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.”
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.”
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.
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.”