THOROUGHBREDS

by W. A. Fraser

Dedicated to a THOROUGHBRED MY WIFE

I

Less than a hundred miles from the city of Gotham, across broad greenfields, dotted into squares and oblong valleys by full-leafed maple, and elm, and mulberry, was the village of Brookfield. A hundred yearsof expansion in the surrounding land had acted inversely with the littlehamlet, and had pinched it into a hermitical isolation. 

The Brookfieldians had discovered a huge beetle in the amber of theirserene existence; it was really the Reverend Dolman who had unearthedthe monster. The beetle in the amber was horse racing, and the primeoffender, practically the sole culprit, was John Porter. 

By an inconsistent twist of fate he was known as Honest John. His fatherbefore him had raced in old Kentucky to considerable purpose, and withthe full vigor of a man who races for sport; and so to the son John, in consequence, had come little beyond a not-to-be-eradicated loveof thoroughbreds. To race squarely, honestly, and to the glory ofhigh-couraged horses was to him as much a matter of religion as theconsistent guardianship of parish morals was to the Reverend GeorgeDolman. Therefore, two men of strong beliefs were set on opposite sidesof the fence. 

Even in the Porter household, which was at Ringwood Farm, was dividedallegiance. Mrs. Porter was possessed of an abhorrent detestation ofhorse racing; also an assertive Christianity. The daughter, Allison, hadinherited the horse taint. The swinging gallop of a striving horse wasto her the obliteration of everything but sunshine, and the smile offields, and the blur of swift-gliding hedges, and the driving perfumeof clover-laden winds that passed strong into spread nostrils. ForAlan Porter, the son, there were columns of figures and musty-smellingbundles of tattered paper money where he clerked in the bank. There hadbeen great unison in the Porter household over the placing of Alan. Inaddition to horse lore, John Porter was a fair judge of human nature, and, beyond doubt, there was a streak of velvet in Alan which would havetwisted easily in the compressive grip of the race course. 

The Porter family were not the only dwellers of Brookfield who tookpart in racing. Philip Crane, the banker, wandering from the respectablehighway of finance, had allowed himself to become interested in racehorses. But this fact was all but unknown in Brookfield, so the fullresentment of the place was effusively tendered to John Porter. 

In his younger days some money had come to Philip Crane. The gamblerspirit, that was his of inheritance, had an instinctive truth asallied to finance; but, unfortunately for Philip Crane, chance and aspeculative restlessness led him amongst men who commenced with thesport of kings. With acute precipitancy he was separated from thecurrency that had come to him. The process was so rapid that his racingexperience was of little avail as an asset, so he committed the firstgreat wise act of his life-turned his back upon the race course andmarched into finance, so strongly, so persistently, that at forty he waswealthy and the banker of Brookfield. 

Twenty years of deliberate reminiscence convinced him that he couldgratify the desire that had been his in those immature days, andpossibly work out a paying revenge. Thus it was that he had got togethera small stable of useful horses; and, of far greater moment, secured aclever trainer, Dick Langdon. 

Crane's latter-day racing had been successful--he made money at it. No man was ever more naturally endowed to succeed on the turf than wasBanker Philip Crane. Cold, passionless, more given to deep concentratedthought than expression, holding silence as a golden gift--even as agift of rare rubies--nothing drew from him an unguarded word, no suddenturmoil quivered his nerve. It was characteristic of the man that he hadwaited nearly twenty years to resume racing, which really came as nearto being a passion with him as was possible for anything to be. There isa saying in England that it takes two years of preparation to win abig handicap; and these were the lines upon which Philip Crane, byinstinctive adaptation, worked. 

Quite by chance Dick Langdon had come into his hands over a matter ofborrowed money. It ended by the banker virtually owning every horse thatraced in the trainer's name. In addition, two or three horses ran inPhilip Crane's own name. If there had been any distinctive project inthe scheme of creation that gave Dick Langdon to the world, it probablywas that he might serve as the useful tool of a subtle thinker. Nowit did seem that Langdon had come into his own--that he had found hispredestined master. 

John Porter had not been successful; ill fortune had set in, and therewas always something going wrong. Horses would break down, or get beatenby accident--there was always something. The steady financial drain hadprogressed even to an encumbrance on Ringwood. 

Ringwood was simply a training farm, located close to an old disusedrace course, for there had been no racing in Brookfield for years. 

 * * * * * *

Inadvertently the Reverend Mr. Dolman had intensified the strainedrelationship that existed between the good people who frowned upon allracing endeavor and those who saw but little sinfulness in John Porter'sway of life. 

The church was in debt--everything in Brookfield was, except the townpump. The pastor was a nervous, zealous worker, and it occurred tohim that a concert might lighten the financial load. The idea was notalarmingly original, and the carrying out of it was on conventionallines: local volunteer talent, and a strong appeal to the people ofBrookfield for their patronage. 

The concert in the little old clap-boarded church, it's sides fadedand blistered by many seasons of tempest and scorching sun, was anunqualified success up to the fifth number. Nothing could have been moresuccessful, or even evoked greater applause, than the fourth effort, "Anchored, " as rendered by the village pride in the matter of baritonesinging; even De Reszke never experienced a more genuine triumph. Theapplause gradually fell away, and programmes were consulted preparatoryto a correct readiness for the fifth offering. The programmes confidedthat "The Death of Crusader, " by Miss Allis Porter, was the next item. 

In the front row of seats a prim little body, full of a severequaintness in every quirk of dress, tilted her head toward a neighbor, and whispered, "It's that racin' gal of John Porter's. "

The neighbor answered in a creak meant for a whisper: "I'm right gladshe's took to religion for onct, an' is givin' us somethin' about themCrusaders. They was in Palestine, you know. She's been away to boardin'school all winter, an' I guess it'll be a high-falutin' account of thewar. "

The quaint little old lady jerked her head up and down withdecisive bobbiness. On the third upward bob her eyes opened wide inastonishment--a small, slim figure in a glaring red coat stood in thecenter of the improvised platform. 

From beneath the coat fell away in long graceful lines a black ridingskirt; a dark oval face, set with large wondrous gray eyes--the Portereyes--confronted the quaint little old lady. 

"That's the Porter gal, " her neighbor squeaked; "I've seen her a-topthem race horses more'n a hundred times. My! you'd think butter wouldn'tmelt in her mouth, she's that prim now. "

"The coat would melt it, " commented the quaint one. 

Then a clear, soft girlish voice, with just a tremble of apprehensivenervousness, giving it a lilt like a robin's, said:--

 THE RUN OF CRUSADER

 I

 Full weight they had given the gallant big Black--a hundred and sixty he carried; And the run for the "Hunt Cup" was over three miles, with mud-wall and water-jump studded. The best racing days of the old horse were past--there'd never been better nor braver But now once again he must carry the silk I was needing the help of Crusader. Could he win at the weight, I whisperingly asked, as I cinched up the saddle girt' tight; He snuggled my hand as I gathered the rein, and I laughed when they talked of defeat. To the call of the bugle I swung to his back--like a rock was the strength of his quarters. At sight of the people he arched his lean neck, and they, cheered for my King of all Hunters. 

 II

 Ten horses would strive for the prize--a big field, and the pace would be killing. From the West came Sweet Silver, a gray, gallant, and fearless in jumping. A rakish old nag who walked over the sticks, had been sent for the Cup from Kentucky; On a bay, Little Jack, who was fast, they had put but a hundred and thirty. But I knew that North Star, a big brown--even the Black was no gamer- With a pull of ten pounds in the weight, was almost a match for Crusader. We made a brave troop, long-striding and strong, with the pick of cross-country riders, As we filed past the Stand in stately parade, with its thousands of eager admirers, And down to the turn on the lower far side, where a red flag was flicking the sunlight; For twice we must circle the green-swarded field, and finish close under the paddock. 

 III

 Just once we lined up; then down cut the flag, and "Go!" hoarse-voiced the Starter; And the thunder of hoofs, and the clanking of bits, made music to me on Crusader. Quick to the front, like a deer, sped a mare, a chestnut, making the running; But I steadied my mount, and took him far back--with his weight he would need all my nursing. They took the first hedge like sheep in a bunch, bit to bit, and stirrups a-jingle; And so past the Stand to the broad water-jump, where three went down, in a tangle. I trailed at the heels of the Silver Gray--but Crusader was begging for halter And flew the wide ditch with the swoop of a bird, and on again, lapped on his quarter. Then over the Liverpool, racing like mad, --where Sweet Silver fell fighting for lead, And his rider lay crushed, white-faced to the sky; and to miss him Crusader jumped wide. 

 IV

 At the bank something struck, and a cloud of white dust hid the wall as though it were shrouded; But the big gallant Black took off with a swing--full thirty feet ere we had landed. As we rounded the turn I could see Little Jack go up to the mare that was leading; Then I let out a wrap, and quickened my pace, to work clear of those that were tiring. Once again past the Stand we drove at the ditch that some would never get over; And a cheer shook the air as the Bay landed safe; with the mare on her back in the water. Then over went North Star--though he pecked, and nearly emptied his saddle. As I lifted the Black at his heels, he frothed the Brown's flank with his nozzle. 

 V

 Then down the back stretch, o'er hedge and o'er bank, we three were racing together; Till at the next rail the Bay jostled the Brown, and riderless crashed through the timber. So we rounded the turn, and into the straight--North Star's lean flank we were lapping But we shot to the front when I gave the Black head, and I saw that the other was stopping. We raced as one horse at the very last hedge--just a nose in front was Crusader; I felt the big Brown bump twice at my side, and knew he was ready to blunder. With stirrups a-ding, empty-saddled the Bay, stride for stride, galloped and floundered. Just missing his swerve, I called on the Black, and drew out as he bravely responded. 

 VI

 Just the last jump! and Crusader took off twenty feet from the brush-covered timber. Then the Bay jumped--too short for his stride--and fell, with his head on my wither. Down, down! almost to earth, --brought to his knees in the struggle, The Black lost a length, the Brown forged ahead, and I was half out of the saddle. How I sat down and rode! how the old horse strove! and the Brown rolling tired in his gallop. On, gallant Black! on, my brave pet! We were almost under the paddock. Then we nosed the Brown's dank; then we reached to his girt'; neck and neck I rode at his shoulder. As we flashed past the post I had won by a head. How they cheered, "Bravo, Crusader!"

 VII

 But Crusader stopped short; gave a sigh and fell dead; I stood all alone in the winning. And a hush came over the clamorous mob; like a babe on his neck I was sobbing. He had run his last race; game to the end, his brave heart broke in the striving. 

The girl's voice faltered and died away to a broken whisper as she toldof the death of Crusader. For a full minute there was a noiseless hush. The full pathos of the gallant horse's striving had crept into thehearts that were flesh and blood; and, carried away by their feelings, the people had forgotten all about their tortured convictions of thesinfulness of making a horse go faster than a sharp trot. Graduallyinto their awakening senses stole a conviction that somehow they werecountenancing the sin of racing. 

Before the complete horror of the situation had mastered the audience, a strong pair of hands, far back in the church, came together withan explosive clap. Like the rat-rat-tat of a quick-firing gun was theappreciative volley of recognition from the solitary applauder. Itwent rolling and crackling through the church defiantly, derisively, appreciatively. Halfway up the aisle a softer pair of hands touchedthe rattle with what sounded like a faint echo; then there wassudden silence. The entire audience turned and looked disparagingly, discouragingly, at the man who had figuratively risen as a championof the scandalous recitation. Resentment had taken hold of the goodChristians. That Crusader had enlisted their sympathies for a fewminutes showed the dangerous subtlety of this "horseracin' business. "

The rest of the programme might just as well have been eliminated; theconcert, as a concert, would be discussed for all time to come as havingprojected "The Death of Crusader. "

The people flowed from the church full of an expressive contentiousness, seeking by exuberant condemnation of the sacrilege to square themselvessomehow with their consciences for the brief backsliding. 

Where the church path turned into the road a group of men had drawntogether, attracted by the magnet of discussion. They quite blocked thepathway, oblivious to everything but their outraged feelings. Like agreat dark blotch in the night the group stood; and presently twoslight gray shadows slipping up the path, coming to the human barricade, stopped, wavered, and circled out on the grass to pass. The shadows wereAllis Porter and her brother Alan. 

One of the men, overfilled with his exceeding wrath, seeing the girl, gave expression to a most unchristian opinion of her modesty. The sharpears of the boy heard the words of the man of harsh instinct, and hisface flushed hot with resentment. He half turned, bitter reproach risingto his lips. How could men be so brutish? How could they be so base? Tospeak ill of his sister Allis, who was just the purest, sweetest littlewoman that ever lived--too brave and true to be anything else but good!

As he turned he saw something that checked his futile anger. A tallshadow that had come up the path behind them stretched out an arm, andhe heard the vilifier's words gurgle and die away, as one of the stronghands that had beat the tattoo of approbation clutched him by thethroat. The boy would have rushed to the assistance of this executivefriend if the girl had not clasped his arm in detention. 

"It's Mortimer!" he cried, as a voice from the strong-armed figure cutthe night air with sharp decision. 

Then the shadowy forms twisted up grotesquely, weaving in and out. Therewere voices of expostulation and strong words of anger; but the newserious business that had materialized had most effectually put a stopto reflections upon the innocent girl who had so unwittingly offended. 

"It's George Mortimer--he's in our bank, " Alan confided to his sister, as they moved away. "He's all right--he's strong as a horse; and I betCrandal'll have a kink in his neck to-morrow, where George pinched him. "

"What was it about?" the girl asked. 

"Crandal was jawing about people who own race horses, " the boy answered, evasively. "It's Crandal, the butcher. "

II

It was the May meeting at Morris Park, and Morris Park is the mostbeautiful race course in all America. 

John Porter, walking up the steps of the Grand Stand, heard some onecall him by name. Turning his head, he saw it was James Danby, an owner, sitting in his private box. Porter turned into the box, and taking thechair the other pushed toward him, sat down. 

"What about Lucretia?" asked Danby, with the air of an establishedfriendship which permitted the asking of such questions. 

"She's ready to the minute, " replied Porter. 

"Can she get the five furlongs?" queried Danby. "She's by Assassin, andsome of them were quitters. "

"She'll quit if she falls dead, " replied the other man, quietly. "I'veworked her good enough to win, and I'm backing her. "

"That'll do for me, " declared Danby. "To tell you the truth, John, I like the little mare myself; but I hear that Langdon, who trainedLauzanne, expects to win. "

"The mare'll be there, or thereabouts, " asserted her owner; "I neverknew a Lazzarone yet much good as a two-year-old. They're sulky brutes, like the old horse; and if Lucretia's beat, it won't be Lauzanne that'llturn the trick. "

The bell clanged imperiously at the Judges' Stand. Porter pulled out hiswatch and looked at it. 

"That's saddling, " he remarked, laconically; "I must go and have a biton the mare, and then take a look at her before she goes out. "

As Porter went down the steps his companion leaned over the rail andcrooked his fingers at a thin-faced man with a blond mustache who hadbeen keeping a corner of his eye on the box. 

"What are they making favorite, Lewis?" queried Danby, as the thin-facedman stood beside him. 

"Lucretia. "

"What's her price?"

"Two to one. "

"What's second favorite?"

"Lauzanne--five to two. "

"Porter tells me Lucretia is good business, " said Danby, in a tentativetone. 

"Langdon thinks it's all over bar the shouting; he says Lauzanneoutclasses his field, " retorted Lewis. 

"Langdon's a betting man; Porter's an owner, and a good judge, " objectedDanby; "and he's got a good boy up, too, McKay, " he added, slowlyfocusing his field glasses on the jockey board opposite the Stand. 

"Crooked as a dog's hind legs, " snarled Lewis, biting viciously at hiscigar. 

"Bob, it's damned hard to find a straight-legged dog, " laughed Danby. "And when John Porter starts a horse, there's never anything doing. Here's six hundred; put' it on the mare--straight. "

As Lewis pushed his way into the shoving, seething, elbowing crowd inthe betting ring, he was suddenly struck in the chest by something whichapparently had the momentum of an eight-inch shell; but it was only JohnPorter, who, in breaking through the outer crust of the living mass, hadbeen ejected with more speed than was of his own volition. 

Bob smothered the expletive that had risen to his lip when he saw whothe unwitting offender was, and asked, "What are they doin' to the marein the ring?"

"Not much, " answered his assailant, catching his breath; "there's astrong play on Langdon's horse, and if I didn't know my boy pretty well, and Lucretia better, I'd have weakened a bit. But she can't lose, shecan't lose!" he repeated in the tone of a man who is reassuring himself. 

Lewis battled his way along till he stood in front of a bookmaker witha face cast very much on the lines of a Rubens' cherub; but thecherub-type ended abruptly with the plump frontispiece of "Jakey" Faust, the bookmaker. Lewis knew that. "If there's anythin' doin', I'm upagainst it here, " he muttered to himself. "What's Lauzanne's price?" heasked, in an indifferent voice, for the bookmaker's assistant was busychanging the figures on his list. 

Faust pretended not to hear him. 

"Sure thing!" whispered Lewis to himself. Then aloud he repeated thequestion, touching the bookmaker on the elbow. 

The Cherub smiled blandly. "Not takin' any, " he answered, nodding hishead in the pleasant manner of a man who knows when he's got a goodthing. 

"What's Lucretia?" persisted Lewis. 

"Oh! that's it, is it? I'll lay you two to one. "

The questioner edged away, shaking his head solemnly. 

"Here! five to two--how much--" but Lewis was gone. 

He burrowed like a mole most industriously, regardless of people'stoes, their ribs, their dark looks, and even angry expressions of strongdisapproval, and when he gained the green sward of the lawn, hurried tohis friend's box. 

"Did you get it on?" queried the latter. 

"No; I don't like the look of it. Faust is holding out Lauzanne, andstretched me half a point about the mare. He and Langdon are in the sameboat. "

"But that won't win the race, " remonstrated Danby. "Lauzanne is amaiden, and Porter doesn't often make a mistake about any of his ownstock. "

"I thought I'd come back and tell you, " said Bob Lewis, apologetically. 

"And you did right; but if the mare wins, and I'm not on, after gettingit straight from Porter, I'd want to go out and kick myself good andhard. But put it on straight and place; then if Lauzanne's the goodswe'll save. "

Lewis was gone about four minutes. 

"You're on, " he said, when he returned; "I've two hundred on theChestnut for myself. "

"Lauzanne?"

"It's booked that way; but I'm backin' the Trainer, Langdon. I went onmy uppers two years ago backing horses; I'm following men now. "

"Bad business, " objected his stout friend; "it's bad business to backanything that talks. "

When John Porter reached the saddling paddock, his brown mare, Lucretia, was being led around in a circle in the lower corner. As he walked downtoward her his trainer, Andy Dixon, came forward a few paces to meethim. 

"Are they hammerin' Crane's horse in the ring, sir?" he asked, smoothingdown the grass with the toe of one foot, watching this physical processwith extreme interest. 

"Just what you'd notice, " replied Porter. "Why?"

"Well, I don't like the look of it a little bit. Here's this Lauzanneruns like a dog the last time out--last by the length of a street--andnow I've got it pretty straight they're out for the stuff. "

"They'd a stable-boy up on him that time. "

"That's just it, " cried Dixon. "Grant comes to me that day--you knowGrant, he works the commission for Dick Langdon--and tells me to leavethe horse alone; and to-day he comes and--" he hesitated. 

"And what?"

"Tells me to go light on our mare. "

"Isn't Grant broke?" asked Porter, with seeming irrelevance. 

"He's close next it, " answered the Trainer. 

"Aren't his friends that follow him all broke?"

"A good many of them have their address in Queer Street. "

"Look here, Andy, " said the owner, "there isn't a man with a horse inthis stake that doesn't think he's going to win; and when it's all overwe'll see Lucretia's number go up. Grant's a fool, " he added, viciously. "Didn't he break Fisher-didn't he break every other man that ever stuckto him?"

