Cass?” + +“Why the stiff that played The Dutchman for a thou'.” + +“You know him?” This query from Farrell. + +“I should say! He's a reg'lar. Used to bet in Mullen's book last year +when I penciled for him.” + +The clerk brought the betting sheet and ran his finger down a long row +of figures. + +“That's the bet. A thousand calls three on The Dutchman. His badge +number was 11,785. Yes, that's the bet; I remember Billy Cass takin' it. +You see,” he continued, explanatory of his vivid memory, “he's gen'rally +a piker--plays a long shot--an' his limit's twenty dollars; so, when he +comes next a favorite that day with a cool thou' it give me stoppage +of the heart. Damn'd if I didn't get cold feet. Bet yer life it wasn't +Billy's money--not a plunk of it; he had worked an angel, an' was +playin' the farmer's stuff for him.” + +“Are you sure, Mr. Hagen--did you know the man?” Crane asked. + +“Know him? All the way--tall, slim, blue eyes, light mustache, hand like +a woman.” + +“That's the man,” affirmed Farrell; “that's the man--I saw him yesterday +in your place.” + +Crane stared. For once in his life the confusion of an unexpected event +momentarily unsettled him. + +“I thought you identified--which man in the bank did you mean?” + +“I saw three: a short, dark, hairless kid”--Alan Porter, mentally ticked +off Crane; “a tall, dark, heavy-shouldered chap, that, judged by his +mug, would have made a fair record with the gloves--” + +“Was not that the man you identified as having made the bet?” + interrupted Crane, taking a step forward in his intense eagerness. + +“Not on your life; it was the slippery-looking cove with fishy eyes.” + +“Cass,” muttered Crane to himself; “but that's impossible--he never left +the bank that day; there's some devilish queer mistake here.” Farrell +had identified David Cass in the bank as the man who had bet with him, +while the clerk asserted that one “Billy” Cass had made the same wager. +Hagen's description of “Billy” Cass fitted David Cass in a general way. +Again the badge number--11,785--was not Mortimer's, as registered in +Faust's book. + +Crane stood pondering over the complication. He saw that until further +investigation disproved it there could be but one solution of this +intricate riddle. Billy Cass, the maker of the bet, was a race track +frequenter; David Cass was not. They must be separate personalities; +but they resembled each other; they were of the same name--they might be +brothers. Billy Cass had been in possession of the stolen note; he must +have got it from some one having access to it in the bank--Mortimer, +Alan Porter, or Cass--the cashier was quite out of the question. + +The next move was to trace back through Billy Cass the man who had +delivered to him the stolen money. There was still a chance that +Mortimer, unfamiliar with betting and possibly knowing of Billy Cass +through his brother in the bank--if they were brothers--had used this +practical racing man as a commission agent. This seemed a plausible +deduction. It was practically impossible that David Cass could have +got possession of the bill, for it was locked in a compartment of which +Mortimer had the key; the latter had admitted that the keys were not out +of his possession. + +This far in his hurried mental retrospect Crane spoke to Farrell: “I +think this is all we can do at present. I may find it necessary to ask +you to identify this Cass, but I hope not to trouble you any further in +the matter.” + +“Hang the trouble!” energetically responded Farrell, with huge +disclaiming of obligation; “I'll spend time and money to down a crook +any day; I've no use for 'em; a few of that kidney gives the racin' game +a black eye. If you need me or Hagen, just squeak, an' we'll hop onto +the chap if he's a wrong one with both feet.” + +Crane said nothing about the other number he had culled from Faust's +book; he said nothing about his suspicions of a brotherhood; he wanted +to go back to his quarters and think this new problem out. + +What if in seeking for conclusive evidence against Mortimer he should +prove him innocent? He was treading upon dangerous ground, pushing out +of his path with a firebrand a fuse closely attached to a mine that +might explode and shatter the carefully constructed fabric. + +Sitting in his own chamber he once more went over the whole +extraordinary entanglement. Mistaken as it was, Farrell's identification +at Brookfield must have strongly affected the mind of Allis Porter. At +the time Crane had played an honest part in recounting it to the girl. +He had firmly believed that Farrell, owing to his ambiguous report, had +meant Mortimer; in fact, Cass had not entered his mind at all. Even yet +Mortimer might be the guilty man--probably was. Why should he, Crane, +pursue this investigation that might turn, boomerang-like, and act +disastrously. Mortimer was either a thief or a hero; there could be no +question about that. As a hero, in this case, he was pretty much of