The mob agitated itself in waves; sometimes he and Old Bill were carried almost across the building by the wash of the living tide as it set in that direction; then an undertow would sweep them back again close to their starting point. The individual members of the throng were certainly possessed of innumerable elbows, and large jointed knees, and boots that were forever raking at his heels or his corns. They seemed taller, too, than men in the open; strive as he might he could see nothing—nothing but heads that topped him in every direction. Once the proud possessor of a dreadful cigar of unrivaled odor became sandwiched between him and his fellow-pilgrim; he was down wind from the weed and its worker, and the result was all but asphyxiation.
At last they reached some sort of a harbor; it was evidently an inlet for which his pilot had been sailing. A much composed man in a tweed suit, across which screamed lines of gaudy color, sat on a camp stool, with a weary, tolerant look on his browned face; in his hand was a card on which was penciled the names of the Derby runners with their commercial standing in the betting mart.
Old Bill craned his neck over the shoulder of the sitting man, scanned the book, and turning to Mortimer said, “Larcen's nine to one now; dey're cuttin' him—wish I'd took tens; let's go down de line.”
They pushed out into the sea again, and were buffeted of the human waves; from time to time Old Bill anchored for a few seconds in the tiny harbor which surrounded each bookmaker; but it was as though they were all in league—the same odds on every list.
“It's same as a 'sociation book,” he grunted; “de cut holds in every blasted one of 'em. Here's Jakey Faust,” he added, suddenly; “let's try him.”
“What price's Laxcen?” he asked of the fat bookmaker.
“What race is he in?” questioned the penciler.
“Din race; what you givin' me!”
“Don't know the horse.”
Mortimer interposed. “The gentleman means Lauzanne,” he explained.
Faust glared in the speaker's face. “Why th' 'll don't he talk English then; I'm no Chinaman, or a mind reader, to guess what he wants. Lauzanne is nine to one; how much dye want?”
“Lay me ten?” asked Old Bill of the bookmaker.
“To how much?”
“A hun'red; an' me frien' wants a hun'red on, too.”
“I'll do it,” declared Faust, impatiently. “Ten hundred to one, Lauzanne!” he called over his shoulder to his clerk, taking the bettor's money; “an' the number is—?”
“Twenty-five, tree-four-six!” answered Old Bill. “Pass him yer dust,” he continued, turning to his companion.
The latter handed his money to Faust.
“Lauzanne!” advised Old Bill.
“A thousand-to-hundred-Lauzanne, win; an' the number is” he stretched out his hand, and turning over Mortimer's dangling badge, read aloud, “Twenty-five, three-five-seven.”
He took a sharp look at the two men; his practised eye told him they were not plungers, more of the class that usually bet ten dollars at the outside; they were evidently betting on information; two one-hundred-dollar bets coming together on Lauzanne probably meant stable money.
“Let's git out, mister,” cried Old Bill, clutching Mortimer's arm.
“Don't I get anything—a receipt, or—”
Faust heard this and laughed derisively. “You won't need nothin' to show for this money,” he said.
“We'll be roun' at de back in a few minutes fer a couple of t'ou',” retorted Old Bill. “Let's cut trough here,” he added to his companion, making a passage between the bookmakers.
Bill's knowledge of the local geography was good, and skirting the crowd they were soon out on the lawn.
“Let's watch de parade,” Mortimer's adjutant suggested, and he led the way down to the course, where they stood against the rail, waiting.
During this time there was a bustle of much interest in the paddock. Allis, ready dressed in the Porter colors, had been driven to the course half an hour before the time set for the Derby. Her face was as satisfactorily disguised with dust as though she had ridden three races.
Mike assiduously attended to every detail; even the weighing, thanks to his officious care, was a matter of not more than one minute. The girl's weight was one hundred and ten pounds, the saddle brought it up to one hundred and thirteen. She would have to ride at least two pounds overweight, for the horse's impost was one hundred and eleven. Lauzanne was being led in a circle by a boy, so Allis shielded herself from the general gaze in his empty stall. She felt quite sure that nobody there would recognize her, unless, perhaps, Philip Crane. He was rarely seen in the paddock, but might this day come out to view The Dutchman. The latter horse came in for a great deal of attention, for he had been steadily backed down to the position of equal favorite with White Moth.