"It's not Grant at all, " replied Dixon, rubbing the palms of his handstogether thoughtfully--a way he had when he wished to concentrate inconcrete form the result of some deep cogitation--"it's Langdon, an'he's several blocks away from an asylum. "

"Langdon makes mistakes too. "

"He cashes in often when he's credited with a mistake, " retorted theother. 

"Well, I've played the little mare, " asserted Porter. 

"Much, sir?" asked Dixon, solicitously. 

"All I can stand--and a little more, " he added, falteringly; "I needed awin, a good win, " he offered, in an explanatory voice. "I want to clearRingwood--but never mind about that, Andy. The mare's well--ain't she?There can't be anything doing with McKay--we've only put him up a fewtimes, but he seems all right. "

"I think we'll win, " answered the Trainer; "I didn't get anythin'straight--just that there seemed a deuced strong tip on Lauzanne, considerin' that he'd never showed any form to warrant it. Yonder he is, sir, in number five--go and have a look at him. "

As John Porter walked across the paddock a horseman touched the fingersof his right hand to his cap. There was a half-concealed look ofinterest in the man's eye that Porter knew from experience meantsomething. 

"What do you know, Mike?" he asked, carelessly, only half halting in hisstride. 

"Nottin' sir; but dere's somebody in de know dis trip. Yer mare's a goodlittle filly, w'en she's right, but ye'r up against it. "

Porter stopped and looked at the horseman. He was Mike Gaynor, atrainer, and more than once Porter had stood his friend. Mike always hadon hand three or four horses of inconceivable slowness, and uncertaintyof wind and limb; consequently there was an ever-recurring inability topay feed bills, so he had every chance to know just who was his friendand who was not, for he tried them most sorely. 

Porter knew all this quite well; also that in spite of Mike's chronicimpecuniosity he was honest, and true as steel to a benefactor. Hewaited, feeling sure that Gaynor had something to tell. 

"There's a strong play on Lauzanne, ain't there, sir?"

Porter nodded. 

"Sure t'ing! That Langdon's a crook. I knowed him when he was ridin' onfreight cars; now he's a swell, though he's a long sprint from bein'a gentleman. I got de tip dat dere was a killin' on, an' I axed DickLangdon if dere was anyt'ing doin'; an' Dick says to me, says he, puttin' hot' t'umbs up"--and Mike held both hands out horizontally withthe thumbs stiff and vertical to illustrate this form of oath--"'there'snottin' doin', Mike, ' says he. What d'ye t'ink of that, sir, an' meknowin' there was?" asked Mike, tragically. 

"It's the biggest tip that always falls down, Gaynor; and they've got tobe pretty swift to beat Lucretia. "

"That filly's all right; she's worked out well enough to do up thatfield of stiffs. I ain't no rail bird, but I've hed me eye on her. But Iain't doin' no stunt about horses, Mister Porter; I'm talkin' about men. Th' filly's honest, and ye'r honest sir, but ye don't roide th' mareyerself, do ye?"

"You think, Mike--" began Mr. Porter, questioningly; but Gaynorinterrupted him with: "I don't think nothin', sir, an' I ain't sayin'nothin. I ain't never been before the Stewards yet for crooked work, orcrooked talk; but there's a boy ridin' in dat bunch to-day w'at got sixhundred for t'rowing me down once, see? S'elp me God! he pulled BlueSmoke to a standstill on me, knowin' that it would break me. That was atConey Island, two years ago. "

"And you don't remember his name, I suppose, Mike?"

"I don't remember not'in' but that I got it in th' neck. But ye keep yereye open, sir. Ye t'ink that none of the b'ys would t'row ye down causeye've been good to 'em; but some of 'em are that mean they'd steal th'sugar from a fly. I know 'em. I hears 'em talk, cause they don't mindme--t'ink I'm one of th' gang. "

"Thank you very much, Gaynor; I appreciate your kindly warning; but Ihope you're mistaken, all the same, " said Porter. Then he proceeded onhis way toward stall five, in which was Lauzanne. 

"How are you, Mr. Porter?"

It was Philip Crane, standing just outside of the stall, who thusaddressed him. "Got something running today?" he continued, with vagueinnocence. 

Langdon, just inside the box, chuckled softly. Surely Crane was a pastmaster in duplicity. 

"I'm starting Lucretia in this race, " replied Honest John. 

"Oh!" Then Crane took Porter gently by the sleeve and drew him halfwithin the stall. "Mr. Langdon, who trains a horse or two for me, says this one'll win;" and he indicated the big chestnut colt that theTrainer was binding tight to a light racing saddle. "You'd better have abit on, Mr. Porter, " Crane added. 

"Lucretia carries my money, " answered Porter in loyalty. 

Langdon looked up, having cinched the girth tight, and took a steptoward the two men. 

"Well, we both can't win, " he said, half insolently; "an' I don't thinkthere's anything out to-day'll beat Lauzanne. "

"That mare'll beat him, " retorted Porter, curtly, nettled by the other'scocksureness. 

"I'll bet you one horse against the other, the winner to take both, "cried Langdon in a sneering, defiant tone. 

"I've made my bets, " said Lucretia's owner, quietly. 

"I hear you had an offer of five thousand for your filly, Mr. Porter, "half queried Crane. 

"I did, and I refused it. "

"And here's the one that'll beat her to-day, an' I'll sell him for halfthat, " asserted the Trainer, putting his hand on Lauzanne's neck. 

Exasperated by the persistent boastfulness of Langdon, Porter wasangered into saying, "If he beats my mare, I'll give you that for himmyself. "

"Done!" snapped Langdon. "I've said it, an' I'll stick to it. "

"I don't want the horse--" began Porter; but Langdon interrupted him. 

"Oh, if you want to crawl. "

"I never crawl, " said Porter fiercely. "I don't want your horse, butjust to show you what I think of your chance of winning, I'll give youtwo thousand and a half if you beat my mare, no matter what wins therace. "

"I think you'd better call this bargain off, Mr. Porter, " remonstratedCrane. 

"Oh, the bargain will be off, " answered John Porter; "if I'm any judge, Lauzanne's running his race right here in the stall. "

His practiced eye had summed up Lauzanne as chicken-hearted; the sweatwas running in little streams down the big Chestnut's legs, and drippingfrom his belly into the drinking earth spit-spit, drip-drip; his headwas high held in nervous apprehension; his lips twitched, his flankstrembled like wind-distressed water, and the white of his eye wasshowing ominously. 

Langdon cast a quick, significant, cautioning look at Crane as Porterspoke of the horse; then he said, "You're a fair judge, an' if you'reright you get all the stuff an' no horse. "

"I stand to my bargain whatever happens, " Porter retorted. 

At that instant the bugle sounded. 

"Get up, Westley, " Langdon said to his jockey, "they're going out. "

As he lifted the boy to the saddle, the Trainer whispered a few concisedirections. 

"Hold him steady at the post, " he muttered; "I've got him a bit on edgeto-day. Get off in front and stay there; he's feelin' good enough toleave the earth. This'll be a matter of a couple of hundred to you ifyou win. "

"All out! all out!" called the voice, of the paddock offcial. "Numberone!" then, "Come on you, Wesltey! they're all out. "

The ten starters passed in stately procession from the green-swardedpaddock through an open gate to the soft harrowed earth, gleamingpink-brown in the sunlight, of the course. How consciously beautifulthe thoroughbreds looked! The long sweeping step; the supple bend of thefetlock as it gave like a wire spring under the weight of great broadquarters, all sinewy strength and tapered perfection; the stretch ofgentle-curved neck, sweet-lined as a greyhound's, bearing a lean, bonyhead, set with two great jewels of eyes, in which were honesty andcourage, and eager longing for the battle of strength and stamina, andstoutness of heart; even the nostrils, with a red transparency as ofsilk, spread and drank eagerly the warm summer air that was full of theperfume of new-growing clover and green pasture-land. 

Surely the spectacle of these lovely creatures, nearest to man in theirthoughts and their desires, and superior in their honesty and truth, wasa sight to gladden the hearts of kings. Of a great certainty it was asport of kings; and also most certainly had it at times come into thehands of highway robbers. 

Some such bitter thought as this came into the heart of John Porter ashe stood and watched his beautiful brown mare, Lucretia, trailing withstately step behind the others. He loved good horses with all the fervorof his own strong, simple, honest nature. Their walk was a delight tohim, their roaring gallop a frenzy of eager sensation. There was nothingin the world he loved so well. Yes--his daughter Allis. But just nowhe was thinking of Lucretia--Lucretia and her rival, the golden-hairedchestnut, Lauzanne. 

He passed through the narrow gate leading from the paddock to the GrandStand. The gate keeper nodded pleasantly to him and said: "Hopeyou'll do the trick with the little mare, sir. I'm twenty years at thebusiness, and I haven't got over my likin' for an honest horse and anhonest owner yet. "

There was covert insinuation of suspicion, albeit a kindly one, in theman's voice. The very air was full of the taint of crookedness; elsewhy should the official speak of honesty at all? Everyone knew that JohnPorter raced to win. 

He crossed the lawn and leaned against the course fence, to take adeciding look at the mare and the Chestnut as they circled past thestand in the little view-promenade which preceded the race. 

His trained eye told him that Lauzanne was a grand-looking horse; big, well-developed shoulders reached back toward the huge quarters until thesmall racing saddle almost covered the short back. What great promise ofweight-carrying was there!

He laughed a little at the irrelevance of this thought, for it was not aquestion of weight-carrying at all; two-year-olds at a hundred poundsin a sprint of only five furlongs. Speed was the great factor to beconsidered, and surely Lucretia outclassed the other in that way. Thelong, well-ribbed-up body, with just a trace of gauntness in the flank;the slim neck; the deep chest; the broad, flat canon bones, and thewell-let-down hocks, giving a length of thigh like a greyhound's--andthe thighs themselves, as John Porter looked at them under the tucked-upbelly of the gentle mare, big, and strong, and full of a driving forcethat should make the others break a record to beat her. 

From the inquisition of the owner's study Lucretia stood forthtriumphant; neither the Chestnut nor anything else in the race couldbeat her. And Jockey McKay--Porter raised his eyes involuntarily, seeking for some occult refutation of the implied dishonesty of the boyhe had trusted. He found himself gazing straight into the small shiftyeyes of Lucretia's midget rider, and such a hungry, wolfish look ofmingled cunning and cupidity was there that Porter almost shuddered. Theinsinuations of Mike Gaynor, and the other things that pointed at a jobbeing on, hadn't half the force of the dishonesty that was so apparentin the tell-tale look of the morally, irresponsible boy in whose handshe was so completely helpless. All the careful preparation of the mare, the economical saving, even to the self-denial of almost necessarythings to the end that he might have funds to back her heavily when sheran; and the high trials she had given him when asked the question, andwhich had gladdened his heart and brought an exclamation of satisfactionfrom his phlegmatic trainer; the girlish interest of his daughter inthe expected triumph--all these contingencies were as less than nothingshould the boy, with the look of a demon in his eyes, not ride straightand honest. 

Even then it was not too late to ask the Stewards to set McKay down, butwhat proof had he to offer that there was anything wrong? The boy's goodname would be blasted should he, John Porter, say at the last minutethat he did not trust him; and perhaps the lad was innocent. Race peoplewere ready to cry out that a jockey was fixed-that there was somethingwrong, when their own judgment was at fault and they lost. 

Suddenly Porter gave a cry of astonishment. "My God!" he muttered, "theboy has got spurs on. That'll set the mare clean crazy. "

He turned to Dixon, who was at his elbow: "Why did you let McKay put onthe steels?"

"I told him not to. " "He's got them on. "

"They've got to come off, " and the Trainer dashed up the steps to theStewards. In two minutes he returned, a heavy frown on his face. 

"Well?" queried Porter. 

"I've made a mess of it, " answered Dixon, sullenly. "It seems there'shints of a job on, an' the Stewards have got the wrong end of thestick. "

"They refused to let the mare go back to the paddock?" queried Porter. 

"Yes; an' one of them said that if trainers would stick closer to theirhorses, an' keep out of the bettin' ring, that the public'd get a betterrun for their money. "

"I'm sorry, Andy, " said Porter, consolingly. 

"It's pretty tough on me, but it's worse on you, sir. That boy hadn'tspurs when he weighed, an' there's the rankest kind of a job on, I'lltake me oath. "

"We've got to stand to it, Andy. "

"That we have; we've just got to take our medicine like little men. Evenif we make a break an' take McKay off there isn't another good boy left. If he jabs the little mare with them steels she'll go clean crazy. "

"It's my fault, Andy. I guess I've saved and petted her a bit too much. But she never needed spurs--she'd break her heart trying without them. "

"By God!" muttered Dixon as he went back to the paddock, "if the boystops the mare he'll never get another mount, if I can help it. It'sthis sort of thing that kills the whole business of racing. Here's astable that's straight from owner to exercise boy, and now likely tothrow down the public and stand a chance of getting ruled off ourselvesbecause of a gambling little thief that can spend the income of aprince. But after all it isn't his fault. I know who ought to be warnedoff if this race is fixed; but they won't be able to touch a hair ofhim; he's too damn slick. But his time'll come--God knows how many menhe'll break in the meantime, though. "

As John Porter passed Danby's box going up into the stand, the latterleaned over in his chair, touched him on the arm and said, "Come in andtake a seat. "

"I can't, " replied the other man, "my daughter is up there somewhere. "

"I've played the mare, " declared Danby, showing Porter a memo written ina small betting book. 

The latter started and a frown crossed his brown face. 

"I'm sorry--I'm afraid it's no cinch. "

"Five to two never is, " laughed his friend. "But she's a right smartfilly; she looks much the best of the lot. Dixon's got her as fit as afiddle string. When you're done with that man you might turn him over tome, John. "

"The mare's good enough, " said Porter, "and I've played her myself--astiffish bit, too; but all the same, if you asked me now, I'd tellyou to keep your money in your pocket. I must go, " he added, his eyecatching the flutter of a race card which was waving to him three seatsup. 

"Here's a seat, Dad, " cried the girl, cheeringly, lifting her coat froma chair she had kept for her father. 

For an instant John Porter forgot all about Lucretia and her troubles. The winsome little woman had the faculty of always making him forget histrials; she had to the fullest extent that power so often found inplain faces. Strictly speaking, she wasn't beautiful--any man would havepassed that opinion if suddenly asked the question upon first seeingher. Doubt of the excellence of this judgment might have crept into hismind after he had felt the converting influence of the blue-gray eyesthat were so much like her father's; in them was the most beautifulthing in the world, an undoubted evidence of truth and honesty andsympathy. She was small and slender, but no one had ever likened herto a flower. There was apparent sinewy strength and vigor in the smallform. Her life, claimed by the open air, had its reward--the saddle isno cradle for weaklings. Bred in an atmosphere of racing, and surroundedas she had always been by thoroughbreds, Allis had grown up full ofadmiration for their honesty, and courage, and sweet temper. 

III

In John Porter's home horse racing had no debasing effect. If a mancouldn't race squarely--run to win every time--he had better quit thegame, Porter had always asserted. He raced honestly and bet openly, without cant and without hypocrisy; just as a financier might havetraded in stocks in Wall Street; or a farmer might plant his crops andtrust to the future and fair weather to yield him a harvest in return. 

So much of the racing life was on honor--so much of the working out ofit was in the open, where purple-clovered fields gave rest, and health, and strength, that the home atmosphere was impregnated with moral truth, and courage, and frankness, in its influence on the girl's development. 

Every twist of her sinewy figure bore mute testimony to this; everyglance from her wondrous eyes was an eloquent substantiating argumentin favor of the life she affected. John Porter looked down at the small, rather dark, upturned face, and a half-amused smile of content came tohis lips. "Did you see Lucretia?" he asked. "Isn't she a beauty? Hasn'tDixon got her in the pink of condition?"

"I saw nothing else, father. " She beckoned to him with her eyes, tippedher head forward, and whispered: "Those people behind us have backedLauzanne. I think they're racing folks. "

The father smiled as an uncultured woman's voice from one row backjarred on his ear. Allis noticed the smile and its provocation, andsaid, speaking hastily, "I don't mean like you, father--"

"Like us, " he corrected. 

"Well, perhaps; they're more like betting or training people, though. "She put her hand on his arm warningly, as a high-pitched falsettopenetrated the drone of their half-whispered words, saying, "I tell youDick knows all about this Porter mare, Lucretia. "

"But I like her, " a baritone voice answered. "She looks a rattlin'filly. "

"You'll dine off zwieback and by your lonely, Ned, if you play horses ontheir looks--"

"Or women either, " the baritone cut in. 

"You're a fair judge, Ned. But Dick told me to go the limit on Lauzanne, and to leave the filly alone. "

"On form Lucretia ought to win, " the man persisted; "an' there's neveranythin' doin' with Porter. "

"Perhaps not;" the unpleasant feminine voice sneered mockingly, withan ill-conditioned drawl on the "perhaps"; "but he doesn't ride his ownmare, does he?"

John Porter started. Again that distasteful expression fraught withdistrust and insinuation. There was a strong evil odor of stephanotiswafted to his nostrils as the speaker shook her fan with impatientdecision. The perfume affected him disagreeably; it was like theexhalation of some noisome drug; quite in keeping with the covertinsinuation of her words that Dick, as she called him--it must be DickLangdon, the trainer of Lauzanne, Porter mused--had given her advicebased on a knowledge quite irrespective of the galloping powers of thetwo horses. 

"Did you hear that, father?" Allis whispered. 

He nodded his head. 

"What does it all mean?"

"It means, girl, " he said, slowly, "that all the trouble and pains Ihave taken over Lucretia since she was foaled, two years ago, and herdam, the old mare, Maid of Rome, died, even to raising the little fillyon a bottle, and watching over her temper that it should not be ruinedby brutal savages of stable-boys, whose one idea of a horse is thathe must be clubbed into submission--that all the care taken in hertraining, and the money spent for her keep and entries goes for nothingin this race, if Jockey McKay is the rascal I fear he is. "

"You think some one has got at him, Dad?"

Her father nodded again. 

"I wish I'd been a boy, so that I could have ridden Lucretia for youto-day, " Allis exclaimed with sudden emphasis. 

"I almost wish you had, Little Woman; you'd have ridden straightanyway--there never was a crooked one of our blood. "

"I don't see why a jockey or anybody else should be dishonest--I'm sureit must take too much valuable time to cover up crooked ways. "

"Yes, you'd have made a great jock, Little Woman;" the father went on, musingly, as he watched the horses lining up for the start. "Men thinkif a boy is a featherweight, and tough as a Bowery loafer, he's sureto be a success in the saddle. That's what beats me--a boy of that sortwouldn't be trusted to carry a letter with ten dollars in it, and on theback of a good horse he's, piloting thousands. Unless a jockey has theinstincts of a gentleman, naturally, he's almost certain to turn out ablackguard sooner or later, and throw down his owner. He'll have moretemptations in a week to violate his trust than a bank clerk would havein a lifetime. "

"Is that why you put Alan in the bank, father?"

Porter went on as though he had not heard the daughter's query. "To makea first-class jock, a boy must have nerves of steel, the courage of abulldog, the self-controlling honesty of a monk. You've got all theseright enough, Allis, only you're a girl, don't you see--just a goodlittle woman, " and he patted her hand affectionately. 

"They're off!" exclaimed the baritone. 

"Not this trip, " objected the falsetto. 

"The spurs--the young fiend!" fiercely ejaculated John Porter. 

"What is it, father?"