a +fool in Crane's eyes; but Allis Porter would not look upon it in that +light--she would deify him. Crane would commit diplomatic suicide in +developing Mortimer's innocence. Again he asked himself why he should +proceed. Mortimer was guilty in the strong, convicting light of the +apparent evidence; better let it rest that happy way--happy for Crane. +But still would he rest satisfied himself? He was not accustomed to +doing things by halves. If Cass had stolen the money it would never +do to retain him in a position of trust. Then the devil of subtle +diplomacy, familiar at all times to Crane, whispered in his ear that he +need not blazen to the world the result of his further investigation; he +might satisfy himself, and then if Mortimer were found still deeper in +the toils it might be spoken of; but if he were found innocent--well, +was Crane his brother's keeper? He could adopt one of two plans to get +at the truth; he could trace out Billy Cass and extort from him the name +of his principal; but if startled, the latter might refuse to +divulge anything. Police pressure meant publicity. There was a better +plan--Crane always found a better plan in everything. If David Cass had +stolen the money he must have sent it to his brother; if that fact were +established it would show a connection between the two. + +That afternoon Crane took a train to Brookfield. A visit to the village +post office disclosed a hidden jewel. As far as Crane was concerned the +fate of the two men was held in the hollow of the postmaster's hand. +The latter, with little hesitation, allowed him to delve into official +secrets. + +He learned that David Cass had sent a letter, with a quick-delivery +stamp on it, to William Cass, at A B C, East Fourteenth Street, New +York, at 3:30 p.m., on June 12. So far as guilt or innocence was +concerned there was nothing left to discover; the connection between +these two men was demonstrated. Farrell's misidentification established +another truth--they were brothers. The letter, hastening to its +destination, had contained the stolen money. Mortimer would not give it +to Cass to send away; even if he had done so he would not then have gone +to Gravesend. Alan Porter had also gone to Gravesend; if he had stolen +the money he would have taken it with him. + +David Cass, the unsuspected, was the thief. Mortimer, condemned, +having restored the money--having taken upon himself with almost silent +resignation the disgrace--was innocent. And all this knowledge was in +Crane's possession alone, to use as he wished. The fate of his rival was +given into his hands; and if he turned down his thumb, so, better for +Mortimer that he had been torn of wild beasts in a Roman arena than to +be cast, good name and all, to the wolves of righteous humanity. + +As a dog carries home a bone too large for immediate consumption, Crane +took back this new finding to his den of solitude in New York. At eight +o'clock he turned the key in his door, and arm in arm with his now +constant companion walked fitfully up and down, up and down, the floor. +Sometimes he sat in a big chair that beckoned to him to rest; sometimes +he raced with swift speed; once he threw himself upon his bed, and lay +staring wide-eyed at the ceiling for hours. What mockery--hours! on the +mantelpiece the clock told him that he had ceased his strides for a bare +five minutes. + +Then he thrust himself back into a chair, and across the table opposite +sat Wrong, huge--grinning with a devilish temptation; not gold, but a +perfume of lilacs, and the music of soft laughter like the tinkle of +silver bells, the bejeweled light of sweet eyes that were gray, and all +the temptation that Wrong held in itself was the possession of Allis +Porter. + +And Crane need commit no crime, unless inaction were a crime--just leave +things as they were. In the eyes of the world Mortimer was a thief; he +would never claim Allis so branded. + +Crane with a word could clear the accused man; he could go to David Cass +and force him to confess. But why should he do it--sacrifice all he held +dear in life? Everything that he had valued before became obliterated +by the blindness of his love for the girl. Yet still the love seemed to +soften him. Into his life had come new, strange emotions. The sensuous +odor of stephanotis, that had not repelled in the old life, had come to +suggest a pestilence in his nostrils, made clean by the purity of lilac. +As he swayed in contention, the face of Wrong fronting him became the +face of Sin--repellent, abhorrent; how could he ruin her life, and by a +criminal act? + +Hour by hour the struggle went on, until, exhausted, Crane flung himself +upon his bed to rest a few minutes, and sleep, unsought, came and hushed +the turmoil of his heart. + +Without decision he had cast himself down; his mind, tortured in its +perplexity, was unequal to the task of guiding him. So wearied he should +have slept for hours, but, as the first glint