At last there was the summons to saddle, and Lauzanne was brought into the stall by Dixon. Then the door was shrouded by an ever-changing semicircle of curious observers. Allis gave a little start and turned her head away as Crane, pushing through the others, stood just inside the stall and spoke to Dixon.
“Your horse looks very well; I hope you win, if I don't.”
“He's as good as we could make him,” answered the Trainer, as he adjusted the weight cloth.
“Is Miss Porter here?” were Crane's next words, quite in the tone of a casually interested friend.
“She may be in the stand,” Dixon answered, without turning his head. Mike had deliberately interposed his body between Allis and the doorway. To the girl's relief, without further comment, Crane quietly moved away.
“Excuse me, Al, fer standin' in front av ye,” said Mike, “but these outsiders is enough to make a b'y narvous the way they stare at him. Alan Porter was in the paddock a minute ago askin' fer his sister, but I hustled him out, telling him ye—I mean she—was in the stand.”
“Thank you, Mike; you're a good friend,” replied the girl, gratefully.
Dixon had never taken so much care over the preparation of a horse for a race in all his life; and at last everything was as perfect as it could possibly be made. Lauzanne's behavior gladdened the girl's heart; he was as supremely indifferent to the saddling, to the staring of the people, to the scent of battle that was in the soft summer air, as though he were in his own stable at home. Not a muscle of his huge flank trembled. Once, as the bridle rein was loosened for an instant, he half turned in the stall, curved his neck and stretched his golden nozzle toward the small figure in blue silk, as though he fain would make sure by scent that one of his natural enemies, a man jockey, had not been thrust upon him. Allis understood this questioning movement, and reaching out her hand rubbed the gray velvet of his nose. But for the restraining rein, tightened quickly by the boy who held him, Lauzanne would have snuggled his head against his little mistress.
“They understand each other,” said Dixon to Mike, in an undertone; “we'll get all that's in him this trip.”
“Bot' t'umbs up! if he doesn't come home alone I'll eat me hat. The sharks'll get a knock this journey, that'll make 'em take a tumble to themselves.”
Dixon stepped back to the corner where Allis was and said: “I guess I can't give you no orders. He's a bit sluggish at the post, an' a few false breaks won't hurt him none. Just don't be afraid, that's all. A mile an' a half's a long journey, an' you'll have plenty of time to take their measure. He's sure to get away last, but that won't matter; there'll be plenty of openin's to get through after you've gone a mile. Just keep your eye on The Dutchman—he's a stayer from 'way back; an' Westley may kid you that he's beat comin' up the stretch, for he's slick as they make them, an' then come with a rattle at the finish an' nose you out on the post. Don't never let up once you're into the stretch; if you're ten lengths ahead don't let the Chestnut down, but keep a good holt on him, an' finish as though they was all lapped on your quarter. There's a horse in the race I don't understand; he can no more get a mile an' a half than I could; it's the Indian, an' why they're puttin' up the startin' price beats me, unless”—and he lowered his voice to a whisper—“there's a job to carry Lauzanne, or White Moth, or somethin' off their feet. Just watch the Indian, an' don't let him shut you in on the rail if you can help it. They've put up Redpath, an' that beats me, too, for I think he's straight. But the Indian hasn't a ghost of a chance to win. You'd better take a whip.”
“I don't want either whip or spurs,” answered the girl. “Lauzanne will do better without them.”
“I know that, but take a whip—something else in the race might need it; an' if you have to use it, use it good an' strong. If Langdon lodges an objection I can make him quit.”
Over at The Dutchman's stall there was a very confident party. Their horse would go to the post as fit as any thoroughbred had ever stripped. Langdon was a great trainer—there was no doubt about that; if there had been Crane would have discovered it and changed his executive officer. The tall son of Hanover was lean of flesh, but gross in muscle. He was as though an Angelo had chiseled with sure hand from his neck, and ribs, and buttocks all the marble of useless waste, and left untouched in sinewy beauty layer on layer, each muscle, and thew, and cord. Flat-boned and wide the black-glossed legs, and over the corded form a silken skin of dull fire-red. From the big eyes gleamed an expectant delight of the struggle; not sluggishly indifferent, as was Lauzanne's, but knowing of the fray and joyous in its welcome.
