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.”
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!”
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.
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.