of sunlight came through +the uncurtained window, he sprang from his couch with the call of an +uncompleted something in his ears. + +But calm had come to him in his sleep; the question of right or wrong +had been settled. He tried to remember how he had come to the conclusion +that was alone in his rested mind. It must have been before he slept, +though his memory failed him, for as he slumbered Allis Porter had come +with the big gray eyes full of tears and asked him once again to +spare Mortimer humiliation for her sake. And he had answered, “He is +innocent.” God! he remembered it, even now it thrilled through his +frame--she had bent over and kissed him on the forehead. Yes, that was +what had wakened him. What foolish things dreams were. He had won just a +kiss and had paid the price of his love; and now waking, and in the calm +of a conflict passed, he had won over the demon that had tempted him +with the perfume of lilacs. He had striven to the point when further +strife became a crime. He had lost; but he would prove himself a good +loser. + + + + +XLV + + +That day Crane went to Brookfield. + +In spirit he was like a man that had been cast into an angry sea, and +had battled his way through hungry waves to shore. Saved, the utter +weariness of fierce strife hung heavy over his soul, and exhaustion +deadened his joy of escape. Just saved, bereft of everything, he looked +back over the dark waters and shuddered. And before him a dreary waste +of desert shore-land stretched out interminably, and he must wander +alone over its vast expanse forever. + +Crane in all things was strong. It was strength drawn to right by the +influence of the woman he loved that had saved him from the waters that +were worse than the broad sands of a desolate life. But he still had +something to do, the final act made possible by his redemption. + +At Brookfield he went to the hotel, secured an isolated sitting room +upstairs, and with this as a hall of justice, followed out with his +usual carefulness a plan he had conceived. First he wrote a brief note +to Allis Porter asking her to come and see him at once. One line +he wrote made certain the girl's coming, “I have important news to +communicate concerning Mr. Mortimer.” Then he sent the note off with a +man. Next he despatched a messenger for David Cass. He pulled out his +watch and looked at it. It was three o'clock. “I think five will do,” he +muttered; “it should be all over by that time.” Another note addressed +to Mortimer, asking him to call at the hotel at five o'clock, went +forth. + +The village hotel throbbed with the pressure of unwonted business. +The proprietor surmised that a financial matter of huge magnitude was +afloat--another farm was being mortgaged, most like; more money for +Ringwood probably, for had not a buggy gone out there to bring some one +in to the great financier. Those race horses were the devil to put a man +in a hole. + +David Cass came, treading on the heels of a much-whiskied howler who had +summoned him. + +“You sent for me, sir?” he asked of Crane. It may have been the +stairs--for he had come up hurriedly--that put a waver in his voice; or +it may have been a premonition of trouble. + +“Take a seat, Mr. Cass,” Crane answered, arranging a chair so that a +strong light from the one window fell across the visitor's face. + +The hostler who had shown Cass to where the big man awaited him +lingered, a jagged wobble of humanity, leaning against the door jamb. He +expected an order for “Red Eye,” as he had baptized strong drink since +it had grown familiarly into his being. “Oh!” exclaimed Crane, “I'd +forgotten; here's a quarter; much obliged. That's all.” + +The hostler's unjointed legs, unstable because of recurrent debauchery, +carried him disconsolately to lower levels. The Banker must be sure +of his business, must have it well in hand, when he ignored the usual +diplomatic mollifying preparation of a drink. + +The hostler had left the sitting-room door open; Crane closed it +carefully, and, sitting with his back to the window, said to the bank +clerk: “Mr. Cass, I am going to be very candid with you; I am going to +tell you that I have discovered you stole the thousand dollars Mortimer +has been accused of taking.” + +Cass's face blanched a bluish white; his jaw dropped loosely like the +jaw of a man who had been suddenly struck a savage blow. His weak, +watery, blue eyes opened wide in terror; he gasped for breath; he +essayed to speak--to give even a cry of pain, but the muscles of his +tongue were paralyzed. His right hand resting on the arm of his chair, +as Crane ceased speaking, fell hopelessly by his side, where it dangled +like the cloth limb of a dummy. + +Crane saw all this with fierce satisfaction. He had planned this sudden +accusation with subtle forethought. It even gave him relief to feel +his suffering shifted to another; he was no longer the assailed by evil +fortune, he was the assailant. Already the sustaining