"The boy on Lucretia is jabbing her with the spurs, and she's cuttingup. "

"That's the fourth false start, " said Ned, the baritone. "I don't thinkmuch of your Lauzanne, he's like a crazy horse. "

Allis heard the woman's shrill voice, smothered to a hissing whisper, answer something. Two distinct words, "the hop, " carried to her ears. There was a long-drawnout baritone, "Oh-h!" then, in the same key, "Iknew Lauzanne was a sluggard, and couldn't make out why he was so friskyto-day. "

"Dick's got it down fine"--just audibly from the woman; "Lauzanne'll tryright enough this time out. "

"The mare's actin' as if she'd a cup of tea, too, " muttered hercompanion, Ned. 

This elicited a dry chuckle from the woman. 

Allis pinched her father's arm again, and looked up in his faceinquiringly, as from the seat behind them the jumbled conversation cameto their ears. Porter nodded his head understandingly, and frowned. Thestephanotis was choking his nostrils, and an occasional word was fillinghis heart with confirmation of his suspicions. 

"I don't like it, " he muttered to Allis. "They've had four breaks, andthe mare's been left each time. The Chestnut's the worst actor I eversaw at the post. But I'm thinking he'll leave the race right there, theway he's cutting up. "

"My God!" he exclaimed in the next breath. He had startled the girl withthe fierce emphasis he threw into the words; she sprang to her feet inexcitement. 

A bell had clanged noisily, there was the shuffle of thousands of eagerfeet; a hoarse cry, "They're off!" went rolling from tier to tier, fromseat to seat, to the topmost row of the huge stand. 

"Lauzanne is off with a flying lead of three lengths, and the mare isleft absolutely-absolutely last. The boy whipped her about just as theflag fell. " There was the dreary monotone of crushed hope in Porter'svoice as he spoke. 

"Yes, we're out of it, Little Woman, " he continued; and there was almosta tone of relief, of resignation. Suspense was gone; realization of thedisaster seemed to have steadied his nerves again. Allis attempted tospeak, but her low voice was hushed to a whisper by the exultant criesthat were all about them. 

"Didn't I tell you--Lauzanne wins in a walk!" the falsetto voice was anexultant squeak of hilarious excitement. 

"You called the turn. " Even Ned's baritone had risen to a false-keyedtenor; he was standing on his toes, peering over the heads of taller menin front. 

Allis brushed from her eyes the tears of sympathy that had welled intothem, and, raising her voice, spoke bravely, clinging to the vain hope:"Lucretia is game, father--she may win yet--the race is not lost tillthey're past the post. "

Then her voice died away, and she kept pleading over and over in herheart, "Come on Lucretia--come on, brave little mare! Is she gaining, father--can you see?"

"She'll never make it up, " Porter replied, as he watched the jumbleof red, and yellow, and black patterned into a trailing banner, whichwaved, and vibrated, and streamed in the glittering sunlight, a furlongdown the Course--and the tail of it was his own blue, whitestarredjacket. In front, still a good two lengths in front, gleamed scarlet, like an evil eye, the all red of Lauzanne's colors. 

"Where is Lucretia, father?" the girl asked again, stretching her slightfigure up in a vain endeavor to see over the shoulders of those infront. 

"She had an opening there, " Porter replied, speaking his thoughts morethan answering the girl, "but the boy pulled her into the bunch on therail. He doesn't want to get through. Oh!" he exclaimed, as though someone had struck him in the face. 

"What's wrong? Has she--"

"It's the Minstrel. His boy threw him fair across Lucretia, and knockedher to her knees. " He lowered his glasses listlessly. "It's Lauzanne allthe way, if he lasts out. He's dying fast though, and Westley's gone tothe whip. "

He was looking through his glasses again. Though beaten, his racingblood was up. "If Lauzanne wins it will be Westley's riding; the Hanovercolt, The Dutchman, is at his quarter. He'll beat him out, for theHanovers are all game. "

"Come on you, Lauzanne!" Even the exotic stephanotis failed toobliterate the harsh, mercenary intensity of the feminine cry at theback of Allis. 

"He's beat!" a deep discordant voice groaned. "I knew he was a quitter;"the woman's companion was pessimistic. 

Like trees of a forest, swayed by strong compelling winds, the peoplerocked in excitement, tiptoed and craned eager necks, as they watchedthe magnificent struggle that was drawing to a climax in the stretch. Inch by inch the brave son of Hanover was creeping up on Lauzanne. Howloosely the big Chestnut galloped--rolling like a drunken man in thehour of his distress. Close pressed to his neck, flat over his witherlay the intense form of his rider--a camel's hump--a part of the racingmechanism, unimpeding the weary horse in the masterly rigidity of hisbody and legs; but the arms, even the shoulders of the great jockeythrust his mount forward, always forward--forward at each stride; fairlylifting him, till the very lurches of Lauzanne carried him toward thegoal. And at his girth raced the compact bay son of Hanover; galloping, galloping with a stout heart and eager reaching head; straining everysinew, and muscle, and nerve; in his eye the brave desire, not to bedenied. 

Ah, gallant little bay! On his back was the offspring of unthinkingparents--a pin-head. Perhaps the Evil One had ordained him to thecompletion of Langdon's villainy with Lauzanne. At the pinch hisjudgment had flown--he was become an instrument of torture; with whipand spur he was throwing away the race. Each time he raised his arm andlashed, his poor foolish body swayed in the saddle, and The Dutchman waschecked. 

"Oh, if he would but sit still!" Porter cried, as he watched the equinebattle. 

The stand mob clamored as though Nero sat there and lions had beenloosed in the arena. The strange medley of cries smote on the ears ofAllis. How like wild beasts they were, how like wolves! She closed hereyes, for she was weary of the struggle, and listened. Yes, they werewolves leaping at the throat of her father, and joying in the defeat ofLucretia. Deep-throated howls from full-chested wolves: "Come on you, Lauzanne! On, Westley, on! The Bay wins! The Dutchman--The Dutchman fora thousand!"

"I'll take--"

But the new voice was stilled into nothingness by the shrill, reawakening falsetto. "Go on, Westley! Lauzanne wins--wins--wins!" itseemed to repeat. Allis sank back into her seat. She knew it was allover. The shuffle of many feet hastening madly, the crash of eager heelsdown the wooden steps, a surging, pushing, as the wolf-pack blocked eachpassage in its thirstful rush for the gold it had won, told her that therace was over. 

No one knew which horse had won. Presently a quiet came over the moblike a lull in a storm. Silently they waited for the winning number togo up. 

"I believe it's a dead heat, " said Porter; and Allis noted how calmand restful his voice sounded after the exultant babel of thehoarse-throated watchers. 

"Where was Lucretia, father?"

"Third, " he answered, laconically, schooling his voice to indifference. "I hope it's a dead heat, for if Lauzanne gets the verdict I've got totake him. I don't want him after that run; they made him a present ofthe race at the start, and he only just squeezed home. "

"Why must you take the horse, father, if you don't want him? I don'tunderstand. "

"I suppose there's no law for it--I said I would, that's all. The wholething is crooked though; they stole the race from Lucretia and plantedme with a dope horse, and hanged if I don't feel like backing out. LetLangdon go before the Stewards about the sale if he dare. "

"Did you give your word that you'd buy the horse, father?"

"I did; but it was a plant. "

"Then you'll take him, father. People say that John Porter's word is asgood as his bond; and that sounds sweeter in my ears than if I were tohear them say that you were rich, or clever, or almost anything. "

"Lauzanne gets it!" called the eager grating voice behind them. "Therego the numbers, Ned--three, five, ten; Lauzanne, The Dutchman, Lucretia. I knew it. Dick don't make no mistakes when he's out for blood. "

"He drew it a bit fine that time, " growled Ned, still in opposition; "itwas the closest sort of a shave. "

"Hurrah, Lauzanne!"

Again there was more hurrying of feet as the Chestnut's backers who hadwaited in the stand for the Judge's decision, hurried down to the goldmart. 

"You'll take Lauzanne, father, " Allis said, when the tumult had stilled;"it will come out right somehow--I know it will--he'll win again. "

John Porter stood irresolutely for a minute, not answering the girl, as though he were loath to go close to the contaminating influence thatseemed part and parcel of Lauzanne, and which was stretching out toenvelop him. He was thinking moodily that he had played against a manwho used loaded dice, and had lost through his own rashness. He hadstaked so much on the race that the loss would cut cripplingly into hisaffairs. 

"I guess you're right, Allis, " he said; "a man's got to keep his word, no matter what happens. I never owned a dope horse yet, and unless I'mmistaken this yellow skate is one to-day. I'll take him though, girl;but he'll get nothing but oats from me to make him gallop. "

Then Porter went resolutely down the steps, smothering in his heart thejust rebellion that was tempting him to repudiate his bargain. 

As he reached the lawn, a lad swung eagerly up the steps, threw his eyeinquiringly along row after row of seats until it stopped at Allis. Thenhe darted to her side. 

"Hello, Sis--been looking for you. Where's Dad?"

"Gone to get Lauzanne. "

"Lauzanne!" and the boy's eyes that were exactly like her own, openedwide in astonishment. 

"Yes; father bought him. "

"The deuce! I say, Allis, that won't do. Don't you know there'ssomething wrong about this race? I just saved myself. I backed thelittle mare for a V--then I heard something. This Langdon's a deuce of aqueer fish, I can tell you. I wonder Crane has anything to do with him, for the Boss is straight as they make them. "

"Did you back Lauzanne then, Alan?"

"You bet I did; quick, too; and was hunting all over for the gov'nor totell him. You see, I know Langdon--he comes to the bank sometimes. He'sthat slick he'll hardly say 'Good-day, ' for fear of giving somethingaway. "

"Then how did you--how did people know there was something wrong?"

"Oh, a woman, of course--she blabbed. I think she's Dick Langdon'ssister, and--"

"Hush-hh!" and Allis laid her hand on the boy's arm, indicating with hereyes the woman in the seat behind. 

"I'd better go and tell father--"

"You needn't bother; he knows. It's a question of honor. Father saidhe'd buy the horse, and he's gone to make good. "

"I wouldn't; that sort of thing will break a man. "

"It's a good way to go broke, Alan. Perhaps we'd all be richer if itwasn't so strong in the Porter blood; but all the same, brother, you dojust as father is doing to-day--always keep your word. I tell youwhat it is, boy"--and her face lighted up as she spoke--"father is ahero--that's what he is; he's just the biggest, bravest man ever lived. He couldn't do a mean act. How did you get away from the bank, Alan?"she said, changing the subject; "I didn't know you were coming to-day. "

"Mortimer was light, and took on my work. He's a good sort. "

"Does he bet?"

The boy laughed. "Mortimer bet? That's rich. We call him 'Old Solemnity'in the bank; but he doesn't mean any harm by it--he just can't help it, that's all. If he had a stiff ruff about his neck, you could pose himfor a picture of one of those old Dutch burgomasters. "

"He's doing your work, and you're making fun of him, boy. "

"You can't make fun of him, at him, or with him; he's a grave digger;but you can trust him. "

"That's better. "

"If I'd killed a man and needed a friend to help me out, I'd go straightto Mortimer; he's got that kind of eyes. Do you know why he's doing mywork to-day?"

"Because you're away, I suppose. "

"Because you recited that doggerel about The Run of Crusader. "

"Alan! I've never spoken to Mr. Mortimer. "

"That's why he choked the butcher the night of the concert--I mean--"

"You're talking nonsense, Alan. "

"I'm not, I know when a man's interested. Hello. Blest if the Boss isn'tcoming this way--there's Crane. See, Allis? I've a notion to tell himthat his trainer is a crook. "

"No, you won't, Alan--you're too young to gabble. "

Philip Crane had evidently intended going higher up in the stand, buthis eye lighting on the brother and sister, he stopped, and turned in towhere they were sitting. 

"Good afternoon, Miss Porter. "

Allis started. Was the stand possessed of unpleasant voices? There wasa metallic ring in Crane's voice that affected her disagreeably. He wasalmost a stranger to her; she hardly remembered ever having spoken tohim. 

He turned and nodded pleasantly to Alan, saying, "May I take this seat?I'm tired. The Cashier let you oft for the day, eh?" he continued. "Cameup to see your father's mare run, I suppose--I'm deuced sorry she wasbeaten. "

"What are they waiting for--why have they taken the horses' numbers downagain? Are they trying to steal the race from Lauzanne now?" It was thewoman's voice behind them, petulantly exclaiming. 

Crane turned in his seat, looked over his shoulder, and raised his hat. 

"The impatient lady is my trainer's sister, " he explained in a modulatedtone to Allis. "A trainer is quite an autocrat, I assure you, and onemust be very careful not to forget any of the obvious courtesies. "

Allis wondered why he should find it necessary to make any explanationat all. 

"I want to thank you, Miss Porter, for that reading about Crusader. "

Allis's eyes opened wide. 

"Yes, I was there, " Crane added, answering the question that was inthem. 

As he said this a man came hurriedly up the steps, spoke to a policemanon guard, and searched the faces with his eyes. Catching sight of Crane, he came quickly forward and whispered something in his ear. 

"Excuse me, I must go--I'm wanted, " Crane said to Allis. 

As he turned, the Trainer's sister spoke to him. 

"What's the matter, Mr. Crane--there's something going on up in theStewards' Stand?"

"I fancy there's an objection, though I don't know anything about it, "he answered, as he went down the steps with the messenger. 

Allis breathed more freely when he had gone. Somehow his presence hadoppressed her; perhaps it was the fierce stephanotis that came inclouds from the lady behind that smothered her senses. Crane had saidnothing--just an ordinary compliment. Like an inspiration it came to thegirl what had affected her so disagreeably in Crane--it was his eyes. They were hard, cold, glittering gray eyes, looking out from betweenpartly closed eyelids. Allis could see them still. The lower lids cutstraight across; it was as though the eyes were peeping at her over astone wall. 

"What did I tell you about Crusader?" Alan said, triumphantly. "There'sanother. "

"Alan!"

"I wondered why Mr. Crane was so deuced friendly; but there's nothing toget cross about, girl, he's a fine old chap, and got lots of wealth. "

He leaned forward till he was close to his sister's ear, and added, ina whisper, "Her ladyship behind, Belle Langdon, is trying to hook him. Phew!--but she's loud. But I'm off--I'm going to see what the row isabout. "

IV

When John Porter left the stand, the horses had just cantered backto weigh in. The jockeys, one after another, with upraised whip, hadsaluted the Judge, received his nod to dismount, pulled the saddlesfrom their steeds, and, in Indian file, were passing over the scales. As Lucretia was led away, Porter turned into the paddock. He saw thatLangdon was waiting for him. 

"Well, he won, just as I said he would, " declared the latter; "you'vegot a good horse cheap. You'd ought to've had a bet down on him, an' wonhim out. "

"He won, " answered Porter, looking straight into the other's shiftyeyes, "but he's a long way from being a good horse--no dope horse is agood horse. "

"What're you givin' me?" demanded Langdon, angrily. 

"Just what every blackguard ought to have--the truth. "

"By God!" the Trainer began, in fierce blasphemy, but John Porter tooka step nearer, and his gray eyes pierced the other man's soul until itshriveled like a dried leaf, and turned its anger into fear. 

"Oh, if you want to crawl--if you don't want to take Lauzanne--"

But Porter again interrupted Langdon---"I said I'd take the horse, andI will; but don't think that you're fooling me, Mr. Langdon. You're ablackguard of the first water. Thank God, there are only a few parasitessuch as you are racing--it's creatures like you that give the sport ablack eye. If I can only get at the bottom of what has been done to-day, you'll get ruled off, and you'll stay ruled off. Now turn Lauzanne overto Andy Dixon, and come into the Secretary's office, where I'll give youa check for him. "

"Well, we'll settle about the horse now, an' there'll be somethin'to settle between us, John Porter, at some other time and some otherplace, " blustered Langdon, threateningly. 

Porter looked at him with a half-amused, half-tolerant expression on hissquare face, and said, speaking in a very dry convincing voice: "I guessthe check will close out all deals between us; it will pay you to keepout of my way, I think. "

As they moved toward the Secretary's office, Porter was accosted by histrainer. 

"The Stewards want to speak to you, sir, " said Dixon. 

"All right. Send a boy over to this man's stable for Lauzanne--I'vebought him. "

The Trainer stared in amazement. 

"I'll give you the check when I come back, " Porter continued, speakingto Langdon. 

"There's trouble on, sir, " said Dixon, as they moved toward theStewards' box. 

"There always is, " commented Porter, dryly. 

"The Stewards think Lucretia didn't run up to her form. They've had meup, an' her jock, McKay, is there now. Starter Carson swears he couldn'tget her away from the post--says McKay fair anchored the mare. He finedthe boy fifty dollars at the start. "

"I think they've got the wrong pig by the ear--why don't they yankLangdon? he's at the bottom of it. It a pretty rich, Andy, isn't it?They hit me heavy over the race, and now they'd like to rule me off forthat thief's work, " and he jerked his thumb over his shoulder in thedirection of Langdon. 

"Yes, racin's hell now, " commented Dixon with laconic directness. "Itseems just no use workin' over a good horse when any mut of a crook whois takin' a turn at plungin' can get at the boy. I believe Boston Bill'sgame of gettin' a straight boy to play, an' lettin' the horses go hang, is the proper racket. "

"Yes, a good boy is better than a good horse nowadays; but they're likeNorth Poles--hard to come by. "

"Some mug give the Stewards a yarn that you'd bought Lauzanne, sir, an'sez that's why you didn't win with the mare. "

Porter stopped, and gasped in astonishment. What next?

"You see, " continued Dixon, apologetically, "I didn't know you wasmeanin' to buy that skate, so I says it was all a damned lie. "

"Things are mixed, Andy, ain't they?"

"I didn't know, sir. "

"Of course not--I didn't mention it to you--it was all a fluke. But Idon't blame you, Andy. I'll go and talk to the Stewards--they're allright; they only want to get at the truth of it. "

As Porter went up the steps of the Stewards' Stand, he felt how like aman mounting a scaffold he was, an innocent man condemned to be hangedfor another's crime. 

The investigation had been brought about by a note one of the Stewardshad received. The sender of the missive stated in it that he had backedLucretia heavily, but had strong reasons for believing there was ajob on. The backer was a reliable man and asked for a fair run for hismoney. The note had come too late--just as the horses were starting--tobe of avail, except as a corroboration of the suspicious features ofthe race. Starter Carson's evidence as to McKay's handling of the marecoincided with the contents of the note. Then there was the fact ofPorter's having bought Lauzanne. The Stewards did not know the actualcircumstances of the sale, but had been told that Lucretia's owner hadacquired the Chestnut before the race. Where all was suspicion, everytrivial happening was laid hold of; and Alan's trifling bet on Lauzannehad been magnified into a heavy plunge--no doubt the father's money hadbeen put up by the boy. A race course is like a household, everything isknown, absolutely everything. 

Porter was aghast. Were all the Furies in league against him? He wasmore or less a believer in lucky and unlucky days, but he had neverexperienced anything quite so bad as this. He, the one innocent man inthe transaction, having lost almost his last dollar, and having beensaddled with a bad horse, was now accused of being the perpetratorof the villainy; and the insinuation was backed up by such a mass ofcircumstantial evidence. No wonder he flushed and stood silent, lost forwords to express his indignation. 

"Speak up, Mr. Porter, " said the Steward, kindly. "Those that lost onLucretia are swearing the mare was pulled. "

"And they're right, " blurted out Porter. "I know what the mare can do;she can make hacks of that bunch. She was stopped, and interfered with, and given all the worst of it from start to finish; but my money wasburnt up with the public's. I never pulled a horse in my life, and I'mtoo old to begin now. "

"I believe that, " declared the Steward, emphatically. "I've known you, John Porter, for forty years, man and boy, and there never was anythingcrooked. But we've got to clear this up. Racing isn't what it used tobe--it's on the square now, and we want the public to understand that. "

"What does the boy say, " asked Porter; "you've had him up?"