“He'll win on a tight rein,” confided Langdon to Jockey Westley; “he's the greatest Hanover in the land. There's a dozen races bottled up in that carcass”—and he slapped the big Bay lovingly on the rump”—but if you're put to it, Bill, you can call on him fer the full dozen today. There's nothin' to it but yourself and White Moth.”
Carelessly he stepped to the back of the stall, touching Westley as he passed. Kicking the loose dirt with his toes, and bending his head to bury his voice, Langdon continued in a subdued tone: “The Indian'll cut out the pace so fast that it'll choke off Lauzanne. The Chestnut's a plugger an' ain't no good when it comes to gallopin'. If you was to all loaf aroun' he might hang on an' finish in front; but the pace'll kill him—it'll break his heart; the fast goin'll lay out White Moth, too, for she'll go to the front an' die away after a mile an' a quarter. Just nurse the Bay, an' let the others fight the Indian. But don't loaf an' let Lauzanne get near you, fer he can keep up a puddlin' gait all day. There ain't nothin' else in the race I'm afraid of; there ain't one of them can last a mile an' a half.” Then he added, with a disagreeable chuckle—it was like the slobbering laugh of a hyena—“I miss my guess if the boy on Lauzanne kills himself tryin' to win anyway. He seems a fair lad, but you can ride rings 'round him, Bill.”
“I'll put up a good ride on The Dutchman, an' I think we'll ketch the Judge's eye,” replied Westley. “It doesn't seem to stand for it that a stable-boy on a bad horse like Lauzanne is goin' to beat me out.”
“The boss says you're to have two thousand fer winnin', Westley, so don't make no mistake. I wasn't goin' to tell you this afore you went out, fer fear it'd make you too eager. Many a race's been thrown away by a boy bein' too keen, an' makin' his run too early in the game; but you've a good head and might as well know what you're to have. There's the bugle; get up.”
Eager hands stripped the blanket that had been thrown over The Dutchman; Westley was lifted into the saddle, and the gallant Bay led out by Langdon.
In front strode White Moth; one by one the others, and last, seventh, Allis's fatal number, lagged Lauzanne, lazily loafing along as though he regretted leaving the stall.
As the horses passed to the course, Crane, who had followed The Dutchman to the gate, raised his eyes from scanning Lauzanne to the rider on his back. It was just a look of languid interest in the apprentice boy Dixon had put up instead of such a good jockey as Redpath. The face rivetted his attention; something in the line of the cheek recalled a face he had constantly in view.
“For an instant I thought that was Alan Porter on Lauzanne,” he said to Langdon, who was at his elbow. “A strange fancy—I'm going up to the stand to watch the race:”
“It's all roight but the win now,” said Mike to Dixon. “I'm goin' in be the Judges' box to watch the finish. You'll be helpin' the b'y pass the scales, Andy.”
As Allis passed the Judges' Stand in the parade she cast a quick, furtive look toward the people on the lawn. She seemed pilloried on an eminence, lifted up in pitiless prominence; would anyone detect her at the last moment? Hanging over the rail in the very front she saw a pale face that struck a chill of fear to her heart—it was Mortimer's. She had not even thought of his being there. She had eluded the close scrutiny of all the others who were likely to recognize her, but there, within ten yards were eyes almost certain to penetrate her disguise. The girl turned her face away; she knew Mortimer well enough to think that if he did recognize her he would make no sign.
“That's our horse,” declared Old Bill, as Lauzanne passed. “He's all right, bet yer life; he's fit ter go all day. De geezer as trains him ain't no mug. Let's go up in de stand, where we can see de whole show; den we'll come down an' cash in. Say, pard, if dis goes through I'll blow you off to a bottle of de best; wine ain't none too good fer dis coop.”
Altogether it was as though Destiny had found pleasant domicile in the ancient clothing of Old Bill, and was using their unique wearer as a protective agent to ward off evil from both Mortimer and the girl. As they jogged toward the starting post Allis allowed Lauzanne to lag; she wished to avoid Redpath. But the Indian was a horse of uncertain temperament, and presently, with a foolish side rush, he cannoned fair into Lauzanne. In the melee Redpath looked full into Allis's eyes at short range. His face went white in an instant.
“You!” he cried, pulling hard at his horse's mouth; “it's you, Miss—” He stopped suddenly. “God! I'm glad I know this,” he jerked between set teeth, as he fought the Indian, who was nearly pulling him out of the saddle.