force of right was +on his side; what a dreadful thing it was to squirm and shrink in the +toils of crime. A thought that he might have been like this had he +allowed Mortimer to stand accused flashed through his mind. He waited +for his victim to speak. + +At last Cass found strength to say: “Mr. Crane, this is a terrible +accusation; there is some dreadful mistake--I did not--” + +The other interrupted him. The man's defense must be so abjectly +hopeless, such a cowardly weak string of lies, that out of pity, as he +might have ceased to beat a hound, Crane continued, speaking rapidly, +holding the guilty man tight in the grasp of his fierce denunciation. + +“You stole that note. You sent it, with a quick-delivery stamp to your +brother, Billy Cass, in New York, and he bet it for you on my horse, The +Dutchman, on the 13th, and lost it. Mortimer, thinking that Alan Porter +had taken the money, replaced it, and you nearly committed a greater +crime than stealing when you allowed him to be dishonored, allowed him +to be accused and all but convicted of your foolish sin. It is useless +to deny it, all this can be proved in court. I have weighed the matter +carefully, and if you confess you will not be prosecuted; if you do not, +you will be sent to the penitentiary.” + +Cass, stricken beyond the hope of defense, rose from his chair, +steadying himself with his hands on the table, leaned far over it, as +though he were drawn physically by the fierce magnetism of his accuser, +and spoke in a voice scarce stronger than the treble of a child's: “My +God! Mr. Crane! Do you mean it, that you won't prosecute me? Did you say +that?” + +“Not if you confess.” + +“Thank God--thank you, sir. I'm glad, I'm glad; I've been in hell for +days. I haven't slept. Mortimer's eyes have stared at me all through the +night, for I liked him--everybody liked him--he was good to me. Oh, God! +I should have gone out of my mind with more of it. I didn't steal the +money--no, no! I didn't mean to steal it; the Devil put it into my +hands. Before God, I never stole a dollar in my life. But it wasn't +that--it wasn't the money--it was to think that an innocent man was to +suffer--to have his life wrecked because of my folly.” + +How it was coming home to Crane. Had he not dabbled his hands in the +same sin, almost committed it? + +“You have never known what it is to suffer in that way. But let me tell +you all. I must. Then perhaps you will understand how I was tempted. For +years I have been ground in poverty. My mother and my sister, even my +brother have all looked to me. My brother should have supported them, +but all his money went on the race course, gambling. When I heard Alan +Porter tell Mortimer that your horse was sure to win, for the first time +in my life I felt a desire to get money that way. But I had no money to +bet. That day as I went into the vault I saw under a lower shelf--the +Devil drew my eyes that way--a bank note. I hardly knew it was a bank +note, for I saw but a piece of paper indistinctly in the dim light. I +picked it up. Oh, God! if I hadn't touched it! I looked at it. My heart +jumped in my throat and choked me; my head swam. In my ears were strange +voices, saying: 'Take it! Put it in your pocket!' Perhaps it was because +it was so large--a thousand dollars--perhaps it was because it seemed +lost, out of place, I don't know. I had handled thousands and thousands +before, and never felt that way. + +“The devil voices that were in my ears said: 'This is your chance. Take +it, borrow it, no one will know. Bet it on the horse that will surely +win, and you will get many thousands; then you can replace it, and for +once in your life you will know what it is to have something of your +own.'” + +“I tried to put it back. I couldn't. The voices called me a fool, a +coward. I thought of my mother, my sister, what I could do if I had the +courage. I tried to take it in to Mr. Lane and say that I had found it. +I couldn't. Oh, my God! you don't know what it is to be tempted! You +have been successful, and don't know how miserably weak ill-fortune +makes a man. I yielded--I took it; then when its loss was discovered, +and Mortimer was accused, I tried to confess--I couldn't; I was a +coward, a traitor, a Judas. Oh, God!” + +The overwrought man threw himself face down on the table in front of his +grim accuser, like a child's broken doll, and wept with great sobs that +shook his frame as the wind lashes the waters into turmoil. + +An exultation of righteous victory swept through Crane's soul. He might +have been like that; he had been saved from it by his love for a good +woman. He could not despise the poor broken creature who confessed so +abjectly, because all but in deed he also had sinned. The deepest cry +of despair from Cass was because of the sin he had committed against his +friend--against Mortimer. + +Crane waited until Cass's misery had exhausted itself a little, and when +he spoke his voice was soft in