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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.