"He says the mare was 'helped;' that she ran like a drunken man--swayedall over the course, and he couldn't pull her together at all. "

"Does he mean she was doped?"

"You've guessed it, " answered the Steward, laconically. 

"That's nonsense, sir; and he knows it. Why, the little mare is as sweetas a lamb, and as game a beast as ever looked through a bridle. Somebodygot at the boy. I can prove by Dixon that Lucretia never had a grain ofcocaine in her life--never even a bracer of whiskey--she doesn't needit; and as for the race, I hadn't a cent on Lauzanne. "

"But your son. "

"He had a small bet; I didn't know that, even, until they were running. "

"Did you tell him not to back Lucretia, for he did Lauzanne?"

"I told him not to bet at all. "

"And you played the mare yourself?"

For answer Porter showed the Steward his race programme, on which waswritten the wager he had made on Lucretia, and the bookmaker's name. 

"Ask Ullmer to bring his betting sheet, " the Steward said to anassistant. 

On the sheet, opposite John Porter's badge number, was a bet, $10, 000 to$4, 000, in the Lucretia column. 

"Did this gentleman make that bet with you?" the Steward asked ofUllmer. 

"He carries the number; besides I know Mr. Porter, I remember laying itto him. "

"Thank you, that will do. Hit you pretty hard, " he said, turning toPorter. "And you hadn't a saver on Lauzanne?"

"Not a dollar. "

"What about your buying him--is there anything in that story?"

Porter explained the purchase. The Steward nodded his head. 

"They seem to have been pretty sure of winning, those other people, "he commented; "but we can't do anything to them for winning; nor aboutselling you the horse, I fear; and as far as you're concerned, Lucretiawas supposed to be trying. Who gave your jockey orders?"

"Dixon. I don't interfere; he trains the horses. "

"We'd like to have Dixon up here again for a minute. I'm sorry we'vehad to trouble you, Mr. Porter; I can see there is not the slightestsuspicion attaches to you. "

In answer to the Steward's query about the order to McKay, Dixon said:"I told McKay the boss had a big bet down, and to make no mistake--noGrand Stand finish for me. I told him to get to the front as soon as hecould, and stay there, and win by as far as he liked. I got the officethat there'd be somethin' doin' in the race, an' I told him to get outby himself. "

After Dixon was dismissed, the Stewards consulted for a minute, with theresult that McKay was suspended for the balance of the meeting, pendinga further investigation into his methods. 

* * * * * * * * * * *

During the carpeting of Porter and Dixon, a sea of upturned faces, furrowed by lines of anxious interest, had surrounded the Judge's box. Wave on wave the living waters reached back over the grassed lawn to thebetting ring. An indefinable feeling that something was wrong had creptinto the minds of the waiting people, tense with excitement. 

As the horses had flashed past the post, and, after a brief wait fordecision, Lauzanne's number had gone up, his backers had hastenedeagerly to the money mart, and lined up in waiting rows behind thebookmakers' stands. There they waited, fighting their impatient soulsinto submission, for the brief wait would end in the acquiring of gold. Why did not the stentorian-voiced crier send through the ring the joyfulcry of "All right!" The minutes went by, and the delay became an age. A whisper vibrated the throng, as a breeze stirs slender branches, thatthe winner had been disqualified--that there had been an objection. First one dropped out of line; then another; one by one, until allstood, an army of expectant speculators, waiting for the verdict thathad its birthplace up in that tiny square building, the Stewards' Stand. 

"It's over the pulling of Lucretia, " a man said, simply to relieve hisstrained feelings. 

"It was the most barefaced job I ever saw, " declared another; "it's evenbetting the stable gets ruled off. " He had backed Porter's mare, and wasvindictive. 

"Not on your life, " sneered a Tout, wolfishly; "a big owner always getsoff. The jock'll get it in the neck if they've been caught. "

"Why don't they pay?" whined the fourth. "What's the pulling of the maregot to do with it? The best horse won. " He was a backer of Lauzanne. 

"Bet yer life the bookies won't part till the numbers of the placedhorses an' riders are up on that board again. They've run them down, don't you see?" chimed in the Tout. 

"I'll take two to one The Dutchman gets it, " said a backer of thathorse. "There's a job on, and they'll both get disqualified. Porter'skid won ten thousand over Lauzanne, and that's why they stiffened themare. "

"That's what the Public are up against in this game, " sneered the backerof Lucretia. 

"And the jock'll have to stand the shot; I know how it goes, " assertedthe Tout. 

"You ought to know, " drawled Lauzanne's backer. The racing men withinearshot smiled, for the Tout had been a jockey before his license hadbeen taken away for crooked work. 

"Hello! here it comes, " cried Lauzanne's backer, as a fat, red-faced mancame swiftly down from the Stewards' Stand, ran to the betting ring, andpushing his way through the crowd, called with the roar of a gorilla:"Al-l-l right! Lauzanne, first! The Dutchman, second! Lucretia, third!They're al-l-l weighed in!"

A Niagara of human beings poured from the lawn to the ring; they ran asthough the course was on fire and they sought to escape. 

"What about Lucretia?" some one asked. 

"They've broke McKay, " the red-faced crier answered; "suspended him. "

"What did I tell you?" sneered the Tout, maliciously; "it's the underdog gets the worst of it every time. "

* * * * * * * * * * *

A Celt, is an outspoken man when the prod of his hot temper has loosenedhis tongue, and Mike Gaynor was a Celt in excess. 

The injustice that had come to his benefactor, John Porter, had stirreda tempest in his Irish soul. A fierce exclamation of profane wrath hadgone up from him as he watched the bad start from over the paddock rail. 

A misguided retribution led Starter Carson to pass from the Judges'Stand after the race, along the narrow passage between the Club Standand the course, to the paddock gate. There he met Mike, who forthwithset to flailing him. 

"Did ye notice a little mare called Lucretia in that race, Mr. Carson--did ye see anythin' av her at all down at the post?"

Carson's eyes twinkled uneasily. Years of starting had taught him thatself-control was nine out of ten rules which should govern the Starter'sactions. 

"Was there anythin' th' mather wit' yer ancestor's eyes that ye come by, Mister Carson?"

The Starter made answer with a smile of good-humored tolerance. But Mikewas only warming up; the hot blood was stinging his quick brain, and hissharp tongue galloped on with unbridled irresponsibility. With the deeppathos of scorn he continued:

"Ye'r Carson the Stharter--Mister Carson! S'help me, Bob! ye couldn'tsthart a sthreet car down hill wit' bot' brakes off!"

Carson ceased to smile; the smile had passed to other faces, the ownersof which were listening with fiendish delight to the castigation. 

Some one touched Mike on the arm, saying, "Come over into the paddock, Gaynor; you're barkin' up the wrong tree. " It was Dixon. 

"Bot' t'umbs up! This game's too tough fer me--I'll ship me plugs toGravesend. Whin a straight man like Porther gets a deal av this kind. "

"Never mind, Mike, " interrupted Dixon; "let it drop. "

Carson opened his lips to retort, then closed them tight, set his squarejaw firmly, turned on his heel, and walked away. 

"What d' ye think av it, b'ys?" appealed Mike to the others. 

"You're wrong, Gaynor, " declared a thin, tall, hawkfaced man, who was inhis shirt sleeves; "my boy was in that run, and it isn't Carson's faultat all. It's dope, Mike. Lauzanne was fair crazy with it at the post;and McKay was dead to the world on the little mare--the Starter couldn'tget him away. "

"That's right, Mike, " added Dixon; "Carson fined the boy fifty, an' theStewards set him down. "

"Is that straight goods?" asked Gaynor, losing confidence in the justiceof his wordy assault. 

"Yes, you're wrong, Mike, " they all asserted. 

In five minutes Gaynor had found Carson, and apologized with the fullwarmth of a penitent Irishman. 

V

For a week John Porter brooded over Lucretia's defeat, and, worse still, over the unjust suspicion of the unthinking public. Touched in itspocket, the public responded in unsavory references to Lucretia's race. Porter loved a good horse, and liked to see him win. The confidenceof the public in his honesty was as great a reward as the stakes. Theavowed principle of racing, that it improved the breed of horses, wasbut a silent sentiment with him. He believed in it, but not being rich, raced as a profession, honestly and squarely. He had asserted more thanonce that if he were wealthy he would never race a two-year-old. Buthis income must be derived from his horses, his capital was in them; andjust at this time he was sitting in a particularly hard streak of badluck; financially, he was in a hole; morally, he stood ill with thepublic. 

His reason told him that the ill-fortune could not last; he had onegreat little mare, good enough to win, an honest trainer--there theinventory stopped short; his stock in trade was incomplete--he had not atrusty jockey. In his dilemma he threshed it out with Dixon. 

"How's the mare doing, Andy?" he asked. "What did the race do to her?"

"She never was better in her life, " the Trainer answered, proudly. Thenhe added, to ease the troubled look that was in the gray eyes of hismaster, "She'll win next time out, sir--I'll gamble my shirt on that. "

"Not with another McKay up. "

"I think she's good enough for the 'Eclipse, ' sir, dashed if I don't. Iworked her the distance, and she shaded the time they made last year. "

"What's the use, " said Porter, dejectedly; "where'll we get a boy?"

"Oh, lots of the boys are straight. "

"I know that, " Porter answered, "but all the straight ones are tied handand foot to the big stables. "

"I've been thinkin' it over, " hazarded Dixon, tentatively--"BostonBill's got a good lad--there's none of them can put it over him, an' hisboss ain't got nothin' in the 'Eclipse, ' I know. "

"That means the same old game, Andy; we nurse the horse, get him intocondition, place him where he can win, and then turn him over to aplunger and take the small end of the divide. Boston Bill would back heroff the boards. 

"The stake'd mount up to seven or eight thousand, an' the win wouldsquare the little mare with the public. "

"And I'd do that, if I didn't land a dollar, " said Porter. "Andy, ithurt me more to see the filly banged about there in the ruck than it didgiving up the money. "

The Trainer smiled. With him this was unusual; there was a popularsuperstition that he never smiled except when one of his horses won. But his heart expanded at Porter's words, for he, too, was fond of thelittle mare. 

Then Porter spoke again, abruptly, and fast, as though he feared hemight change his mind: "They downed me last trip, Dixon--I guess I'mgetting a bit slow in my paces; and you do just as you like--arrangewith Boston Bill if you think it's good business. He makes a specialtyof winning races--not pulling horses, and we need a win, too, I guess. "

"Thank you, sir. We'll land that stake; an' p'raps the sharp division'lltake a tumble. I'll bet a dollar they'll go for The Dutchman--he ran agreat race the other day, an' he's in the Eclipse--if they start him. Lurcetia's right on edge, she's lookin' for the key hole, an' may goback if we don't give her a race. We'd better get the money for the oatbill while it's in sight. She oughter be a long price in the bettin', too, " continued Dixon, meditatively; "the public soon sour on a beatenhorse. You'll have a chance to get even. "

"I don't like that part of it, " muttered Porter; "I'm in the black booksnow. People have no reason at all--no sense; they've got it into theirheads that dirty job was of my making, and if the filly starts at ten toone, and I win a bit, they'll howl. "

"You can't make a success of racin', sir, an' run your stable for thepublic--they don't pay the feed bill. "

"Perhaps you're right, Dixon, " answered Porter. 

For immediate financial relief Porter knew that he must look toLucretia--no other horse in his stable was ready to win; but moreimmediately he must arrange certain money matters with his banker, whowas Philip Crane. To Porter, Crane had been a tolerant financier, takingthe man's honesty liberally as a security; not but what Ringwoodhad been called upon as a tangible asset. So that day, following hisconversation with Dixin, the master of Ringwood had an interview withhis banker. It was natural that he should speak of his prospects--hishopes of winning the Eclipse with Lucretia, and, corroboratively, mention her good trial. 

"I think that's a good mare of yours, Mr. Porter, " said Crane, sympathetically. "I only race, myself in a small way, just for theoutdoor relaxation it gives me, you know, so I'm not much of ajudge. The other horse you bought--the winner of the race, I mean, Lauzanne--will also help put you right, I should say. "

Porter hesitated, uneasily. He disliked to talk about a man behind hisback, but he knew that Langdon trained for Crane, and longed to givethe banker a friendly word of warning; he knew nothing of the latter'smanipulation of the trainer. 

With a touch of rustic quaintness he said, with seeming irrelevance tothe subject, "Have you ever picked wild strawberries in the fields, Mr. Crane?"

"I have, " answered the other man, showing no surprise at the break, forlife in Brookfield had accustomed him to disjointed deals. 

"Did you ever notice that going down wind you could see the berriesbetter?"

Crane thought for a moment. "Yes, that's right; coming up wind theleaves hid them. "

"Just so, " commented Porter; "and when a man's got a trainer he's nearlyalways working up wind with him. "

"The trainer hides things?" queried Crane. 

"Some do. But the outsiders walking down wind see the berries. "

And the Banker pondered for a minute, then he said, "Whose garden arethe berries in, Mr. Porter, yours or mine?"

"Well, you've always been a good friend of mine, Mr. Crane, " Porteranswered, evasively. 

"I see, " said the other, meditatively; "I understand. I'm much obliged. If I thought for an instant that any trainer wasn't dealing perfectlystraightforward with me, I'd have nothing more to do with him--nothingwhatever. "

Crane sat looking through the open window at John Porter as the latterwent down the street. About his thin-lipped, square-framed mouth hoveredan expression that might have been a smile, or an intense look ofinterest, or a touch of avaricious ferocity. The gray eyes peeped overthe wall of their lower lids, and in them, too, was the unfathomablesomething. 

"Yes, " he repeated, as though Porter still stood beside him, "if Langdontried to deceive me, I'd crush him. Poor old Porter with his story ofthe strawberries! If he were as clever as he is honest, he wouldn't havebeen stuck with a horse like Lauzanne. I told Langdon to get rid of thatquitter, but I almost wish he'd found another buyer for him. The horsetaint is pretty strong in that Porter blood. How the girl said thatline, 'And a hush came over the clamorous mob; Like a babe on his neck I was sobbing. '

She's cleverer than her father. "

Crane sat for an hour. Porter had vanished from the landscape, but stillthe Banker's thoughts clung to his personality as though the peepingeyes saw nothing else. 

From the time of the first loan obtained upon Ringwood, Crane hadcoveted the place. It appealed to him with its elm-bordered, sweepingdriveway, leading from gate to old colonial residence. Its thick-grassedfields and running water made it just the place for a man who temperedhis passion for racing with common sense. And it would pass fromPorter's hands right enough--Crane knew that. Porter might call it illluck, but he, Crane the Banker, knew it was the lack of something, theinability to make money. 

"Made music to me on Crusader. " Yes, that was it. With the Porters itwas jingle of spurs, and stride of the horse. All very fine in theory, but racing, as he looked at it, was a question of proper odds, and manyother things connected with the betting ring. 

Why did the girl, Allis, with her jingling verse creep into his mind. Perhaps it was because she was so different from the woman who wasalways steeped in stephanotis. Of the one there was only the memoryof an unmodulated voice and oppressive perfume; in truth, of the otherthere was not much more--just a pair of big, blue-gray, honesteyes, that somehow stared at him fearlessly, and withal with a greatsweetness. 

Crane suddenly chuckled in dry disapprobation of himself. Grotesquelyenough, all at once he remembered that he was forty--that very dayforty. He ran his hand over his waistcoat, dipped two fingers into thepocket and drew out a cigar. Ordinarily the face of an alabaster Buddhawas mobile and full of expression compared with Crane's. His mind workedbehind a mask, but it worked with the clean-cut precision of clockwork. When his thoughts had crystallized into a form of expression, Crane wasvery apt to be exactly right in his deductions. 

Save for the curling smoke that streamed lazily upward from his cigarone might have thought the banker fast asleep in his chair, so still hesat, while his mind labored with the quiescent velocity of a spinningtop. He had won a big stake over Lauzanne's victory. The race had helpedbeggar Porter, and brought Ringwood nearer his covetous grasp. If Porterfailed to win the Eclipse, his finances would be in a pitiable state; hemight even have to sell his good filly Lucretia. That would be a goldenopportunity. 

From desiring the farm, insensibly Crane drifted into coveting the mare. He fell to wondering whether The Dutchman might not beat Lucretia. Aquestion of this sort was one of the few he discussed with Langdon. Crane had smoked his cigar out, had settled the trend of many things, and developed the routine for his chessmen. 

"I'll give Porter rope enough, in the way of funds, to tangle himself, and in the meantime I'll run up to New York and see what Langdon thinksabout The Dutchman, " was the shorthand record of his thoughts as hethrew away the end of his cigar, took his hat, and passed out of thebank. 

That evening he talked with his trainer. 

"What should win the Eclipse, Langdon?" he asked. 

"Well, I don't know what'll start, " began the Trainer, with diplomaticcaution, running over in his mind the most likely twoyear-olds. 

"Would Porter's mare have a chance?"

"I think she would. I hear somethin' about a trial she gave them goodenough to win--if I could find out her time--Porter don't talk much, an'Andy Dixon's like a clam. There's a boy in the stable, Shandy, that Imight pump--"

"Don't bother, Mr. Langdon; I dislike prying into anybody's business. "

The Trainer stared, but he didn't know that Porter had told Crane allabout the trial, and so the latter could afford to take a virtuous pose. 

"Has The Dutchman a look in?" continued Crane. 

"On his runnin' he has; he wasn't half fit, an' got as bad a ride asever I see in my life. The race ought to be between 'em--I ain't seen notwo-year-olds out to beat that pair. "

"If I thought The Dutchman would win I'd buy him. I like game horses, and men, too--that'll take the gaff and try. "

"I don't know as the owner'd sell him. "

"Do you remember the buying of Silver Foot, Langdon?"

"Yes. "

"He was a good horse. "

"The best handicap horse in the country, an' he was sold for asong--seven thousand. "

"Less than that, the first time, " corrected Crane. 

"Yes, they stole him from old Walters; made him believe the horse was nogood. "

"Just so, " commented Crane; "I've heard that story, " and his smooth, putty-like face remained blank and devoid of all meaning, as his eyespeered vacantly over their lower lids at the Trainer. 

Langdon waited for the other to continue, but the Banker seemed wrappedup in a retrospect of the Silver Foot deal. 

"I know Billy Smith, that trains The Dutchman, " hazarded Langdon; "he'sa boozer. "

"I'm glad of that--I mean, that you know Smith, " declared Crane. "Ihappen to know the owner--his name is Baker. His racing is what might becalled indiscriminate, and like men of that class he sometimes blundersupon a good horse without knowing it; and I doubt very much but that ifhe knew all about the other race--how bad Lauzanne really is; how themare, Lucretia--well--got shut off, and couldn't get through her horses, say--of course his own trainer, Smith, would have to tell these things, you understand. In fact, if he knew the exact truth, he might take areasonable offer for The Dutchman. "

Langdon nodded approvingly. He loved his subtle master; cards up hissleeves tingled his nerves, and loaded dice were a joy for evermore. 

Crane proceeded to unwind the silken cord. "Naturally Smith would hateto lose a fair horse out of his stable, and would, perhaps, attempt tothwart any deal; so I think you might remunerate him for his loss. "

"When Silver Foot was sold, they gave him a bad trial before the sale--"

"I'm not interested in Silver Foot, " interrupted Crane; "and I shouldn'tlike to have anything--well, I don't want my name associated withanything shady, you understand, Langdon? You are to buy The Dutchman ascheap as you can, and run him as your own horse in the Eclipse. Ithink Porter's mare will win it, so we needn't lose anything over TheDutchman. "

Langdon started. With all his racing finesse he was a babe. The smooth, complacent-faced man in front of him made him realize this. 