“It's because he'll gallop for you, isn't it? You didn't think I was a wrong one—it wasn't because you couldn't trust me you took the mount away, was it?”
The Indian, quieted by the sleepy Chestnut, was going steadier. “No; it's because Lauzanne won't give his running for anyone but me,” the girl answered.
The boy remained silent, thinking over why he was on the Indian. There was a moral obliquity about his present position; the new light of his discovery showed him this strongly. His feelings had been played upon by the owner of the Indian, at Langdon's instigation.
He had been told that the Porters had not given him the mount on Lauzanne because they distrusted him. He had been put on the horse to make running for The Dutchman. There was nothing really patently dishonest about this arrangement, and Redpath's mind had been dulled to fine discrimination by the idea that he was falsely distrusted.
Presently the boy spoke with sharp decision, in quick broken sentences, for they were nearing the Starter. “I'm in to make the running; this crock's got no license to win. Don't you bother about him—he'll come back to the others fast enough when he's done. When you want an opening to get through just come bang into me—I'll be next the rail; yell 'Lauzanne,' an' I'll pull out. I'll give them blasted crooks something to stare at. Don't gallop your mount's head off chasing this sprinter; he'll be beat when we swing into the stretch. Don't go wide at the turn; you can have my place; I'll make it wide for something else though.”
They were at the post. Allis had not spoken; she had listened gratefully to Redpath's string of kindly directions. The presence of a friend in the race cheered her; the discovery she had dreaded had come as a blessing.
Crane's words had started a train of thought in Langdon's mind. All at once he remembered that the face of Lauzanne's rider had a dream-like familiarity. He had not given it much thought before; but his owner's suggestion that the boy was like Alan Porter echoed in his ears. He had wondered where Dixon had got this new boy; why he was putting him up on Lauzanne instead of Redpath; it seemed a foolish thing to give the mount to an apprentice when a good jockey was to be had. Could it be that it really was Alan. The whole family were natural-born jockeys, father and son, even the girl, Allis.
Langdon knew nothing of Alan Porter's movements—had not been interested enough to know. He had heard derogatory remarks about Redpath's riding of Lucretia in the Brooklyn Handicap; the Porters, no doubt dissatisfied—suspicious of the jockey—had put up Alan to insure an honest ride.
Langdon had thought these thoughts as he passed swiftly from the paddock to the stand inclosure, where he stood not far from the rail, trying to get a good look at the lad on Lauzanne. Allis's persistently averted face thwarted this. The boy was inscribed on the jockey board “Al Mayne;” the permit to ride must be under that name. If it were really Alan Porter, why had he been called Mayne? But the boy had retained the name “Al”—that was a contraction of Alan, no doubt.
While Langdon labored over the problem of Mayne's Identity he had watched the horses at the post through his glasses. The Dutchman was behaving well, his trifle of eagerness to break away was even better than Lauzanne's indolent indifference. The other five were acting as three-year-olds are wont to act—with erratic indecision; one minute violent desire, and the next obstinate reluctance characterizing their interminable twistings, backings, and plungings. It was not for long; a neck or a length at the start meant little when a mile and a half stretched its tiring length between them and the finish post.
Langdon's perplexity was cut short by the cry, “They're off!” the jingle of a bell, and the scurrying of many feet, as eager men rushed for higher points of observation in the stand.
As the seven horses came thundering by, pulling double in eager ignorance of the long journey that lay before them, Langdon saw with evil satisfaction that the Indian was well out in the lead.
The Dutchman was sixth, and behind, with a short awkward strength in his gallop, loafed Lauzanne.
There was smoothness in the stride of Hanover's big son, The Dutchman; and his trainer, as he watched him swing with strong grace around the first turn, mentally fingered the ten thousand dollars that would shortly be his.
“That skate win!” he sneered, as Lauzanne followed; “he gallops like a fat pig. He can't live the pace—he can't live the pace,” he repeated, and his voice was mellow with a cheerful exultation.
His observations seemed eminently truthful; Allis's horse trailed farther and farther behind the others. Out in front galloped with unseeming haste the Indian—a brown blotch of swift-gliding color. Two lengths from his glinting heels raced four horses in a bunch—two bays, a gray, and a black; so close together that they formed a small mosaic of mottled hue against the drab-gray background of the course stables beyond. Then The Dutchman, with his powerful stride, full of easy motion—a tireless gallop that would surely land him the winner, Langdon thought, as he hung with breathless interest on every move of Westley's body.