pity. + +“I understand. Sit in your chair there and be a man. Half an hour ago I +thought you a thief--I don't now. You had your time of weakness, perhaps +all men have that; you fell by the wayside. I don't think you'll do it +again.” + +“No, no, no! I wouldn't go through the hell I've lived in again for +all the money in the world. And I'm so glad that it is known; I feel +relief.” + +“Well, it is better that the truth has come out, because everything can +be put right. I was going to make you pay back the thousand dollars to +Mortimer--I was going to drive you from the bank--I was going to let it +be known that you had stolen the money, but now, I must think. You must +have another chance. It's a dangerous thing to wreck lives--” + +“My God! it is; that's what haunted me night and day. I felt as though +I had murdered a man who had been my friend. I knew he thought young +Porter had taken it and was shielding him. The memory of the misery in +Mortimer's face at being counted a thief would have stuck to me if I had +lived a hundred years.” + +Cass had interrupted Crane. When he ceased again out of exhaustion, +Crane proceeded, “Mortimer must be paid back the money.” + +“I'll save and work my fingers off till I do it.” + +“You can't. Those dependent upon you would starve. I'll attend to that +myself.” + +“And you will let me go without--” + +“No, you can't go.” + +“My God! I'm to be prosecuted?” + +“No, you can stay in the bank. I don't think you'll ever listen to the +voices again; it's bad business.” + +Cass sat and stared at the strange man who said these things out of +silly expressionless eyes that were blurred full of tears. + +“Yes, you can go right on as you have been. It will be understood +that the money was found, had been mislaid; I'll think that out. It's +nobody's business just now; I run the bank and you take orders from me. +Go back to your desk and stay there. I've got to tell Mortimer and Miss +Porter that you made this mistake, and Lane, too, I suppose, but nobody +else will ever know of it. I was going to make you sign a confession, +but it's not needed. You may go now.” + +Cass rose, his thin legs seeming hopelessly inadequate to the task of +carrying his body, and said, “Will you take my hand, sir?” + +“Of course I will. Just do right from this on, and forget-no, better not +forget; remember that there is no crime like weakness; all crime comes +from weakness. Be strong, and listen to no more voices. But I needn't +tell you. I know from this out I can trust you further than a man who +has never been tried.” + +At the door Cass turned and looked back at the man who had reached down +into the abyss, pulled him up, and stood him on his feet. The man was +sitting quite still, his back to the light, his head drooped, and Cass +could not see his face. He strove futilely for some adequate expression +of gratitude, but his senses were numb from the shock of what he had +escaped; he simply nodded twice toward the sitting figure, turned, and +passed out into the street, where the sunlight baptized him with warmth +as though he had been born again. + +“Poor, weak devil!” muttered Crane; then he shivered. Had the imbecile's +talk of voices got on to his nerves? Surely a voice had whispered +derisively in his ear, “Which one is the poor, weak devil?” And +in answer within his soul Crane knew that the margin was indeed of +infinitesimal narrowness. Cass, hastened in his temptation, yielding +to the first insane impulse, not knowing that the damnation of a friend +hung on his act, had fallen. He, Crane, in full knowledge that two +innocent lives might be wrecked by his doing, had been kept to the +right only after hours of struggle, and by the supporting influence of +a supreme love. To have gained Allis Porter by the strategy of a villain +could not be the method of holy passion. To sacrifice his desire and +give her back her lover was love, love worthy of the girl. + +For an hour he waited; then there was turmoil on the stairway; +horses were surely coming up. At the door a thick voice explained the +diversion. The hostler had again arrived, with an hour of increased +drunkenness pulling mercilessly at his erratic legs. + +“John Porter's gal 'sh here, an'--an'--” the hostler wrestled with the +mental exercise that had been entrusted to his muddled brain. He'd swear +that she was there, for his eyes had seen her, two of her; and also he +had a hazy idea that when he essayed the stairs she had entrusted to +him some message. He groped fitfully among the wheels that buzzed in his +skull for the elusive something connected with her advent. The heredity +of habit came to his assistance. + +“D'ye want a drink?” he asked, with a sudden brightening. + +“Drink!” a voice cried. “I don't want any drink” A strong hand had him +by the collar, and the house was rocking violently to and fro; he could +scarcely keep his feet. + +“Wake up, you're drunk. Is Miss Porter down stairs?” + +“Porter, Porter, yesh, Portersh gal; thatsh what I said. Whatsh matter +with you?