"But, " he gasped, "there was a row over Lauzanne's race. If The Dutchmanruns in my name, an' a lot o' mugs play him--it's dollars to doughnutsthey will--an' he gets beat, there'll be a kick. I can't take no chancesof bein' had up by the Stewards. "

"Wait a bit, " replied Crane, calmly. "Supposing Porter's mare workedfive and a half furlongs in 1. 07, how would she go in the Eclipse?"

"She'd win in a walk; unless The Dutchman was at his best when he mightgive her an argument. "

"Well, if I thought The Dutchman could beat the mare, I'd make him win, if he never carried the saddle again, " declared Crane, almost fiercely. Then he interrupted himself, breaking off abruptly. Very seldom indeedit was that Crane gave expression to sentiment; his words were simplya motor for carrying the impact of his well-thought-out plans to theexecutive agents. "It will be doing Porter a good turn to-to-that is, ifLucretia wins. I fancy he needs a win. Bad racing luck will hardly stopthe mare this time--not twice in succession you know, Langdon, " and helooked meaningly at his jackal. "You buy The Dutchman, and be good tohim. "

He laid marked emphasis on the words "be good to him. " The trainerunderstood. It meant that he was to send The Dutchman to the post halffit, eased up in his work; then the horse could try, and the jockeycould try, and, in spite of it all, the fast filly of Porter's wouldwin, and his subtle master, Crane, would have turned the result to hisown benefit. Why should he reason, or object, or counterplot, or doanything but just follow blindly the dictates of this past master in theoblique game he loved so well? Crane wanted The Dutchman because he wasa good horse; he also wanted to have a heavy plunge on Lucretia; butwith the son of Hanover in other hands the good thing might not comeoff. Somehow Langdon felt miserably inefficient in the presenceof Crane--his self-respect suffered; the other man's mind was soovermastering, even to detail. The Trainer felt a sudden desire toright himself in Crane's estimation, give some evidence of ordinaryintelligence, or capability to carry out his mission. "If The Dutchman'sowner was made to think that the horse was likely to break down, throw asplint, or--"

But Crane interrupted him in his quiet, masterful way, saying: "I knownothing of horse trading; I simply furnish the money, loan it to you, mydear Mr. Langdon, and you buy the animal in your own best way. Youwill pay for him with a check on my bank. " No man could close out aninterview so effectually as Crane. As Langdon slipped away as though hehad been thrust bodily from the room, there was in his mind nothing butadmiration of his master--the man who backed up his delicate diplomacywith liberal capital. 

In spite of what he had said to Langdon, there was little doubt inCrane's mind but that the son of Hanover was a better horse thanLucretia. A sanguine owner--even Porter was one at times--was so aptto overrate everything in his own stable, especially if he had bred theanimal himself, as Porter had Lucretia. To buy The Dutchman and back himon such short ownership to beat Lucretia would have been the policy ofa very ordinary mind indeed; he would simply be fencing, with rapiers ofequal length, with John Porter. 

Crane had attained to his success by thinking a little deeper than othermen, going a little beyond them in the carefulness of his plans. Heknew intuitively--in fact Porter's unguarded conversation had suggestedit--that Lucretia's owner meant to win himself out of his difficultposition by backing the little mare heavily for the Eclipse, expectingto get his money on at good odds. By owning The Dutchman Crane couldwhipsaw the situation; forestall Porter in the betting by backingLucretia down to a short price himself, and have Jakey Faust lay witha full vigor against the Hanover colt. He would thus confine Porter tostake money, and Ringwood would still lie chained to his bank by thegolden links he had forged on the place. 

Almost insensibly, side by side with this weed of villainy there wasgrowing in Crane's mind a most peculiar flower of sentiment, a loveblossom. Strive as he would--though the apathy of his rebellion somewhatstartled him--Crane could not obliterate from his thoughts the wondrousgray eyes of Allis Porter. Even after Langdon was gone, the atmosphereof the room still smirched by unholy underplay, thoughts of the girlcame to Crane, jostling and elbowing the evil conceptions of hisrestless mind. Grotesquely incongruous as it was, Crane was actuallyin love; but the love flower, pure enough in itself, had rooted inmarvelous ground. His passion was absolutely love, nothing else--love atfirst sight. But he was forty, and the methods of that many years muststill govern his actions. Instinctively he felt that he must win thegirl by diplomacy; and Crane's idea of diplomacy was to get a manirrevocably in his power. If John Porter were indebted to him beyondredemption, if he practically owned Ringwood, why should he not succeedwith Allis? All his life he had gone on in just that way, breaking men, for broken men were beyond doubt but potter's clay. 

Langdon bought The Dutchman. What methods he employed Crane took nopains to discover; in fact, stopped Langdon abruptly when he sought toenlarge on the difficulties he had overcome in the purchase. The pricewas the only item that interested Crane--seven thousand dollars; thatincluded everything--even the secret service money. 

The horse acquired, Crane had one more move to make; he sent for JakeyFaust, the Bookmaker. Faust and Crane had a reciprocal understanding. When the Bookmaker needed financial assistance he got it from theBanker; when Crane needed a missionary among the other bookmakers, Faustacted for him. 

"I want to back Lucretia for the 'Eclipse, "' Crane said to thebookmaker. 

"Lucretia, " ejaculated Faust. "She'll have a rosy time beatin' Dutchy ontheir last race. They'll put a better boy up on the colt next time, an'he ought to come home all by himself" "Yes, a fairish sort of a jockwill have the mount I think-Westley's a good enough boy. "

"Westley?" came wonderingly from Faust. 

"Yes; Langdon owns The Dutchman now. "

The Cherub pursed his fat round lips in a soft whistle of enlightenment. It had staggered him at first that Crane, for whose acumen he had aprofound respect, should have intended such a hazardous gamble; now hesaw light. 

"Then my book is full on the Porter mare?" he said, inquiringly. Cranenodded his head. 

"An' I lay against the Hanover colt?"

Again Crane nodded. 

"It's not bookmaking, " continued Faust. 

"I'm not a bookmaker, " retorted Crane. "And see here, Faust, " hecontinued, "when you've got my money on the Porter mare--when and how Ileave to you--I want you to cut her price short--do you understand? Makeher go to the post two to one on, if you can; don't forget that. "

"If the mare goes wrong?" objected Faust. 

"I don't think she will, but you needn't be in a hurry--there's plentyof time. "

"What's the limit?" asked Faust. 

"I want her backed down to even money at least, " Crane answered;"probably ten thousand will do it. At any rate you can go that far. "

Then for a few days Langdon prepared his new horse for the Eclipseaccording to his idea of Crane's idea; and Dixon rounded Lucretia toin a manner that gladdened John Porter's heart. They knew nothing ofanything but that Lucretia was very fit, that they had Boston Bill'sjockey to ride straight and honest for them, and that with a good priceagainst the mare they would recoup all their losses. 

VI

The day of the race when John Porter went into the betting ring he wasconfronted with even money about his mare. If he had read on the ringblackboard a notice that she was dead, he would not have been moreastonished. He fought his way back to the open of the paddock withoutmaking a bet. 

"Even money!" ejaculated Dixon when his owner told him of the ringsituation, "why, they're crazy. Who's doin' it?"

"Not the public, " declared Porter, "for I was there just after the firstbetting. It must be your friend Boston Bill that has forestalled us;nobody else knew of the mare's trial. "

"Not on your life, Mr. Porter; Boston plays fair. D'ye think he couldlive at this game if he threw down his friends?"

"But nobody else even knew that we'd got a good boy for the mare. "

"It don't make no difference, " curtly answered Dixon; "it's a milliondollars to a penny whistle that Boston hasn't a dollar on yet. Ouragreement was that he'd send in his commission when they were at thepost, an' his word's like your own, sir, as solid as a judge's decision. It's some one else. There's somebody behind that damned Langdon--he'snot clever enough for all this. D'you know that The Dutchman's runnin'in Langdon's name to-day?"

"He is?'

"Yes; he's supposed to own him. "

"But what's that got to do with Lucretia's price?"

"It means that we're goin' to be allowed to win. The other day theylaid against her, an' she got beat; to-day they're holdin' her out, so Isuppose she'll win, but somebody else gets the benefit. "

"Gad! that Langdon must be a crook, " muttered Porter. "I'm going tospeak to my friend Crane about him again. No honest man should havehorses in his stable. "

"That they shouldn't, " asserted Dixon. "But we've got our own troublesto-day. From what I see of this thing, I'd rather back the mare at evenmoney than I would if she was ten to one. If I'm any judge we're beingbuncoed good and plenty. "

"I think you're right Dixon. I'll go back and have a good bet down onher at evens. "

But in five minutes Lucretia's owner was back in the paddock with thecheerful intelligence that the mare was now three to five. 

"I wouldn't back 'Salvator' among a lot of cart horses at that price, "commented Dixon; "leave it alone, an' we'll go for the Stake. We'reup against it good and hard; somebody seems to know more about our ownhorse than we do ourselves. "

"I think myself that the gods are angry with us, Dixon, " said Portermoodily; "and the mortals will be furious, too, whichever way the racegoes. They've backed the little mare at this short price no doubt, an'if she's beaten they'll howl; if she wins they'll swear my money was onto-day, and that I pulled her in her last race. "

John Porter sat in the Grand Stand with his usual companion, Allis, beside him, as The Dutchman, Lucretia, and the other Eclipse horsespassed down the broad spread of the straight Eclipse course to thefive-and-a-half furlong post. 

Though Porter had missed his betting, he intuitively felt the joy of ananticipated win. Only a true lover of thoroughbreds can know anything ofthe mad tumult of exultation that vibrates the heart strings as aloved horse comes bravely, gallantly out from the surging throng of hisrivals, peerless and king of them all, stretching his tapered neck witheager striving, and goes onward, past the tribunal, first and alone, theleader, the winner, the one to be cheered of the many thousands wroughtto frenzy by his conquest. 

"Surely Lucretia will win to-day, father--don't you think so?" askedAllis; "I feel that she will. "

"She's got a big weight up, " he answered. "She's a little bit of athing, and it may drive her into the ground coming down the Eclipsehill. I expect they'll come at a terrible jog, too; they don't oftenhang back on that course. "

Now that the betting worry and the labor of getting an honest boy wereover--that the horses had gone to the post, and that the race restedwith Lucretia herself, Porter's mind had relaxed. Even at the timeof the very struggle itself tension had gone from him; he was in ameditative mood, and spoke on, weighing the chances, with Allis asaudience. 

"But they'll have to move some to beat the little mare's trial--they'llmake it in record time if they head her, I think. "

"Isn't the horse that beat her the other day in, too, father?"

"The Dutchman-yes, but I fancy his owner is backing my mare. "

"Father!"

"It wouldn't make any difference, though; she'd beat him anyway. If I'many judge, he's short. "

Allis felt a rustle at her elbow as though someone wished to passbetween the seats. The faintest whiff of stephanotis came to her on thelazy summer air. Involuntarily she turned her head and looked for theharsh-voiced woman who had been verily steeped in the aggressive odorthe day of Lauzanne's triumph. Two burly men sat behind her. They, surely, did not affect perfumery. Higher up the stand her eyesearched--four rows back sat the woman Alan had said was Langdon'ssister. There was no forgetting the flamboyant brilliancy of herapparel. But the almost fancied zephyr of stephanotis was minglingwith the rustle at her elbow; she turned her head inquiringly in thatdirection, and Crane's eyes peeped at her over the stone wall of theirnarrow lids. He was standing in the passage just beyond her father, nowlooking wistfully at the vacant seat on her left. 

"Good afternoon, Miss Porter--how are you, Porter? May I sit here withyou and see Lucretia win?"

"Come in, come in!" answered Porter, frankly. 

"I was sitting with some friends higher up in the stand, when I saw youhere, and thought I'd like to make one of the victorious party. "

Allis knew who the friends were; the clinging touch of stephanotis hadcome with him. The discrepancy in Crane's sentiments jarred on Allis. That other day this woman had been his trainer's sister, recognized forpolitic purposes; to-day he had been sitting with "friends. "

Topping the rail in the distance, just where the course kinked a littleto the left, Allis could see the blur of many colored silks in thesunlight. Then it seemed to flatten down almost level with the rail, asthe horses broadened out to the earth in racing spread and the ridersclung low to the galloping colts, for they had started. 

"There they come, " said Crane. "What's in the lead, Porter?" Porterdid not answer. A man could have counted thirty before he said, "TheDutchman's out in front--a length, and they're coming down the hill likemad. "

Allis felt her heart sink. Was it to be the same old story--was therealways to be something in front of Lucretia?

"Where is your mare?" Crane asked. 

His own glass lay idly in his lap. Though he spoke of the race, it wascurious that his eyes were watching the play of Allis's features, ashope and Despair fought their old human-torturing fight over again inher heart. 

"Now she's coming!" Porter's voice made Crane jump; he had almostforgotten the race. To the close-calculating mind it had been settleddays before. The Dutchman would not win, and Lucretia was the best ofthe others--why worry?

They were standing now--everybody was. 

"Now, my beauty, they'll have to gallop, " Porter was saying. They wereclose up, and Crane could see that Lucretia had got to the bay colt'shead, and he was dying away. He smiled cynically as he watched Westleygo to the whip on The Dutchman, with Lucretia half a length in the lead. Most certainly Langdon was an excellent trainer; The Dutchman was justgood enough to last into second place, and Lucretia had won handily. What a win Crane had had!

A little smothered gasp distracted his momentary thought of success, and, turning quickly, he saw tears in a pair of gray eyes that were setin a smiling face. 

"Like a babe on his neck I was sobbing, " came back to Crane out of thepoem Allis had recited. 

"I congratulate you, Miss Porter, " he said, raising his hat. Then heturned, and held out his hand to her father, saying: "I'm glad you'vewon, Porter--I thought you would. The Dutchman quit when he waspinched. "

"It wasn't the colt's fault--he was short, " said Porter. "I shouldn'tlike to have horses in that man's stable--he's too good a trainer forme. "

There was a marked emphasis on Porter's words; he was trying to giveCrane a friendly hint. 

"You mean it's a case of strawberries?" questioned Crane. 

"Well I know it takes a lot of candles to find a lost quarter, " remarkedPorter, somewhat ambiguously. Then he added, "I must go down to thankDixon; I guess this is his annual day for smiling. "

"I'm coming, too, father, " said Allis; "I want to thank Lucretia, andgive her a kiss, brave little sweetheart. "

After Allis and her father had left Crane, he sat for a minute or twowaiting for the crowd of people that blocked the passageway after eachrace to filter down on the lawn. The way seemed clearer presently, and Crane fell in behind a knot of loud-talking men. The two of largeproportions who had sat behind Allis, were like huge gate posts jammedthere in the narrow way. As he moved along slowly he presently hadknowledge of a presence at his side--a familiar presence. Raising hiseyes from a contemplation of the heels in front of him, he saw BelleLangdon. She nodded with patronizing freedom. 

"I lost you, " she said. 

"I was sitting with some friends here, " he explained. 

"Yes, I saw her, " she commented pointedly. 

At that instant one of the stout men in front said, with a bear's snarl, "Well that's the worst ever; I've seen some jobs in my time, but thisputs it over anything yet. "

"Didn't you back the little mare?" a thin voice squealed. It was the'Pout. 

"Back nothin'! The last time out she couldn't untrack herself; an' todayshe comes, without any pull in the weight, and wins in a walk from TheDutchman; and didn't he beat her just as easy the other day?"

Belle Langdon looked into Crane's face, and her eyes were charged witha look of reciprocal meaning. Crane winched. How aggressively obnoxiousthis half-tutored girl, mistress of many gay frocks, could make herself!There was an implied crime-partnership in her glance which revolted him. Dick Langdon must have talked in his own home. Crane's conscience--well, he hardly had one perhaps, at least it was always subevident; to putit in another way, the retrospect of his manipulated diplomacy neverbothered him; but this gratuitous sharing in his evil triumph wasdisquieting. The malicious glitter of the girl's small black eyescontrasted strongly with the honest, unaffected look that was forever inthe big tranquil eyes of Allis. 

They were just at the head of the steps, and the Tout was saying to thefat expostulator: "I could have put you next; I steered a big bettoron--he won a thousand over the mare. I saw Boston's betting man havin'an old-time play, an' I knew it was a lead-pipe cinch. He's a sure thingbettor, he is; odds don't make no difference to him, the shorter thebetter--that's when his own boy's got the mount. "

"It's all right to be wise after the race, " grunted the fat man. 

"G'wan! the stable didn't have a penny on Lucretia last time; an' whatdo you suppose made her favorite to-day?" queried the Tout, derisively. "It took a bar'l of money, " he continued, full of his own logicaldeductions, "an' I'll bet Porter cleaned up twenty thousand. He's apretty slick cove, is old 'Honest John, ' if you ask me. "

The girl at Crane's side cackled a laugh. "He's funny, isn't he?" shesaid, nodding her big plumed hat in the direction of the man-group. 

"He's a talkative fool!" muttered the Banker, shortly. "The steps areclear on the other side, Miss Langdon, you can get down there. I've gotto go into the paddock; you'll excuse me. "

Being vicious for the fun of the thing had never appealed to Crane; heraced as he did everything else--to win. If other men suffered, thatwas the play of fate. He never talked about these things himself, almostdisliked to think of them. He turned his back on Belle Langdon and wentdown the right-hand steps. On the grass sward at the bottom he stoppedfor an instant to look across at the jockey board. 

Three men had just came out of the refreshment bar under the stand. Theywere possessed of many things; gold of the bookmakers in their pockets, and it's ever-attendant exhilaration in their hearts. One of themhad cracked a bottle of wine at the bar, as tribute to the exceedingswiftness of Lucretia, for he had won plentifully. At that particularstage there was nothing left but to talk it over, and they talked. Crane, avaricious, unhesitating in his fighting, devoid of sympathy, wasnot of the eavesdropping class, but as he stood there he was as mucha part of the other men's conversation as though he had been a fourthmember of the brotherhood. 

"I tell you none of these trainers ain't in it with a gentlemanowner--when he takes to racin'. When a man of brains takes to runnin'horses as a profesh, he's gen'rally a Jim Dandy. " It was he of thewine-opening who let fall these words of wise value. 

"D'you mean Porter, Jim?" asked number two of the trio. 

"Maybe that's his name. An' he put it all over Mister Langdon thistrip. "

"As how?" queried the other. 

"Last time he runs his mare she's got corns in her feet the wholejourney, an' all the time he owns the winner, Lauzanne, see?--buys himbefore they go out. Then Langdon thinks The Dutchman's the goods, an'buys him at a fancy price--gives a bale of long goods for him--I've gotit straight that he parted with fifteen thousand. Then the gentlemanowner, Honest John, turns the trick with Lucretia, an' makes TheDutchman look like a sellin' plater. "

"I guess Langdon'll feel pretty sick, " hazarded number three. 

"I'd been watchin' the game, " continued the wine man, "an' soon's I sawa move to-day from the wise guys in the ring, I plumped for the mare'toot sweet. "'

What an extraordinary thing manipulation was, Crane mused, as helistened; also how considerable of an ass the public was in itstheoretical wisdom. 

Then the three men drifted away to follow some new toy balloon oferratic possibilities, and Crane wound through the narrow passage whichled to the paddock. There he encountered Langdon. 

"He didn't run a very good horse, sir, " began the Trainer. 

"I thought otherwise, " replied Crane, measuring the immediate vicinityof listeners. 

"I had to draw it a bit fine, " declared Langdon, with apologeticremonstrance. 

"Running second is always bad business, except in a selling race, "retorted his master. 

"I've got to think of myself, " growled Langdon. "If he'd been beat off, there'd been trouble; the Stewards have got the other race in their cropa bit yet. "

"I'm not blaming you, Langdon, only I was just a trifle afraid that youwere going to beat Porter's mare. He's a friend of mine, and needed awin badly. I'm not exactly his father confessor, but I'm his banker, which amounts to pretty much the same thing. "

"What about the horse, sir, " asked the Trainer. 