Up in the stand Old Bill was expressing in florid racetrack speech to Mortimer his deductions.
“Days a good kid on Larcen. See what he's doin'; he's trailin' 'em. Dat's where our horse gits it; he's a stretch runner, he is. Dey'll have bellows to mend when he tackles 'em.”
To Mortimer it appeared very much as though the other horses were too fast for Lauzanne. “Isn't he losing?” he asked of his exuberant friend.
“Losin' nut'in'! De kid ain't moved on him yet. De others is gallopin' der heads off; dey're chasm' de crazy skate in front. Dere's only two jocks in de race worth a damn—Bill Westley an' de kid on our horse. He knows he's got to beat Dutchy, an' he's lyin' handy by. When you see Dutchy move up Larcen'll come away, or I'm a goat.”
Mike Gaynor had taken his place on the little platform at the top of the steps leading to the stand. He was watching the race with intense interest. Would Lauzanne do his best for the girl—or would he sulk? He saw the terrific pace that the Indian had set the others. Would it discourage their horse. His judgment told him that this fast pace could not last, and that Lauzanne could gallop as he was going from end to end of the mile and a half; even faster if he so wished. Would his rider have the patient steadiness of nerve to wait for this fulfillment of the inevitable or would she become rattled and urge the horse. Mike set his teeth, and his nails were driven hard into his rough palms as he strained in sympathy with the girl's quietude.
How long the Indian held on in his mad lead! Perhaps even he might upset all clever calculation and last long enough to win. Already the gray, White Moth, had drawn out from the bunch and was second; the other three were dropping back in straggling order to The Dutchman, who was still running as he had been, strong. That was at the mile. At the mile and an eighth, White Moth was at the Indian's heels; The Dutchman had moved up into third place, two lengths away; and Lauzanne had become merged in the three that were already beaten. At the mile and a quarter a half thrill of hope came to Mike, for Lauzanne was clear of the ruck, and surely gaining on the leaders. And still his rider was lying low on the withers, just a blue blur on the dark gold of the Chestnut.
“Bot' t'umbs! but they're a pair,” muttered the Irishman; “be me soul, I t'ink they'll win.”
At the bottom turn into the stretch Mike could see that White Moth and The Dutchman had closed up on the Indian, so that they swung around the corner as one horse.
“Gad, she's shut off!” he muttered. It was a living wall, and through little chinks in its quivering face he could see specks of blue close up where raced Lauzanne.
“Poor gurl!” he gasped, “they've got her in a pocket. Damn them b'ys. Why did she hug the rail—she's fair t'rowed away the last chance.”
Halfway up the steps stood Langdon, and his coarse, evil face took on a look of unholy joy as Lauzanne was blotted into oblivion by the horses in front.
“Pocketed, by God! Clever Mister Dixon to put up a kid like that ag'in Westley an' the others,” he sneered.
Then a deafening roar went up from the stand. Somebody thrust a pair of broad shoulders in front of Mike's face; he leaned out far past the intruder, and saw the Indian sway drunkenly in his stride away from the rail, carrying White Moth and The Dutchman out; and into the opening he had left, glued to the rail, crept the chestnut form of Lauzanne.
A wild yell of Irish joy escaped Mike; then he waited. Now it would be a race; but Lauzanne was trying, trying all by himself, for the rider was as still as death. Already the clamor of many voices was splitting the air; all over the stand it was, “The favorite wins! The Dutchman wins!” Even yet there was no beckoning call for Lauzanne; but Mike knew. He had said to Allis before she went out, “If ye ever get level wit' 'em in the straight, ye can win.”
And now Lauzanne's yellow head was even with the others; and soon it was in front. And then there were only two battling—Lauzanne and The Dutchman; and on the Bay, Westley was riding with whip and spur.
“In a walk—in a walk, I tell you!” fairly screamed Old Bill, clutching at Mortimer's arm; “didn't I tell you? We're a tousand to de good. Look at him, look at him!” He had climbed halfway up Mortimer's strong back in his excitement. “Look at de kid! Never moved—in a walk, in a walk! Larcen all the way for a million!”
His voice generally weak and tattered like his clothes; had risen to a shrill scream of exultation.
It was past all doubt. Lauzanne, a length in front of The Dutchman, was opposite the stand; in two seconds they had flashed by the Judges' box, and Lauzanne had won.