--leg-go. Keep cool, don't get excited.” + +“Here, get out--go down stairs!” And he did, hurriedly. + +Crane had followed him down. Allis was standing just within the hall +door. + +“Good afternoon, Miss Porter,” he said. “It was good of you to come. +I've got something very important to tell you, and it's better that we +have quiet--it doesn't seem quite the usual order of things here. +Should you mind coming upstairs to the sitting room, where we shall be +undisturbed?” + +“I don't mind,” answered the girl, simply. + +“Have a chair,” he said, motioning to the one Cass had lately sat in. + +Crane did not take the other seat, but paced restlessly up and down the +room; it cooled the fever of his mind. + +“I hope it isn't more bad news, Mr. Crane,” Allis said; for her +companion seemed indisposed to break the silence. + +“It is--” the girl started--“for me,” Crane added, after a little pause; +“and yet I am glad.” + +“That sounds strange,” Allis commented, wonderingly. + +“What I am going to say to you means the destruction of the dearest hope +I have in life, but it can't be helped. Now I wouldn't have it any other +way.” + +Suddenly he stopped in his swift pace, faced the girl, and asked, “You +are quite sure you can't love me?” He was waiting for an answer. + +“No, I can't--I hate to cause you misery, but I must speak the truth; +you have asked for it.” + +“And you've answered honestly. I know it was foolish in me to ask +the impossible. Just one more question and then I will tell you why I +brought you here. Do you still believe in Mortimer's innocence--do you +love Mortimer?” + +“Yes.” + +“If I were to tell you that he is innocent, that I have discovered the +guilty one.” + +“Oh, my God!” It was a cry of sudden joy, incapable of exact expression, +irrelevant in its naming of the Deity, but full in its exultation of +soul. Then, in quick transformation, the girl collapsed, as Cass had +done, and huddled in her chair, stricken by the sudden conviction that +the crime had been brought home to her brother. Her lover was guiltless; +but to joy over it was a sin, inhuman, for was not Alan the thief, if +Mortimer were innocent? + +Crane understood. He had forgotten. He stepped quickly to the girl's +side, put his hand tenderly on her head; her big gray eyes stared up at +him full of a shrinking horror. + +“Poor little woman!” he said, “your big, tender heart will be the death +of you yet. But I've got only good news for you this time. Neither +Mortimer nor Alan took the money--it was Cass.” + +“They are both innocent?” + +“Yes, both.” + +“Oh, my God, I thank Thee.” She pulled herself up from the chair, +holding to Crane's arm, and looking in his face, said, “You did this; +you found the guilty man for me?” + +Crane nodded his head; and it came to the girl as she looked, that +the eyes she had thought narrow in evil grew big and round and full of +honesty, and soft with gentleness for her. + +“How can I thank you--what can I do or say to repay you?” She knew what +it must have cost the man to clear his rival's name. + +“It was your doing, Miss Allis; it is I who must thank you. You made a +man of me, brought more good into my life than had been there for forty +years. I will be honest. I did not do this of myself, my own free will. +In my love for you, and desire to have you with me always, I almost +committed a crime. I was tempted to conceal the discovery I had made; +I knew that if I cleared Mortimer you were lost to me. I struggled +with temptation and fell asleep still not conquering it. In my sleep I +dreamed--I don't think it was a dream--it was like a vision--you came +to me, and when I said that Mortimer was innocent, you kissed me on the +forehead. I woke then, and the struggle had ceased--the temptation +had passed. I came down here, and Cass has confessed that he took the +money.” + +“Would you like it--would you think it wrong--it seems so little for me +to do--may I kiss you now, as I did in your dream, and thank you from +the bottom of my heart for making me so happy? It all seems like a dream +to me now.” + +For answer Crane inclined his head, and Allis, putting her hand upon his +shoulder, kissed him on the forehead, and through him went a thrill of +great thankfulness, of joy such as he knew would never have come to him +had he gained through treachery even this small token of conquest. + +“There,” he said, taking Allis by the arm, and gently drawing her back +to the chair; “now I am repaid a thousandfold for not doing a great +wrong. You have beaten me twice within a few days. I fancy I should +almost be afraid to be your husband, you master me so easily.” + +“That's Mortimer coming,” Crane said, suddenly, as a step with more +consistency in its endeavor than pertained to the hostler's, sounded, +coming up the stairs. “I sent for him,” he added, seeing the look of +happy confusion in Allis's face. + +“Come in,” he called cheerily, in answer