"We'll see later on. Let him go easy for the present. "

"I wonder what he meant by that, " Langdon mused to himself, as Cranemoved away. "He don't make nobody a present of a race for love. "Suddenly he stumbled upon a solution of the enigma. "Well, I'm damnedif that wasn't slick; he give me the straight tip to leave Porter tohim--to let him do the plannin'; I see. "

VII

Porter was an easy man with his horses. Though he could not afford, because of his needs, to work out his theory that two-year-olds shouldnot be raced, yet he utilized it as far as possible by running them atlonger intervals than was general. 

"I'll start the little mare about once more this season, " he told Dixon. "The babes can't cut teeth, and grow, and fight it out in punishingraces on dusty hay and hard-shelled oats, when they ought to be pickinggrass in an open field. She's too good a beast to do up in her youngdays. The Assassins made good three-year-olds, and the little mare'sdam, Maid of Rome, wasn't much her first year out--only won once--but asa three-year-old she won three out of four starts, and the fourth yearnever lost a race. Lucretia ought to be a great mare next year if I layher by early this season. She's in a couple of stakes at Gravesend andSheepshead, and we'll just fit her into the softest spot. "

"What about Lauzanne?" asked the Trainer, "I'm afraid he's a bad horse. "

"How is he doing?"

"He's stale. He's a bad doer--doesn't clean up his oats, an' mopes. "

"I guess that killing finish with The Dutchman took the life out of him. That sort of thing often settles a soft-hearted horse for all time. "

"I don't think it was the race, sir, " Dixon replied; "they just pumpedthe cocaine into him till he was fair blind drunk; he must a' swallowedthe bottle. I give him a ball, a bran mash, and Lord knows what all, an'the poison's workin' out of him. He's all breakin' out in lumps; you'dthink he'd been stung by bees. "

"I never heard of such a thing, " commented Porter. "A man that woulddope a two-year-old ought to be ruled off, sure. "

"I think you oughter make a kick, sir, " said Dixon, hesitatingly. 

"I don't. When I squeal, Andy, it'll be when there's nothing butthe voice left. I bought a horse from a man once just as he stood. I happened to know the horse, and said I didn't want anyinspection--didn't want to see him, but bought him, as I say, just ashe stood. When I went to the stable to get him he wasn't worth much, Andy--he was dead. Perhaps I might have made a kick about his notstanding up, but I didn't. "

"Well, sir, I'm thinkin' Lauzanne's a deuced sight worse'n a dead horse;he'll cost more tryin' to win with him. "

"I dare say you're right, but he can gallop a bit. "

"When he's primed. "

"No dope for me, Andy. I never ran a dope horse and never will--I'm toofond of them to poison them. "

"I'll freshen him up a bit, sir, and we'll give him a try in a day ortwo. Would you mind puttin' him in a sellin' race?--he cost a bit. "

"He couldn't win anything else, and if anybody wants to claim him theycan. "

"I thought of starting Diablo in that mile handicap; he's in prettylight. He's about all we've got ready. "

"All right, Dixon, " Porter replied. "It may be that we've broke our badluck with the little mare. "

They were standing in the paddock during this conversation. It was inthe forenoon; Dixon had come over to the Secretary's office to see aboutsome entries before twelve o'clock. When the Trainer had finished hisbusiness, the two men walked across the course and infield to Stable 12, where Dixon had his horses. As they passed over the "Withers Course, " asthe circular track was called, Dixon pointed to the dip near the lowerfar turn. 

"It's a deuced funny thing, " he said, speaking reminiscently, "but thatlittle hollow there settles more horses than the last fifty yards ofthe finish; it seems to make the soft ones remember that they're runnin'when they get that change, an' they stop. I bet Diablo'll quit rightthere, he's done it three or four times. "

"He was the making of a great horse as a two-year-old, wasn't he, Andy?"

"They paid a long price for him, if that's any line; but I think henever was no good. It don't matter how fast a horse is if he won't try. "

"I've an idea Diablo'll be a good horse yet, " mused Porter. "You can'tmake a slow horse gallop, but there's a chance of curing a horse'stemper by kind treatment. I've noticed that a squealing pig generallyruns like the devil when he takes it into his head. "

"Diablo's a squealing pig if there ever was one, " growled Dixon. 

They reached the track stable, and, as if by a mutual instinct, the twomen walked on till they stood in front of Lauzanne's stall. 

"He's a good enough looker, ain't he?" commented Dixon, as he dippedunder the door bar, went into the stall, and turned the horse about. "He's the picture of his old sire, Lazzarone, " he continued, looking thehorse over critically; "an' a damned sight bigger rogue, though theold one was bad enough. Lazzarone won the Suburban with blinkers on hishead, bandages on his legs, an' God knows what in his stomach. He wassecond in the Brooklyn that same year. I've always heard he was a mule, an' I guess this one got it all, an' none of the gallopin'. "

"How does he work with the others?" queried Porter. 

"Runs a bit, an' then cuts it--won't try a yard. Of course he's sickfrom the dope, an' the others are a bit fast for him. If we put him in asellin' race, cheap, he'd have a light weight, an' might do better. "

Porter walked on to Lucretia's stall, and the trainer continued in amonologue to Lauzanne: "You big slob! you're a counterfeit, if thereever was one. But I'll stand you a drink just to get rid of you; I'llput a bottle of whisky inside of your vest day after to-morrow, an' ifyou win p'raps somebody'll buy you. "

Lauzanne did not answer-it's a way horses have. It is doubtful if hismind quite grasped the situation, even. That neither Dixon, norLangdon, nor the jockey boys understood him he knew--not clearly, but approximately enough to increase his stubbornness, to rouse hisresentment. They had not even studied out the pathology of his descentsufficiently well to give him a fair show, to train him intelligently. They remembered that his sire, Lazzarone, had a bad temper; but theyforgot that he was a stayer, not 'given to sprinting. Even Lauzanne'sdam, Bric-a-brac, was fond of a long route, was better at amile-and-a-half than five furlongs. 

Lauzanne knew what had come to him of genealogy, not in his mind somuch as in his muscles. They were strong but sluggish, not active butnon-tiring. Langdon had raced Lauzanne with sprinting colts, and whenthey ran away from him at the start he had been unequal to the task ofoverhauling them in the short two-year-old run of half-a-mile. Then thewise man had said that Lauzanne's courage was at fault; the jockeyshad called it laziness, and applied the whip. And out of all thisuselessness, this unthinking philosophy, the colt had come with a souredtemper, a broken belief in his masters--"Lauzanne the Despised. "

Porter's trust that his ill luck had been changed by a win was a faithof short life, for Diablo was most emphatically beaten in his race. 

And then came the day of forlorn hope, the day of Lauzanne's disgrace, inasmuch as it de-graduated him into the selling-platter class. 

Bad horse as Langdon knew Lauzanne to be, it occurred to him that Porterhad planned a clever coup. He had an interview with Crane over thesubject, but his master did not at all share the Trainer's belief. 

"What price would Lucretia, or The Dutchman, be in with the same lot?"Langdon asked, argumentatively. 

"About one to ten, " Crane replied. "But the Chestnut's beating them hadno bearing on this race. From what I see of Mr. Dixon, I don't at allclass him with you as a trainer--he hasn't the same resource. "

Langdon stood silent, sullenly turning over in his mind this doubtfulcompliment. 

"I'm not sure, " continued the Banker, "but that having stuck Porter withLauzanne, you shouldn't give him a hint about--well, as to what courseof preparation would make Lauzanne win a race for him. The ordinary dietof oats is hardly stimulating enough for such a sluggish animal. "

Langdon frowned. If Crane had not been quite so strong, quite so full ofunexpressed power, he would have rebelled at the assertion that he hadstuck Porter; but he answered, and his voice struggled between asperityand deprecation, "There ain't no call for me to give that stable anypointers; Porter put it to me pretty straight that the horse had beenhelped. "

"And what did you say?" blandly inquired Crane. 

"Told him to go to hell. "

This wasn't exactly truthful as we remember the interview, but itsterseness appealed to Crane, and he smiled as he said: "Porter probablywon't take your advice, Langdon; he's stubborn enough at times. And evenif he does know that--that--Lauzanne' requires special treatment, hewon't indulge him--he's got a lot of old-fashioned ideas about racing. So you see Lauzanne is a bad betting proposition. "

After Langdon had left Crane's thoughts dwelt on the subject they hadjust discussed. 

"From a backer's point of view Lauzanne is certainly bad business, " hemused; "but the public will reason just as Langdon does. And what's badfor the backers is good for the layers; I must see Faust. "

"You had better make a book to beat Lauzanne, " Crane said to JakeyFaust, just before business had commenced in the ring that afternoon. 

The Cherub stared in astonishment; his eyes opened wide. That wasnearly the limit of his fat little face's expression, no matter what theoccasion. 

"You don't own him now, do you, sir?" he blurted out, with unthinkingcandor. 

"I do not. "

"He's dropped into a soft spot--he rates best in the percentage card. "

"Figures sometimes lie, " commented Crane. 

"Every handicapper tips him to win. "

"They're all broke because of their knowledge. "

"The books'll mark him up first choice. "

"That's why it will be worth while playing the field to beat him. "

"He's in with a gang of muts to-day, an' he beat some cracker-jacks lasttime out. "

"You were hypnotized that day, Mr. Faust; so was the Judge. Lauzannedidn't beat anything. "

"Didn't beat--what the hell--didn't the Chestnut get the verdict?"

"He did; but--" and Crane looked at Faust, with patient toleration ofhis lack of perception. 

The Cherub waited for an explanation of these contradictory remarks. Buthe might have waited indefinitely--Crane had quite finished. The Cherubraised his little round eyes, that were like glass alleys, green and redand blue-streaked, to the other's face inquiringly, and encountered apair of penetrating orbs peering at him over some sort of a mask--theface that sustained the eyes was certainly a mask--as expressionless. Then it came to Jakey Faust that there was nothing left to do but fillthe Lauzanne column in his book with the many bets that would come hisway and make much money. 

Crane watched Lauzanne go lazily, sluggishly down to the post forhis race. He knew the horse's moods; the walk of the Chestnut was theindifferent stroll of a horse that is thinking only of his dinner. 

"They've given him nothing, " the Banker muttered to himself; "theheavy-headed brute won't try a yard. But he'll fight the boy when hetries to ride him out. "

The whisky that Dixon had surreptitiously given Lauzanne had been asinefficacious as so much ginger beer; and in the race Lauzanne drewback out of the bustle and clash of the striving horses as quickly ashe could. In vain his jockey used whip and spur; Lauzanne simply put hisears back, switched his tail, and loafed along, a dozen lengths behindhis field. 

In the straight he made up a little of the lost ground, but he wassecurely out of the money at the finish. Fate still sat and threw thedice as he had for many moons--a deuce for John Porter, and a six forPhilip Crane. 

VIII

It was late autumn; the legitimate racing season had closed. In AugustPorter had taken his horses back to Ringwood for the winter. 

When a man strives against Fate, when realization laughs mockinglyat his expectations, there comes to him a time when he longs for abreathing spell, when he knows that he must rest, and wait until thewheel of life, slow-turning, has passed a little through the grooveof his existence. John Porter had been beaten down at every point. Disastrous years come to all men, whether they race horses or point thetruthful way, and this year had been but a series of disappointments tothe master of Ringwood. After Lucretia's win in the Eclipse, Porterdid not land another race. Lucretia caught cold and went off. He triedLauzanne twice again, but the Chestnut seemed thoroughly soured. Nowhe was back at Ringwood, a dark cloud of indebtedness hanging overthe beautiful place, and prospect of relief very shadowy. If Lucretiawintered well and grew big and strong she might extricate him fromhis difficulties by winning one or two of the big races the followingsummer. About any of the other horses there was not even this much ofpromise. 

Thoroughly distrusting Lauzanne, embittered by his cowardice, Porterhad given him away--but to Allis. Strangely enough, the girl had takena strong liking to the son of Lazzarone; it may have been because ofthe feeling that she was indirectly responsible for his presenceat Ringwood. Allis Porter's perceptions had been developed to anextraordinary degree. All her life she had lived surrounded bythoroughbreds, and her sensitive nature went out to them, in theircourage and loyalty, in a manner quite beyond possibility in apractical, routine-following horseman. To her they were almost human;the play of their minds was as attractive and interesting as thedevelopment of their muscles was to a trainer. When the stable had beentaken back to Ringwood, she had asked for Lauzanne as a riding horse. 

"I'm going to give him away, " her father had replied; "I can't sellhim--nobody would buy a brute with such a reputation. " This word broughtto Porter's mind his chief cause of resentment against the Chestnut. The public having got into its head that Porter was playing coups, generously suggested that he was pulling Lauzanne to get him in some bighandicap light. 

"I won't feed such a skate all winter, " he declared angrily, after alittle pause. 

"Well, give him to me, father, " the girl had pleaded; "I am certain thathe'll make good some day; you'll see that he'll pay you for keeping yourword. "

As Allis rode Lauzanne she discovered many things about the horse;that instead of being a stupid, morose brute, his intelligence wasextraordinary, and, with her at least, his temper perfect. 

Allis's relationship with her father was unusual. They were chums; inall his trouble, in all his moments of wavering, buffeted by the wavesof disaster, Allis was the one who cheered him, who regirt him inhis armor:--Allis, the slight olive-faced little woman, with the big, fearless Joan-of-Arc eyes. 

"You'll see what we'll do next summer, Dad, " she said cheerily. "You'llwin with Lucretia as often as you did with her mother; and I'll win withLauzanne. We'll just keep quiet till spring, then we'll show them. "

Langdon's horses, so silently controlled by Philip Crane, Banker, hadbeen put in winter quarters at Gravesend, where Langdon had a cottage. Crane's racing season had been as successful as the Master ofRingwood's had been disastrous. He had won a fair-class race with TheDutchman--ostensibly Langdon's horse--and then, holding true to hisnature, which was to hasten slowly, threw him out of training anddeliberately planned a big coup for the next year. The colt was engagedin several three-year-old stakes, and Crane set Langdon to work to findout his capabilities. As his owner expected, he showed them in a severetrial gallop the true Hanover staying-power. 

Although Crane had said nothing about it at the time, he had his eye onthe Eastern Derby when he commissioned Langdon to purchase this gallantson of Hanover. It was a long way ahead to look, to lay plans to win arace the following June, but that was the essence of Crane's existence, careful planning. He loved it. He was a master at it. And, after all, given a good stayer, such as he had in The Dutchman, the mile-and-a-halfrun of the Derby left less to chance than any other stake he could havepitched upon; the result would depend absolutely upon the class andstamina of the horses. No bad start could upset his calculations, nolittle interference in the race could destroy his horse's chance if hewere good enough to win. The Dutchman's races as a two-year-old wouldnot warrant his being made a favorite, and Langdon, properly directed, was clever enough to see that The Dutchman was at a comfortable pricefor betting purposes. 

Many things had crowded into this year of Crane's life. The bank, doingbut a modest business always, was running so smoothly that it requiredlittle attention from the owner. This was one reason why he had thrownso much subtle energy into his racing; its speculation appealed to him. The plucking he had received as a moneyed youth rankled in his heart. The possession of such a faithful jackal as Langdon carried him togreater lengths than he would have gone had the obnoxious details beensubject to his own execution. Though conscienceless, he was more or lessfastidious. Had a horse broken down and become utterly useless, he wouldhave ordered him to be destroyed without experiencing any feeling ofcompassion--he would have dismissed the matter entirely from his mindwith the passing of the command; but rather than destroy the horsehimself, he probably would have fed him. And so it was with men. If theywere driven to the wall because of his plans, that was their own lookout; it did not trouble Philip Crane. 

Porter he had known simply in a business way. From the first he had feltthat Ringwood would pass out of its owner's possession, and he had begunto covet it. The Lauzanne race had been Langdon's planning altogether. Crane, cold-blooded as he was, would not have robbed a man he hadbusiness dealings with deliberately. He had told his trainer to win, if possible, a race with Lauzanne, and get rid of him. That Langdon'svillainous scheme had borne evil fruit for John Porter was purely amatter of chance selection. There was a Mephistophelean restitution innot striving to wrest the Eclipse from Lucretia with The Dutchman. 

And now, in this year, had come the entirely new experience of anaffection--his admiration for Allis Porter. It conflicted with everyother emotion that governed his being. All his life he had beenselfish--considering only Philip Crane, his mind unharrassed by anythingbut business obstacles in his ambitious career. Love for this quiet, self-contained girl, unadorned by anything but the truth, and honesty, and fearlessness that were in her big steadfast eyes, had come upon himsuddenly and with an assertive force that completely mastered him. Bya mere chance he had heard Allis give her recitation, "The Run ofCrusader, " in the little church at Brookfield. Crane was not anagnostic, but he had interested himself little in church matters; andthe Reverend Dolman's concert, that was meant to top down many weedsof debt that were choking the church, had claimed him simply because anevening in Brookfield had come to hang heavily on his hands. Now whenthe Reverend Dolman received Philip Crane's check for fifty dollars thenext day, to be applied to the church encumbrance, he sought to allayhis surprise by attributing the gift to his own special pleading thatevening, of course backed up by Providence. If anybody had stated thatthe mainspring of the gift had been the wicked horse-racing poem oftheir denunciation he would have been scandalized and full of righteousdisbelief. It is quite likely that even Crane would have denied thatAllis's poem had inspired him to the check; but nevertheless it had. 

The world of feeling and sympathy and goodness that had hung in hervoice had set a new window in his soul slightly ajar--so slightly ajarthat even now, months afterward, the lovelight was only beginning tostream through. When love comes to a man at forty he is apt to play thegame very badly indeed; he turns it into a very anxious business, andmoves through the light-tripping measure with the pedantic dignity ofa minuet dancer. But Philip Crane was not given to making mistakes; heknew that, like Crusader, "His best racing days (in the love stakes)were over"--especially where the woman was but a girl. So he sat downand planned it all out as he planned to win the Brooklyn Derby monthslater. And all the time he was as sincerely in love as if he hadblundered into many foolishness; but his love making was to bediplomatic. Even now all the gods of Fate stood ranged on his side;Allis's brother was in his bank, more or less dependent upon him;Ringwood itself was all but in the bank; he stood fairly well with JohnPorter, and much better with Allis's mother, for already he had begun toingratitate himself with Mrs. Porter. He would cast from the shouldersof the Reverend Dolman a trifle more of the load he was carrying. Hewould send the reverend gentleman another check. 

Why he should think it necessary to prepare his suit with so muchsubtlety he hardly knew; in all reason he should be considered a fairmatch for Allis Porter. He was not a bad man as the world understoodhim; he did not profess Christianity, but, on the other hand, his lifewas extremely respectable; he did not drink; he was not given toprofane language; even in racing his presence seemed to lend an air ofrespectability to the sport, and it was generally supposed that he racedpurely for relaxation. In truth, it seemed to him that his marriage withAllis would be a deuced good thing for the Porters. 

In actuality there were just two things that stood in the way--twothings which his position and wealth could not obviate--his age, and thePorter pride. If Porter had not been dubbed "Honest John" early in life, he might have been saddled with "Proud Porter" later on. The pridehad come up out of old Kentucky with all the other useless things--thehorse-racing, and the inability to make money, and the fancy for keepinga promise. Something whispered to Crane that Allis would never come tohim simply out of love; it might be regard, esteem, a desire to pleaseher parents, a bowing to the evident decree of fate. Perhaps even thevery difficulty of conquest made Crane the more determined to win, andmade him hasten slowly. 

IX

As a rule few visitors went to Ringwood. 

John Porter had been too interested in his horses and his home life tocare much for social matters. Mrs. Porter was a home-body, too, caringnothing at all for society--at best there was but little of it inBrookfield--except where it was connected with church work. Perhaps thatwas one reason why Allis had grown so close into her father's life. Itwas a very small, self-contained household. 