The wave of humanity that swept down the steps carried Mike in its front wash. He took his stand close to the Judges' box; there he would be handy for whatever might be needed. He saw Langdon with a face dark and lowering, full of an evil discontent, standing there too. Back the seven runners cantered. Lauzanne's rider saluted the judge with whip, and slipping from the horse stripped him of the saddle with deft fingers, and passed quickly into the scales. The weight was right. One after another the boys weighed.
Watching, Mike saw Langdon pass up to the Stewards. There was a short consultation, the hush of something wrong, and a murmur of an objection.
“What's the matter?” a voice questioned in Mike's ear. It was Alan Porter that had spoken.
Mike pushed his way to the small gate, even through it, that led up to the Stewards' Stand. As he did so Langdon came back down the steps. One of the Stewards, following him with quick eyes, saw Mike and beckoned with a finger.
“There's an objection to the rider of Lauzanne,” said the official; “Trainer Langdon says Alan Porter rode the horse under a permit belonging to a boy named Mayne.”
“He's mistook, sir.” answered Mike, respectfully; “there's Alan Porter standin' down there in the crowd. I'll sind him up, sir, an' ye can ask him yerself.”
Gaynor passed hurriedly down the steps, seized Porter by the arm, and whispered in his ear, “Tell the judge yer name—that a b'y named Mayne rode Lauzanne. Quick now.”
Then he stepped up to Langdon. The latter had seen Alan Porter go up the steps, and realized he had made a mistake. Mike drew him inside the little enclosure that surrounded the stand.
“There's Alan Porter wit' the Stewards,” Gaynor whispered close to the man's face; “an' ye'll withdraw the objection at once. If ye don't ye'll have to settle wit' the Stewards fer tryin' to bribe the b'y Mayne to pull Lauzanne. And Shandy has owned up that he was to get five hundred dollars fer dosin' Lucretia. Ye'll withdraw now, or get ruled off fer life; besides, p'isinin' a horse is jail business; an' I'll take me oath before God I can prove this, too. Now go an' withdraw quick. Ye're a damn blackguard.”
Mike had meant to restrict himself to diplomatic pressure, but his Irish was up like a flash, and he couldn't resist the final expression of wrath.
A crowd of silent men had gathered about the box in a breathless wait. Fortunes depended upon the brief consultation that was being held between the Stewards.
As Alan Porter came down Langdon went up the steps with nervous haste. “I've made a mistake, gentlemen,” he said to the Stewards, “with your permission I'll withdraw the objection.”
“Yes, it's better that way,” returned one of the Stewards; “the best horse won, and that's what racing's for. It would be a pity to spoil such a grand race on a technicality.”
After his first burst of aboriginal glee, ecstatically uncouth as it was, Old Bill's joy over the victory of Lauzanne took on a milder form of expression.
“Let's line up fer a cash-in,” he exclaimed to Mortimer, making a break down the steps to the lawn. On the ground he stopped, his mind working at fever heat, changing its methods quickly.
“Let's wait till de kid's passed de scales; dere's no hurry. Dere won't be many drawin' down money over Larcen; he's an outsider.”
They were still waiting when the rumor of an objection floated like an impalpable shadow of evil through the enclosure. Old Bill's seamed face shed its mask of juvenile hilarity, and furrowed back into its normal condition of disgruntled bitterness. He had seen the slight mix-up when the Indian swerved in the straight. The objection must have to do with that, he thought. “What th' 'ell's th, difference,” he said in fierce, imprecating anger; “de kid on Larcen didn't do no interferin', he jes come t'rough de openin' an' won-dey can't disqualify him.”
“What does it mean?” asked Mortimer; “what's wrong?”
“De push's tryin' to steal de race; de favorite's beat, an' it's win, tie, or wrangle wit' 'em. If dey take de race away from Larcen we don't get de goods, see? Our t'ou's up de spout. Dere he goes, dere he goes; look at de knocker,” as Langdon came down from the Stewards.
Mortimer's heart sank. An exultation such as he had never experienced in his life had flushed his breast hot; the back of his scalp had tickled in a creepy way as Lauzanne flashed first past the winning post. He had felt pride in the horse, in the boy on his back, in himself at having overcome his scruples; he would be able to save Alan Porter from dishonor. His heart had warmed to the tattered outcast at his side, who had been the means to this glorious end. It had been all over, accomplished; now it was again thrust back into the scales, where it dangled as insecure as ever. It wasn't the money alone that teetered in the balance, but the honor of Allis Porter's brother.