to a knock on the door. + +“You sent for me--” Then Mortimer stopped suddenly, and stood staring +first at Allis, then at Crane, alternately, back and forth from one to +the other. + +Crane turned his back upon the younger man and busied himself wondrously +over the manipulation of a chair. A strange dread crept into Mortimer's +heart; it smothered him; he felt dizzy. Why did Allis look so happy--why +were there smiles on her lips when she must know there were ashes +of gloom in his soul? Why was she alone there with Crane? Was it but +another devilish trick of the misfortune that pursued him? + +“Good afternoon, Miss” the words stuck in Mortimer's throat, and he +completed his greeting with a most dreadfully formal bow. + +The girl laughed outright; how droll it was to see a man trying to +make himself unhappy when there was nothing but happiness in the world. +Through the open window she could hear the birds singing, and through +it came the perfume of clover-buried fields; across the floor streamed +warm, bright sunlight from a blue sky in which was no cloud. And from +their lives, Mortimer's and her own, had been swept the dark cloud--and +here, in the midst of all this joy was her lover with a long, sad face, +trying to reproach her with a stiff, awkward bow. + +Her laugh twirled Crane about like a top. He saw the odd situation; +there was something incongruous in Mortimer's stiff attitude. Crane +had a big cloud of his own not quite driven from his sky, but a smile +hovered on his thin lips. This happiness was worth catching. + +Mortimer noticed the distasteful mirth reflected in the other man's +face, and he repeated with asperity, “You sent for me, sir--may I ask--” + +“Will you take a chair,” said Crane, and he pushed the one he had been +toying with toward Mortimer. The latter remained standing. + +Allis sprang forward and caught him by the arm--Crane turned away, +suddenly discovering that from the window the main street of Brookfield +was a most absorbing study. + +“I'm so happy,” began Allis. Mortimer shivered in apprehension. Why had +Crane turned his face away--what was coming? How could she be happy, how +could anyone in the world be happy? But evidently she was. She stole +a quick look at Crane--to be exact, Crane's back, for his head and +shoulders were through the window. + +Then the girl--she had to raise on her tiptoes--kissed the sad man on +the cheek. I'm ashamed to say that he stared. Were they all mad--was he +not standing with one foot in the penitentiary? + +She drew him toward the chair, calling to Crane: “Will you please tell +Mr. Mortimer the good news. I am too happy; I can't.” + +A fierce anger surged in Mortimer's heart; it was true, then--his +disgrace had been too much for Allis. The other had won; but it was too +cruel to kiss him. + +Crane faced about, and coming forward, held out his hand to the man of +distrust. “I hope you'll forgive me.” + +Mortimer sprang to his feet, shoving back his chair violently, and stood +erect, drawn to his full height, his right hand clenched fiercely at his +side. “Shake hands? No, a thousand times no!” he muttered to himself. + +Crane saw the action, and his own hand dropped. “Perhaps I ask too +much,” he said, quietly; “I wronged you--” + +Mortimer set his teeth and waited. There were great beads of +perspiration on his forehead, and his broad chest set his breath +whistling through contracted nostrils. A pretty misdirected passion was +playing him. This was why they had sent for him--the girl he would have +staked his life on had been brought to believe in his guilt, and had +been won over to his rival. Ah--a new thought; his mind, almost diseased +by unjust accusation, prompted it--perhaps it was to save him from +punishment that Allis had consented to become Crane's wife. + +“But I believed you guilty--” Mortimer started as Crane said this “now I +know that you are innocent, I ask--” + +Mortimer staggered back a step and caught at the chair to steady +himself. He repeated mechanically the other's words: “You know I'm +innocent?” + +“Yes, I've found the guilty man.” + +“Then Alan--oh, the poor lad! It's a mistake--you are wrong. The boy +didn't take the money--I took it.” + +Crane looked at him in admiration, an indulgent smile on his lips. + +“Nonsense, my dear sir!” he exclaimed, dryly; “Alan did not take the +money--neither did you. Cass took it, and you wasted a day of the bank's +time covering the crime for him.” + +“Cass took it?” asked Mortimer in a dazed way, looking from Crane to +Allis. + +“Yes; he has confessed, so you see he's ahead of you in that line” + He went on, speaking hurriedly: “I ask you to forgive me now for my +suspicions. Your innocence is completely established. You acted like a +hero in trying to shield Alan Porter, and I like men of that stamp. The +thousand dollars you paid in will be restored to you; it is yours. We +will devise some scheme for clearing up the matter as far as your good +name is concerned