Mike Gaynor had become attached to the staff at Ringwood this winter asa sort of assistant trainer to Porter. Dixon only trained the Ringwoodhorses during the racing season, Porter always supervising them inwinter quarters. Perhaps it was Porter's great cloud of evil fortunewhich had cast its sinister influence over Mike because of his sympathyfor the master of Ringwood; certain it is that the autumn found himquite "on his uppers, " as he graphically described his financialstanding. An arrangement was made by which Mike's disconsolate horseswere fed at Ringwood, and he took care of both strings. This delightedAllis, for she had full confidence in Gaynor's integrity and good sense. 

The early winter brought two visitors to Ringwood--Crane, who came quiteoften, and Mortimer, who went out to the farm a couple of times withAlan. 

George Mortimer might be described as an angular young man. His face, large-featured, square-jawed, and bold-topped by broad forehead, suggested the solemnity Alan had found so trying. Of course a young manof his make-up was sure to have notions, and Mortimer's mind was knottedwith them; there seemed no soft nor smooth places in his timber. Thatwas why he had reasoned with the butcher by energetically grasping hiswindpipe the evening that worthy gentleman had expressed himself sodistastefully over Allis Porter's contribution to the Reverend Dolman'sconcert. Perhaps a young man of more subtle grace would have receivedsome grateful recognition for this office, but the matter had been quiteclosed out so far as Mortimer was concerned; Alan tried to refer to itafterward, but had been curtly stopped. 

George Mortimer's chief notion was that work was a great thing, seemingly the chief end of man. Another notion almost equallyprominent--he had derived it from his mother--was, that all formsof gambling were extremely bad business. First and foremost in thisinterdiction stood horse racing. The touch of it that hung like a smallcloud over the Brookfield horizon had inspired Mrs. Mortimer, as it hadother good people of the surrounding country, with the restrictedidea that those who had to do with thoroughbred horses were simplygamblers--betting people. Her home was in Emerson, a dozen miles fromBrookfield. 

Quite paradoxically, if Allis Porter had not given "The Run ofCrusader"--most certainly a racing poem--in the little church, thisangular young man with stringent ideas about running horses probablywould have never visited Ringwood. Something of the wide sympathy thatemanated from her as she told of the gallant horse's death struck intohis strong nature, and there commenced to creep into his thoughts atodd intervals a sort of gratuitous pity that she should be inextricablymixed up with race horses. His original honesty of thought and thenarrowness of his tuition were apt to make him egotistically surethat the things which appealed to him as being right were incapable ofvariation. 

At first he had liked Alan Porter, with no tremendous amount ofunbending; now, because of the interest Allis had excited in him, theliking began to take on a supervisory form, and it was not without atouch of irritation in his voice that Alan informed his sister that hehad acquired a second father, and with juvenile malignity attributed theincumbrance to her seductive influence. 

With all these cross purposes at work it can be readily understood thatMortimer's visits to Ringwood were not exactly rose-leaved. In truth, the actors were all too conventionally honest, too unsocialized, tosubvert their underlying motives. Allis, with her fine intuition, wouldhave unearthed Mortimer's disapprobation of racing--though he awkwardlystrove to hide it--even if Alan had not enlarged upon this point. Thisknowledge constrained the girl, even drove her into rebellion. She tookhis misunderstanding as a fault, almost as a weakness, and shockedthe young man with carefully prepared racing expressions; reveled withstrange abandon in talks of gallops, and trials, and work-outs, andbreathers; threw ironmouthed horses, pullers, skates, and divers otherequine wonders at his head until he revolted in sullen irritation. Infact they misunderstood each other finely; in truth their differentnatures were more in harmony two miles apart, the distance that laybetween the bank and Ringwood. 

By comparison Crane's visits to Ringwood were utopianly complacent. Strangely enough, Mrs. Porter, opposed to racing as she was, camequite readily under the glamor of his artistic unobtrusiveness. He hadcomplete mastery over the science of waiting. His admission to the goodlady of a passing interest in horses was an apology; there seemed suchan utter absence of the betting spirit that the recreation it affordedhim condoned the offense. 

There was this difference between the two men, the old and the young:Crane knew exactly why he went there, while Mortimer had asked himselfmore than once, coming back from Ringwood feeling that he had beenmisunderstood--perhaps even laughed at--why he had gone there at all. He had no definite plan, even desire; he was impelled to it out of someunrecognized force. It was because of these conditions that the onepotter turned his images so perfectly, and the other formed only poor, distorted, often broken, dishes of inferior clay. 

It stood in the reason of things, however, that Mortimer, in spite ofhis uncompromising attitude toward racing, should be touched by itstentacles if he visited at Ringwood. 

His first baptism came with much precipitancy on the occasion of hisfourth visit to the Porters. He had driven out with Alan to spend hisSaturday afternoon at Ringwood. An afternoon is not exactly like anevening in the matter of entertaining a guest; something must be done;cigars, or music, or small chatter are insufficient. If one is onthe western slope of life's Sierra perhaps a nap may kill the timeprofitably enough, but this was a case where a young man had tobe entertained, a young man difficult of entertainment under thecircumstances. 

Alan had some barbarous expedition of juvenile interest on hand; theunearthing of a woodchuck, or it might have been a groundhog, in a backfield; but Allis would not become a party to the destruction of animallife for the sport of the thing. She had a much better programmemapped out for Mortimer. Some way she felt that if he could seethe thoroughbred horses in their stalls, could come to know themindividually, casually though it might be, he would perhaps catch aglimmer of their beautiful characters. So she asked Mr. Mortimer to goand have a look at her pets. Alan would none of it; he was off to hiswoodchuck or groundhog. 

"I'm glad you don't want to go and kill anything, " she said, turninggratefully to Mortimer when he refused Alan's invitation, saying thathe preferred to look at the horses. "I'll show you Diablo, and Lucretia, and Lauzanne the Despised--he's my horse, and I'm to win a big racewith him next year. Gaynor is down at the stables; and I'll give you atip"-Mortimer winced--"if you want to stand well in with Mike, let himsuspect that you're fond of horses. "

At the stable door they met Mike Gaynor. Mike usually vacillated betweena condition of chronic anger at somebody or something, and an Irishdrollery that made people who were sick at heart laugh. Allis was asfamiliar with his moods as she was with the phases of Lauzanne's temper. On Mike's face was a map of disaster; the disaster might be trivial orgreat. That something was wrong the girl knew, but whether it was that avaluable horse was dead, or that a mouse had eaten a hole in a grainbag she could only discover by questioning Gaynor, for there were neverdegrees of expressed emotion in Mike's facile countenance; either a deepscowl or a broad grin were the two normal conditions. 

"What's the matter, Mike?" questioned Allis. 

"Mather, is it?" began Gaynor, "it's just this, Miss Allis; if yerfather thinks I'm goin' to stand by an' see good colts spiled in theirtimper just because a rapscallion b'y has got the evil intints av ouldNick himself, thin he's mistook, that's all. "

"Who is it Mike--Shandy?"

"That's him, Miss. He's the divil on wheels, bangin' thim horses aboutas though he was King Juba. "

Allis saw that Gaynor was indeed angry. 

"I'll speak to father about him, Mike, " she answered; "I won't have thehorses abused. "

"Mark my words, Miss Allis, Diablo'll take it out of his hide someday. The b'y'll monkey wit' him once too often, then there'll be no b'yleft. "

"May we see the horses, Mike--are they having their lie-down, oranything?"

"Not yet, Miss; they're gettin' the rub-down now; don't ye hear Diablobastin' the boords av his stall wid that handy off hind-foot av his?"

"There's a filly for yer life, " exclaimed the Trainer, rapturously, as he opened gently the door of Lucretia's box stall. "There's thestraightest filly iver looked through a halter, " he continued, puttinghis arm with the gentleness of a woman over the brown mare's beautifulneck. "Come here, ould girl, " he said, coaxingly, as he drew thehaltered head toward the visitors. 

Mortimer looked with interest at the big, comfortable box stall, littered a foot deep with bright, clean, yellow straw. How contented andat home the mare appeared! It seemed almost a complete recompense, thisattentive care, for the cruelty he imagined race horses suffered. 

"You don't tie her up?" he asked. 

"Tie her up!" ejaculated Mike, a fine Celtic scorn in his voice; "I'drather tie up a wife--if I had one, " he added by way of extenuation. "No man would tie up a mare worth tin thousand dollars if she's worth acent, an' take chances av her throwin' hersilf in the halter; av coorseshe's hitched fer a bit after a gallop while she's havin' a rub-down, but that's all. "

Lucretia's black nozzle came timidly forward, and the soft, velvetyupper lip snuggled Allis's cheek. 

"She knows ye, Miss, " said Mike. "That's the way wit' horses--they'relike children; they know friends, an' ye can't fool thim. Now she'ssizin' ye up, Mister, " as Lucretia sniffed suspiciously at Mortimer'schin, keeping a wary eye on him. "She'll know if ye like horses or not, an' I'd back her opinion agin fifty min's oaths. "

Allis watched with nervous interest the investigation. She almost feltthat if Lucretia liked her companion--well, it would be something lessto dislike in him, at all events. Lucretia seemed turning the thing overin her mind, trying to think it out. There was some mystery about thisnew comer. Evidently she did not distrust him entirely, else she wouldhave put her ears back a trifle and turned away with a little impatientwarning shake of her delicate head. She always turned in that crossmanner from Shandy, the stable boy. She had also discovered that thevisitor was not completely a horseman; she did not investigate hispockets, nor put her head over his shoulder, as she would have donewith Mr. Porter or Mike, or even with one who was a stranger, as wasMortimer, had she felt the unmistakable something which conveyed to hermind that he was of the equine brotherhood. 

"Lucretia has found you out, " said Allis, presently. "You do likehorses; she knows it. "

"Oh, I like animals, I don't deny, " Mortimer answered, "but I know verylittle about them--nothing about race horses. "

Mike frowned and looked disparagingly at the visitor. "He must be aquare duck, " he muttered to himself. That a man should know nothing ofthoroughbreds was perfectly inexplicable to Gaynor. He knew many racingmen whose knowledge of horseflesh was a subject for ridicule, but thenthey never proclaimed their ignorance, rather posed as good judges thanotherwise. 

But with startling inconsistency Mike explained: "There's many like ye, sir, only they don't know it, that's all; the woods is full av thim. Would ye like to give the filly a carrot, Miss?" he added, turning toAllis. "I'll bring some. "

When he returned Allis gave one to Lucretia, then they passed to thenext stall. 

"That's a useful horse, " explained the Trainer; "he's won some races inhis 'time. "

"What's his name?" asked Mortimer. 

"Game Boy. He's by the Juggler. Ye remember him, don't ye?"

Mortimer was forced to confess that he didn't quite remember Juggler. 

"That's strange, " commented Mike, turning the big bay about with evidentpride; "he won the 'Belmont, ' at Jerome Park, did the ould Juggler. Yemust av heerd av that. "

Mortimer compromised by admitting that he had probably forgotten it. 

"Well, I haven't, " declared Mike, reproachfully. "If Game Boy stands aprep this summer ye'll hear from him, " he confided to Mortimer, as theyleft the stall. "Jist remember Game Boy; see, ye can't forget--a big baywit' a white nigh fore leg, an' a bit rat-tailed. Yes, Game Boy's allright, " monologued Mike; "but here's a better; this is Diablo. He musthave tabasco in his head, fer he's got the divil's own timper. But hecan gallop a bit; he can go like a quarterhorse, an' stay till the cowscome home; but he's like Lauzanne acrost yonder, he's got a bee in hisbonnet an' it takes a divil to ride him. "

"That's hard on me, Mike, " expostulated Allis. "You see, Lauzanne goesbetter with me in the saddle than any of the boys, " she explained toMortimer. 

"The divil or angels, I was going to say, Miss, when ye interrupted me, "gallantly responded Mike. 

Diablo's head was tied high in a corner of the stall, for Shandy, theboy, was hard at work on him with a double hand of straw, rubbing himdown. The boy kept up a peculiar whistling noise through his parted lipsas he rubbed, and Diablo snapped impatiently at the halter-shank withhis great white teeth as though he resented the operation. 

Mortimer gazed with enthusiasm at the shining black skin that glistenedlike satin, or watered silk. Surely there was excuse for people lovingthoroughbreds. It was an exhilaration even to look at that embodimentof physical development. It was an animate statue to the excellenceof good, clean living. Somehow or other Mortimer felt that though theliving creature before him was only a horse, yet nature's laws werebeing adhered to, and the result was a reward of physical perfection andenjoyment of life. He began to feel that a man, or even a woman--it wasthe subtle presence of the woman at his side that made him involuntarilyinterject this clause into his inaudible thoughts--yes, even a womanof high moral attributes might find the most healthy form of interestedamusement in watching the superb development of horses that weredestined for no other purpose than to race and beget sons and daughtersof the same wondrous stamina and courage and speed. His detestation ofracing had been in reality an untutored prejudice; he had looked uponbut one phase of the question, and that quite casually, as it introduceditself into his life by means of sensational betting incidents in thedaily papers. To him all forms of betting were highly disastrous--mostimmoral. But here, like a revelation, came to him, in all itsfascination, the perfect picture of the animal, which he was forced toadmit stood next to man in its adornment of God's scheme of creation. 

As Shandy swept his wisp of straw along the sensitive skin of Diablo'sstomach, the latter shrunk from the tickling sensation, and lashed outimpatiently with a powerful hind leg as though he would demolish histormentor. 

"He's not cross at all just, " explained Mike; "he's bluffin', that'sall. Shure a child could handle him if they'd only go the right wayabout it. "

Then he leaned over and whispered in an aside to the visitors--"Bot't'umbs up!" (this was Mike's favorite oath). "Diablo hates that b'y an'some day he'll do him up, mark my words. "

"Here, Shandy, " he cried, turning to the rubber, "loose the Black's headan' turn him 'round. "

Mortimer almost shrank with apprehension for the boy, for Diablo's earswere back on his flat, tapering neck, and his eyes looking back at them, were all white, save for the intense blue-shimmered pupil. To Mortimerthat look was the incarnation of evil hatred. But the boy unsnappedthe halter-shank without hesitation, and Diablo, more inquisitive thanangry, came mincingly toward them, nodding his head somewhat defiantly, as much as to say that the nature of the interview would dependaltogether upon their good behavior. 

"See that!" ejaculated Mike, a pleasant smile of satisfaction ripplingthe furrows of his face; "see how he picks out the best friend thestable's got. "

Diablo had stretched his lean head down, and was trying to nibble withgentle lip the carrot Allis held half hidden behind her skirt. Therewas none of Lucretia's timidity in Diablo's approach; it was full of anassumption of equality, of trust in the intentions of the stranger whohad come with the mistress he hart faith in. 

"They're all like that when Miss Allis is about, " explained Mike; "therenever would be a bad horse if the stable-b'ys worked the same way. Tiehim up, Shandy, " he added. "Even the jockeys spoil their mounts, " Gaynorcontinued in a monotone; "the horse'll gallop better for women anytime--they treat thim gentler, that's why. "

"Most interesting, " hazarded Mortimer, feeling some acknowledgment ofMike's information was due. 

"It's the trut'. Miss Allis'd take Lauzanne, or the Black, or the littlemare, an' get a better race out av thim than any jock I've seen ridin'hereabout. "

"Mike, " exclaimed Allis, "you flatter me; you almost make me wish that Iwere a jockey. "

"Well, bot' t'umbs up! Ye'd av made a good un, Miss, an' that's nodisrespect to ye, I'm sayin'. "

Mortimer smiled condescendingly. Allis's quick eye caught his expressionof amused discontent; it angered her. Mike's praise had been practicallyhonest. To him a good jockey was the embodiment of courage and honestyand intelligence; but she knew that to Mortimer it simply meant aphase of life he considered quite outside the pale of recognizedrespectability. Somehow she felt that Mike's encomium had lowered herperceptibly in the opinion of this man whom she herself affected to lookupon with but toleration. 

They visited all the other stalls, eight of them, and listened to Mike'seulogies on the inmates. Coming down the other side of the passage, thelast occupied box stall contained Lauzanne. 

"Miss Porter'll tell ye about this wan, " said Mike, diplomatically. "He's shaped like a good horse, an' his sire, old Lazzarone, landed manya purse, an' the 'Suburban, ' too--won it on three legs, fer he was cleangone in his pins, I'll take me oath to that. He was a good horse--whinhe liked. Perhaps Lauzanne'll do the same some day, fer all I know. "

There was such a tone of doubt in the Trainer's voice that even Mortimernoticed it. Neither was there much praise of the big Chestnut; evidentlyMike did not quite approve of him, though hesitating to say so in thepresence of his mistress. 

"Yes, Lauzanne is my horse, " volunteered Allis. "I even ride him in allhis work now, since he took to eating the stable-boy. "

"And you're not afraid?" asked Mortimer. 

For answer the girl slipped quietly into the stall, and going up besidethe Chestnut, who was standing sulkily with his head in the corner ofhis box, took him by the ear and turned him gently around. 

"He's just a quiet-mannered chap, that's all, " she said. "He's abig, lazy, contented old boy, " and she laid her cheek against hisfawn-colored nozzle. "You see, " she explained, "he's got more brainsthan any of the other horses, and when he's abused he knows it. "

"But he's grateful when he's kindly treated, " commented Mortimer. 

"Yes; that's why I like horses better than men. "

"Oh!" the exclamation slipped from Mortimer's lips. 

"Most men, I mean, " she explained. "Of course, father, and Alan, and--"she hesitated; "you see, " she went on to explain, "the number of my menfriends is limited; but except these, and Mike, and Mr. Dixon, I likethe horses best. "

"I almost believe you're right, Miss Porter, " concurred Mortimer; "I'veknown men myself that I fancy were much worse than even Diablo. "

"Mike thinks Lauzanne is a bad horse, " the girl said, changing thesubject, "but he'll win a big race this coming season. You just keepyour eye on Lauzanne. Here's your carrot, old chap, " she said, strokingthe horse's neck, "and we must go if we're to have that drive. Will youhitch the gray to the buggy for us, Mike?" she asked of Gaynor, as theycame out of the stable, "we'll wait here. "

As Mike started off there came to their ears a sound of turmoil fromDiablo's box; impatient kicks against the boards from the horse, andsmothered imprecations from the boy. 

"Hear that fiend!" the girl exclaimed, and there was wrath in her voice. 

"He does seem a bad horse, " concurred Mortimer. 

"I didn't mean Diablo; it's the boy. It's all his evil doing. Oh, I've only one glove, " she exclaimed. "I know where it is, though; thatmischievous rascal, Lauzanne, nibbled it from the front of my jacket; Isaw him do it, but forgot to pick it up. "

"Allow me, Miss Porter; I'll get it for you. "

"No; please don't!" with emphasis. As he started back, she laid adetaining hand on his arm. "I'd much prefer to go myself; Lauzannedistrusts strangers and might make trouble. "

As the girl entered the stable, Mortimer sauntered on in the directionMike had gone. 

Allis opened the door of Lauzanne's stall, passed in, and searched inthe straw for the lost glove. 

X

The noise of strife in Diablo's box had increased. There came the soundof blows on the horse's ribs; a muttered oath, and suddenly a scream ofterror from the boy, drowned in an instant by the ferocious battlecryof the enraged stallion. Mortimer, thirty yards away, heard it, and felthis heart stand still; he had never heard anything so demoniac in hislife. He turned in such haste that his foot slipped on the frozen earth, and he fell heavily. 