He gave a sharp cry of astonishment, for going up the steps in front of them was the boy himself, Alan. Presently he came down again, his face looking drawn and perplexed. In his ignorance of everything pertaining to racing Mortimer feared for an instant the theft of the thousand dollars had been discovered, and the present inquiry had something to do with that, else why was Alan mixed up in it.
As the boy came through the little gate Mortimer accosted him. “Hello, Alan!” he exclaimed, very gently, “what's the trouble?”
“Just a silly mistake,” answered Porter, a weak laugh following his words; “Langdon has claimed that I rode Lauzanne.”
“Is dat it?” interposed Old Bill; “an' did you tell dem dey was wrong-de stiffs! Dere's cutt'roat Langdon up again; here he comes back, looking as tough he'd been fired fer splint—de crook! Hello! it's all right Hoo-ray! Lauzanne gits de race!” For already the cry of “All right!” was ringing through the betting ring. “Come on, pard,” called Old Bill, eagerly, to Mortimer; “let's go an' rake down de dough.”
“In a minute,” the other answered; and turning to Alan Porter, took him by the arm and led him to one side. “I suppose you lost over The Dutchman,” he said.
“Yes, I'm broke,” answered the boy, with a plaintive smile.
“Well, I've won.”
“You betting!” exclaimed Alan, in astonishment.
“Yes—strange, isn't it? But I'm going to put that money of your father's back.”
The boy said nothing, and Mortimer fancied that his face flushed guiltily.
“Yes, I can put it back now that Lauzanne's won,” continued Mortimer; “but don't say a word to a soul about it, I don't want anybody to know I was betting.”
“But what money?” began Alan.
“I've won a thousand dollars on Lauzanne—”
“Come on, pard,” said Old Bill, impatiently interrupting them, “let's get our rake off, an' den you kin buck to yer chum after.”
Mortimer yielded to the tattered one's command, for without his guidance he never would be able to find the man that held the money.
“I'll be back in a little while,” he said to young Porter; “don't go away.”
There was delay over the cashing in; being late, they found a line of Lauzanne men in front of them at the bookmaker's stand.
When Mortimer returned to the lawn with eleven hundred dollars in his pocket Alan Porter had gone. He had dreaded that perhaps the boy might do something desperate, fearing discovery of the theft; he had thought even of taking Alan back to Brookfield with him; however, he had told him that the money would be replaced, the boy would understand that nothing could happen him and would go back, Mortimer felt sure. He spent a short time searching for Alan, but his former fruitless quest had shown him the hopelessness of trying to find a person in that immense throng. He thought kindly of the enveloping mob that had kept him hidden from Allis, as he thought. He had feared to meet her—something in his presence might cause her to suspect that something was wrong. The whole episode was like a fairy dream. It was a queer twist of Fate's web, his winning enough over Lauzanne—he, a man who had never betted in his life—to replace the money the brother had stolen.
All at once it occurred to him that some reward was due the instigator of his success. The thousand he must keep intact. He had a few loose dollars in his pocket beyond his original hundred, quite sufficient to take him back to Brookfield. Taking the hundred from his pocket and turning to Old Bill, who was still with him, he said: “I'm going home, I've had enough horse racing for one day; you've done me a great kindness—will you take this hundred—I need the thousand badly, so can't spare more than this.”
“Not on yer life, pard. I give you de tip first, but you got de office straight from Irish, an' we're quits, see? I wasn't playin' you fer a sucker, an' yer straight goods. Jes' shove de boodle in yer breast pocket, an' don't show it to no one. Dere's some here as would take it off you quick enough.”
“But—”
“Dere ain't no buts in dis game—it's a straight deal, an' we've split even. If you'd been a crook, well, God knows how we'd a-panned out. But you ain't no geezer of dat sort—yer square, an' Old Bill wishes you good luck till de robins nest again. Yer goin', eh? Say, pard, I'd a-been wearin' diamon's if I could quit when I was 'head of de game. Yer dead onto it. Here's my hand, Mr. Morton.”
“Mortimer—George Mortimer.”
“Well, shake, George. Where do you hang out?”