that will shield poor Cass from people who have no +business in this affair.” + +“But how did Cass manage to get the note?” + +“Found it on the floor of the vault, he says.” + +“I don't see how it could have fallen out of the box, because the three +bills were pinned to the note.” + +Crane drew forth a pocket book, and opening it took out the bill that +had been stolen. He examined it closely, holding it up in front of the +window. + +“I think you are mistaken,” he said, “there are no pin holes in this +bill; I see,” he continued, “the pin had not gone through this one; +being detached, in handling the box, it has slipped out.” + +“It must have,” concurred Mortimer. “I remember in putting the box in +the compartment once I had to turn it on its edge; the bill being loose, +as you say, has slipped to the floor, and as the vault was dark I did +not notice it.” + +“It doesn't matter,” added Crane. “I must go now. Good-bye, Miss Allis.” + +Turning to Mortimer he held out his hand. + +“Good-bye, and long happiness to you both,” he said; “I trust you will +think kindly of me and poor Cass. I am sure we are sorry for what has +been done.” + +As Crane went down the stairs he wondered why he had coupled himself +with Cass. Was the difference so slight--had they been together in the +same boat up to the point of that silly, fantastic dream. Perhaps they +had. + + + + +XLVI + + +With the going of Crane an awkward restraint came over the two who were +left; the man who had suffered so much for the woman's sake, and the +girl who had endeavored so much. + +He was like a man suddenly thrust into a new world of freedom; he +indulged in a physical manifestation of its exhilaration, drinking in +a long, deep draught of the clover-scented air, until his great lungs +sighed with the plethora. It seemed a lifetime that he had lived in the +noisome atmosphere of a felon's cell. But now the crime had dropped from +him; a free man in every sense of the word, he could straighten himself +up and drink of the air that was without taint. + +Allis watched Mortimer curiously; she was too happy to speak--just to +look upon him standing there, her undefiled god, her hero, with his +heroism known and applauded, was a suffusing ecstasy. He was so +great, so noble, that anything she might say would be inane, tawdry, +inconsequent; so she waited, patiently happy, taking no count of time, +nor the sunshine, nor the lilt of the birds, nor even the dissolution of +conventionality in the unsupervised tete-a-tete. + +The ecstatic magnetism of congenial silence has always a potency, and +its spell crept into Mortimer's soul and laid embargo on his tongue. He +crossed over to Allis, and taking her slender hand in his own, crouched +down on the floor beside her chair, and looked up into her face, just +as a great St. Bernard might have done, incapable of articulating the +wealth of love and gratitude and faithfulness that was in his heart. + +Even then the girl did not speak. She drew the man's strong rugged head +close up to her face, and nestled her cheek against his. Love without +words; love greater than words. It was like a fairy dream; if either +spoke the gentle gossamer web of it would float away like mist, and of +needs they must talk of the misery that had passed. + +In the end the girl spoke first, saying like a child having a range of +but few words, “You are happy now, my hero?” + +“Too happy--I almost fear to wake and find that I've been dreaming.” + +She kissed him. + +“Yes, it's real,” he answered; “in dreams happiness is not so positive +as this. You did not doubt?” he queried. + +“Never.” + +“You would have waited?” + +“Forever.” + +“And now--and now, we must still wait.” + +“Not forever.” + +They talked of the wonderful necromancy the gods had used to set their +lives to the sweet music of happiness. How Lauzanne the Despised had +saved Ringwood to her father; how he had won Alan's supposed price of +redemption for Mortimer; how he had stood sturdy and true to the girl +of much faith and all gentleness. And the room became a crypt of +confessional when she, in penitence, told of her ride on the gallant +Chestnut. + +Just a span of Fate's hand from these two happy mortals, and twice +the sand had sifted through the hour glass, sat a man all alone in his +chamber. On his table was the dust of solitariness; and with his finger +he wrote in it “Forever.” But he looked fearlessly across the board, for +there sat no grinning demon of temptation, nor remorse, nor fear. But a +fragrance as of lilacs and of sweet clover coming through an open window +was in his nostrils; and in his memory was the picture of a face he +loved, made like unto an angel's with gratitude, and on his forehead +still burned, like a purifying fire, a kiss that reached down into his +soul and filled him with the joy of thankfulness. + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Thoroughbreds, by W. A. 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