“Brookfield.”
“My address is New York. Dat's as close a fit as I knows at present. If de run o' luck keeps up p'r'aps I'll write you from de Waldorf. Good-bye, of man.”
With a light heart Mortimer hastened from Gravesend, not waiting for the other races, and took his way to Brookfield. A genuine admiration of buffeted Old Bill filled his mind.
In the morning he would be at the bank bright and early, and replace the stolen thousand dollars; nobody would know that it had been taken. The narrow escape that had come to Alan Porter might prove his salvation. Surely it would cure him of his desire to bet. Out of all this evil positive good would accrue.
After winning on Lauzanne Allis had dodged the admiring crowd of paddock regulars that followed her. As Lauzanne was being blanketed she had kissed the horse's cheek and given him a mighty squeeze of thankfulness. How nobly he had done his part; good, dear old despised, misjudged Lauzanne. He had veritably saved her father from disaster; had saved her from—from many things.
She had slipped into her long coat and stood waiting for Mike to drive her to Dixon's cottage when the rumor came of an objection. Then there had been the misery of terrible suspense, a wait of uncertainty. Was her sacrifice of womanly instinct to go for nothing? Dixon had hurried to the scene of investigation; then he had come back after a little with Mike, and the good news that they had been given the race. If it had not been for prying eyes she would have knelt there at Lauzanne's feet and offered up a prayer of thankfulness. She had done all a woman could do, almost more; Providence had not forsaken her and her stricken father.
Then Mike had hurried her to the buggy just as Crane, leaving the beaten Dutchman and Langdon, had come, asking Dixon where Miss Porter was, that he might tender congratulations. He wanted to see the boy that had ridden Lauzanne, also—wanted to take his hand and tell him what a grand race he had ridden. But Dixon had been ready with excuses; the boy was dead beat after the race—he was only a kid—and had gone to Dixon's home. Miss Porter was perhaps in the stand, or perhaps she had gone home also. Crane knew of Langdon's objection. It was a silly thing, he said, due to overeagerness. He had taken no part in it, he assured Dixon. Alan Porter, too, came into the paddock, asking for his sister; but fared pretty much as Crane had. He would certainly find her at the cottage, Dixon assured him.
That night Allis wired the joyful tidings to her father, and that she would be home in the morning.
Dr. Rathbone's prophecy as to the proper medication for John Porter stood a chance of being fulfilled in one day. Allis's telegram proved that the doctor had understood the pathology of Porter's treatment, for he became as a cripple who had touched the garment of a magic healer.
It was thus that Allis found him when she reached Ringwood. Oh, but she was glad; and small wonder. What she had done was as nothing; it shrank into insignificance under the glamourous light of the change that had come over the home. What a magic wand was deserved success; how it touched with fairy aspect all that drooped with the fearsome blight of anticipated decay! And even then they did not know the full extent of her endeavor. Mingled with her mother's gentle welcome, and her father's full-throated thanks, was praise for the, to him unknown, boy that had ridden Lauzanne so gallantly.
The girl found tears of thankfulness glistening in her eyes as she listened to the praise that was wholly hers, though given in part to the jockey. They had not even heard his name—it had not mattered before; and now when her father asked for it, she answered that Mike called him Al something. Her father, generous in his salvation, was most solicitous as to a fitting present; a thousand dollars, or perhaps two, or even more, if Dixon advised so. What had he promised the lad? But there were so many things to talk over and settle, and laugh about, and congratulate each other upon. Good fortune was a generous dame. They were all like children in their happiness. \ “Yes, Alan had been there,” the girl answered to a question from her father. Also it was a strange happening, a distortion of fate that Crane had beaten them in the Brooklyn with Diablo, and now they had beaten his horse, The Dutchman, with Lauzanne the Despised. All was content after the turmoil of endeavor. And of the horses, Lauzanne, who would gallop for no one but Allis, would be brought back to Ringwood, to be petted and spoiled of his young mistress for the good he had done. Lucretia, when convalescent, would also come to the farm to rest and get strong.
In the midst of it all Dr. Rathbone came in, and of course, man-like and doctor-like, with pretended pomposity, said: “I told you so. What did I say? Now Mrs. Porter, no more scolding over the ways of horses, a good horse is a delight, and a good daughter a joy forever.”
Dear old Dr. Rathbone, wise in his generation and big of heart!