At the first sound of blows Allis had started angrily toward Diablo'sbox. She was at the door when Shandy's cry of terror rang out. For aninstant the girl hesitated; what she saw was enough to make a strong manquail. The black stallion was loose; with crunching jaws he had fastenedon the arm of Shandy, in the corner of the stall, and was trying to pullthe boy down that he might trample him to death. But for a second shefaltered; if ever quick action were needed, it was now. 

"Back--back, Diablo! back!" she cried, as pushing past the black demonshe brought her hunting-crop down with full force between his ears. 

Whether it was the sound of his mistress's voice, or the staggeringblow, Diablo dropped the boy like a crushed rat, and, half rearing, looked viciously at the brave girl. 

"Quick! through the hay window!" commanded Allis, standing betweenShandy and the horse, and drawing the whip back over her left shoulder, ready to give it to Diablo full in the throat should he charge again. 

Cowed, the boy clambered through the opening. Enraged at the sight ofhis assailant's escape, the horse gave another scream of defiance andsought with striking forefeet and spread jaws to pull down this newenemy. Not until then had Allis thought of calling for help; her oneidea had been for the boy's safety. 

Like a flash the full peril of the situation dawned upon her; perhapsher life would be given for the boy who well deserved his punishment. She had seen two stallions fight, and knew that their ferociousnatures, once roused, could only be quelled by a force stronger than shepossessed. Yes, surely she would be killed-her young life trampledout by the frenzied animal. Incoherently but altogether these thoughtsfilled her mind; also the knowledge that Mike was beyond hearing. 

"Help, Mortimer!" she called. 

He heard it as he reached the stable door. Even then he would have beentoo late had not other rescue come more quickly. 

In rushing from Lauzanne's stall Allis had left the door swinging on itshinges. At the first cry of defiance from the black stallion Lauzannehad stretched high his head and sent back, with curled nostril, ananswering challenge. Then with ears cocked he had waited for a chargefrom his natural enemy. When the mingled call of his mistress andDiablo's bugle note came to him he waited no longer, but rushed acrossthe passage and seized the black horse by the crest just as he wasoverpowering the girl. 

It was at that instant Mortimer reached the scene--in his hand a stablefork he had grabbed as he raced down the passage. Even Lauzanne'sattack, though it gave Allis a respite, would not have saved her life;the madly fighting horses would have kicked and trampled her to death. 

"My God! Back, back, you devils!" And pushing, crowding, hugging theside of the stall, Mortimer fought his way to the girl. 

Once Diablo's hoof shot out and the man's left arm, snapping like apistol, dropped useless at his side. His brain reeled with the shock. The oddly swinging arm, dangling like a doll's, with the palm turnedbackward, seemed to fascinate him. Why was he there? What was he doing?Why was he hammering the horses over the head with a stable fork heldtightly in his right hand? He hardly knew; his mind was clouded; hewas fighting by instinct, and always crowding along the wall toward thefarther corner. The girl had quite faded from his sight. Somehow he feltthat he must drive the horses back, back, out of the stall. 

Allis, too, was fighting; bringing the crop down with cutting force overthe withers, neck, head, any part of the plunging mass in front of her. She could escape now through the opening where the boy had gone; but wasnot Mortimer in the same position she had been? She had seen him dropto his knees when Diablo lashed out; he must be sorely hurt; now he wasreeling like a drunken man as he fought the mad brutes. 

"This way, " she panted, catching him by the coat, and pulling him towardthe window. 

Ah, that was it! He saw her now. It steadied his senses. It was thegirl, and she had called him--"Mortimer!"

"Back, " he yelled irrelevantly, in answer, cutting Diablo across theface with the fork. It was pandemonium. 

"Get through the window!" the girl screamed in his ear. "Quick! Now!"and she pushed him toward it. 

"You--first--back, you devils!" and he pressed away from her, closer tothe horses, thrusting and striking with the steel-pointed fork. 

The horses were giving way; Diablo was fighting half through the door, weakening before the onslaught of the powerful chestnut. Even in battle, as in a race, the stamina of the Lazzarone blood was telling; thebulldog courage of the strain was strong upon Lauzanne, now that he wasroused. 

"Quick! You can get out!" again called the girl. 

"You first!"

This drear, repetition was the only expression Mortimer's numbed senseswere equal to; but he fought with the ferocity of a tiger--his wound butenraged him. 

They could both escape, Allis knew, if she could bring Mortimer tounderstand; but they must do it quick, if at all. It was useless. Heseemed conscious of but the one idea that he must drive the fightinganimals out into the passage to save her. She was not afraid now; theman's presence had driven that all away. It was useless to speak tohim of the window, neither would go first; so, with her riding whip shefought side by side with Mortimer; springing back from the swift-cuttingforefeet; sometimes even hugging close to the side of a horse as helashed out from behind; and once saving her companion from being cutdown by pulling him swiftly from under a raised foot. In the end thestallions were forced out into the passage, just as Mike came rushingupon the scene. 

But the battle had waned. Twice Diablo had been pulled to his knees, forced down by the fierce strength that was Lauzanne's; the Black wasall but conquered. The Trainer's voice checked Lauzanne's fury; even theboy had plucked up courage to return; and between them the Chestnut wasdriven into his stall. All the fight had been taken out of Diablo. Hestruggled to his feet, and stood trembling like a horse that had comeout of a fierce cutting race. On his neck were the marks of Lauzanne'steeth, where they had snapped like the jaws of a trap; from his cresttrickled a red stream that dripped to the floor like water from arunning eave. All the fierce fire of hate had gone from his eyes. Hehung his head dejectedly, and his flanks quivered. Lauzanne, too, boreevidence of the vicious strife. On one quarter, where Diablo's sharphoof had ripped, was a cut as though he had been lashed with a sickle, and his withers were torn. 

Mortimer and Allis had come out of the stall. The man, exhausted by thestruggle, leaned wearily, with pale, drawn face, against the wall; thefloor seemed slipping from under him; he felt a sensation of swiftlypassing off into nothingness. He was sleepy, that was all; but asleepiness to fight against--he must still fight. 

"You are badly hurt. " It was the girl's voice. He was almost surprisedthat he recognized it, everything was so confused. He answered heavily, "Yes, I'm--I'm--I want--to lie down. "

"Here, lean on my shoulder. " It was Mike's voice this time. "This is badbusiness, " the Trainer was saying; "we must get him out of this; he'snearly knocked out. Are ye all right, Miss?" turning to Allis. 

The wounded man turned guiltily; he had forgotten the girl. Yes, surelyshe had been in that hell of noises with him--fighting too. 

"I'm just frightened, that's all, " answered Allis. "Mr. Mortimer savedme. "

Had he? he wondered. How had he come in there, anyway? His mind refusedto work out the problem; his side was so sore. 

"Yer arm's broke, " said Mike, passing to Mortimer's right side. "Come, lean on me, sir. Can ye walk? I'll put ye in the buggy and drive ye tothe house. "

At the first step Mortimer staggered and swayed like a drunken man. Inhis side were many sharp things pulling him down like grappling irons;on his head was a great weight that crushed his feet into the hardplanks; his knees gave under this load, and he would have fallen but forMike's strong arm. 

"I'm--afraid;" then he set his teeth hard, his voice had sought to endthe sentence in a groan of anguish; the thing that was tearing at hisside had whistled in his lungs. 

Allis stepped forward swiftly, and passing her arm about his waist, helped Mike lead him to the door. Twice she put her left hand upand brushed tears from her eyes; the struggle had unnerved her. Veryhelplessly against her swayed the man she had laughed at half an hourbefore. And he had been crushed saving her! But that was not why thetears came--not at all. She was unstrung. "And he's got grit, " she keptmuttering to herself; "he has never even groaned. "

Together they succeeded in getting him into the buggy; then, gently, Mike drove to the house. 

XI

Mrs. Porter, reading a book on the veranda, heard the crunch of wheelsas a buggy, slow-moving, turned into the drive. She raised her eyesleisurely, the matter of the story still in her mind; but with a quickcry of "John!" she sprang to her feet, the volume, left to itself, rustling from her lap to the floor. The mother eyes saw that somethingwas wrong, and the mother heart felt that some evil had come to Allis. Mrs. Porter had gone white in an instant. Over her hung heavy at alltimes the dread of some terrible accident coming to Allis through thehorses. 

"Did you call, wife?" Porter asked as he came to the door. Then hesprang quickly across the veranda at sight of his wife's blanched face, and made to catch her in his arms. But she stopped him, pointing downthe drive. "It's Allis, John; oh, my God!"

"No, no, " he answered, "they're just coming back; here, sit down again, I'll see, " and he raced down the steps just as Mike pulled up. 

"What's the matter, girl?" he began. 

"The young gentleman's got a bit shook up, sir; nothin' bad loike, " Mikebroke in hastily. The diplomatic rider, "nothin' bad, " was added forMrs. Porter's benefit, his quick eye having seen her white face. 

"Miss Allis 's not hurt at all, " he continued. "We'll help the younggintleman in, an' I'd best go for the docthor, I'm thinkin. "

Even as he was speaking they had helped Mortimer from the rig. He hadnot uttered a sound; his teeth were set hard against the agony thatwas in his side, and the queer dizziness that was over him left littlebeyond a consciousness that he was being looked after, and that if hecould only keep going for a little, just use his legs a trifle, he wouldpresently be allowed to sleep. Yes, that was what he wanted; he wasso drowsy. As he went up the steps between the two men, a haggardface peered at him over the rail. It was familiar; he felt that somerecognition was due, for it was a woman's face. He tried to smile. Thenhe was on a bed, and--and--sleep at last. 

When the three men with the silence of disaster over them passedstruggling into the house, Mrs. Porter threw herself on Allis's neck, and a passion of tears flooded down and damped the girl's shoulder. 

"God be thanked, God be thanked!" gasped the troubled woman, and onehand that was over the girl's shoulder patted her with erratic rapidity. Then she interrupted herself. "What am I saying--it's wicked, and Mr. Mortimer like that. But I can't help it--I can't help it. Oh, Allis!my heart was in my mouth; I feel that some day you will come home likethis. "

At that instant Gaynor dashed by them, leaped into the buggy, andcalled, as he drove off: "I'll have the docthor in a jiffy; the youngman's all right!" He was still talking as the whirr of swift-rushingwheels smothered out his voice, and the dust rose like a steam-cloud, almost blotting him from the landscape. 

"Oh, girl! I thought you'd been killed. "

"Here, sit down, mother; you're all worked up, " and Allis put a coolhand on her mother's hot forehead. 

But the shock to her feelings had loosed the good woman's vocabulary. At all times smouldered in her heart a hatred of racing, even of thehorses. "It's the anger of God, " Mrs. Porter denounced vehemently. "Thisgambling and racing is contrary to His law. Never a night passes, Allis, that I do not pray to God that He may open your father's eyes to the sinof racing. No good can come of it--no good has ever come of it--nothingbut disaster and trouble. In a day the substance of a year is wasted. There never can be prosperity living in sin. "

"Hush, mother, " crooned Allis, softly. This outburst from Mrs. Porterstartled the girl; it was so passionate, so vehement. When they hadtalked of racing in the home life the mother had nearly always preserveda reproachful silence; her attitude was understood and respected. 

"I must speak, girl, " she said again; "this sinful life is crushing me. Do you think I feel no shame when I sit in meeting and hear our goodminister denounce gambling and racing? I can feel his eyes on me, and Icannot raise my voice in protest, for do not I countenance it? Mypeople were all church people, " she continued, almost apologetically, "tolerating no sin in the household. Living in sin there can be no hopefor eternal life. "

"I know, mother, " soothed the girl; "I know just how you feel, but wecan't desert father. He does not look upon it as a sin, as carrying anydishonor; he may be cheated, but he cheats no man. It can't be so sinfulif there is no evil intent. And listen, mother; no matter what anybodymay say, even the minister, we must both stick to father if he choosesto race horses all his life. "

"Ah, sweetheart!" John Porter cried out in a pleased voice, as he cameout to them, "looking after mother; that's right. Cynthia has helpedme fix up Mortimer. He'll be all right as soon as Mike gets back withRathbone. I think we'd better have a cup of tea; these horses are tryingon the nerves, aren't they, little woman?" and he nestled his wife'shead against his side. "How did it happen, Allis? Did Mortimer slip intoDiablo's box, or--"

"It was all over that rascally boy, Shandy. Diablo was just paying himback for his ill-treatment, and I went in to rescue him, and Mortimerrisked his life to save mine. "

"He was plucky; eh, girl?"

"He fought the Black like a hero, father. But, father, you must neverthink bad of Lauzanne again; if he hadn't come Mr. Mortimer would havebeen too late. "

"It's dreadful, dreadful, " moaned the mother. 

Allis shot a quick look at her father. He changed the subject, andcommenced talking about Alan--wondering where he was, and otherirrelevant matters. 

Then there was fresh divertisement as Mike rattled up, and DoctorRathbone, who was of a great size, bustled in to where Mortimer lay. 

Three smashed ribs and a broken arm was his inventory of the damageinflicted by Diablo's kick, when he came out again with Porter, in anhour. 

"I'm afraid one of the splintered ribs is tickling his lung, " he added, "but the fellow has got such a good nerve that I hardly discovered thisunpleasant fact. He'll be all right, however; he's young, and healthy asa peach. Good nursing is the idea, and he'll get that here, of course. He doesn't want much medicine; that we keep for our enemies, --ha! ha!"and he laughed cheerily, as if it were all a joke on the battered man. 

"Thim docthers is cold-blooded divils, " was Mike's comment. "Ye'd athought they'd been throwin' dice, an' it was a horse on the othergintleman. Bot' t'umbs! it was, too. Still, if ould Saw-bones had beenin the box yonder wit' Diablo, he wouldn't a-felt so funny. "

"Mortimer behaved well; didn't he, Mike?" asked Porter. 

"Behaved well; is it? He was like a live divil; punched thim two bigstallions till they took water an' backed out. My word! whin first Isee him come to the stable wit' Miss Allis, thinks I, here's wan avthim city chumps; he made me tired. An' whin he talked about Lauzanne'sknees, m'aning his hocks, I had to hide me head in a grain bag. But ifye'd seen him handle that fork, bastin' the Black, ye'd a thought it wassingle sticks he was at, wit' a thousand dollars fer a knock-out. "

"One can't always tell how a colt will shape, can they, Mike?" spokePorter, for Mike's fanciful description was almost bringing a smile toMrs. Porter's troubled face. 

"Ye can't, sor, an' yer next the trut' there. I've seen a herrin'-guttedweed av a two-year-old--I remember wan now; he was a Lexington. Itwas at Saratoga; an' bot' t'umbs! he just made hacks av iverythin' insoight--spread-eagled his field. Ye wouldn't a-give two dollars fer him, an' he come out an' cleaned up the Troy Stake, like the great horse hewas. "

"And you think Mortimer has turned out something like that; eh, Mike?"

"Well, fer a man that knows no more av horses than I know av thestrology av stars, he's a hot wan, an' that's the God's trut'. "

Mortimer's gallant act had roused the Irishman's admiration. He wouldhave done as much himself, but that would have been expected of ahorseman, constantly encountering danger; that an office man, to bepitied in his ignorance, should have fearlessly entered the stall withthe fighting stallions was quite a different matter. 

Even Allis, with her more highly developed sense of characteranalyzation, felt something of this same influence. She had needed somesuch manifestation of Mortimer's integral force, and this had come withromantic intensity in the tragic box-stall scene. This drama of thestable had aroused no polished rhetoric; Mortimer's declamation had beenunconventional in the extreme. "Back, you devils!" he had rendered withexplosive fierceness, oblivious of everything but that he must save thegirl. The words still rang in the ears of Allis, and also the echoof her own cry when in peril, "Mortimer!" There must have been aforeshadowing in her soul of the man's reliability, though she knew itnot. 

Even without the doctor's orders, it was patent that Mortimer mustremain at Ringwood for a few days. 

It was as if Philip Crane, playing with all his intense subtlety, had met his master in Fate; the grim arbiter of man's ways had pushedforward a chessman to occupy a certain square on the board for a time. 

Mortimer had been most decisively smashed up, but his immense physiquehad wonderful recuperative powers. The bone-setting and the attendantfever were discounted by his vitality, and his progress toward recovery, was marvelous. 

XII

Crane heard of the accident on one of his visits to Brookfield a coupleof days later, and of course must hurry to Ringwood to see his employee. It happened that the Reverend Mr. Dolman graced the Porter home with hispresence the same evening that Crane was there. 

Naturally the paramount subject of interest was the narrow escape ofMiss Allis; but the individuality of discussion gradually merged into acrusade against racing, led by the zealous clergyman. John Porter viewedthis trend with no little trepidation of feeling. 

It was Mrs. Porter who precipitated matters by piously attributingAllis's escape to Providence. 

"Undoubtedly, undoubtedly!" Mr. Dolman said, putting the points of hisfingers together in front of his lean chest. He paused a moment, and Porter groaned inwardly; he knew that attitude. The fingers wererapiers, stilettos; presently their owner would thrust, with cuttingphrase, proving that they were all indeed a very bad lot. PerhapsJohn Porter would have resented this angrily had he not felt that theReverend Inquisitor was really honest in his beliefs, albeit intolerablynarrow in his conclusions. 

Dolman broke the temporary silence. "But we shouldn't temptProvidence by worshiping false images. Love of animals iscommendable--commendable"--he emphasized this slight concession--"butrace horses always appeal to me as instruments of the Evil One. "

"It wasn't the horse's fault at all, Mr. Dolman, " Allis interposed, "butjust a depraved human's. It was the boy Shandy's fault. "

"I wasn't thinking of one horse, " continued the minister, airily; "Imeant race horses in general. "

"I think Mr. Dolman is right, " ventured Mrs. Porter, hesitatingly; "it'sflying in the face of Providence for a girl to go amongst those racehorses. "

"Bad-tempered men make them vicious, mother, " Allis said; "and I believethat Shandy's punishment was the visitation of Providence, if there wasany. "

The Reverend Dolman's face took on an austere look. It was an insultto the divine powers to assert that they had taken the part of a racehorse. But he turned the point to his own ends. "It's quite wrong toabuse the noble animal; and that's one reason why I hold that racing iscontrary to the Creator's intentions, quite apart from the evil effectit has on morals. "

"Are all men immoral who race, Mr. Dolman?" John Porter asked. 

His question forced Dolman to define his position. Porter always likedthings simplified; racing was either wrong in principle or right. Dolmanfound him rather a difficult man to tackle. He had this irritating wayof brushing aside generalization and forcing the speaker to get back tofirst principles. 

The reverend gentleman proceeded cautiously. "I should hardly care togo so far as that--to make the rule absolute; a very strong man mightescape contamination, perhaps. "

Mrs. Porter sighed audibly. The minister was weakening most lamentably, giving her husband a loophole to escape. 

"I hardly think racing quite so bad as it is generally supposed to be, "interposed Crane, feeling that Porter was being pilloried somewhat. Hereceived a reproachful look from Mrs. Porter for his pains. 

"I've never seen any good come of it, " retorted Dolman. "A Christian manmust feel that he is encouraging gambling if he countenances racing, forthey contend that without betting racing is impossible. "

"Everything in life is pretty much of a gamble, " Porter drawled, lazily;"there aren't any such things. The ships that go to sea, the farmer'scrop--everything is more or less a matter of chance. If a man goesstraight he has a fairly easy time with his conscience, no matter whathe's at; but if he doesn't, well, he'd better go hungry. "

"A great many very honorable men are racing today, " added Crane; "menwho have built up large fortunes through honest dealing, and wouldn't beracing if they felt that it was either unchristian or dishonorable. "

"They can't be Christians if they countenance gambling, " asserted theminister, doggedly. 

It occurred to Mortimer that whenever the discussion took broader lines, Dolman drew it back into the narrow cell of his own convictions. 

Porter scratched his head perplexedly. They had been discussing themoral influence of racing; this seemed more like theology. "It iscertainly unchristian, " commented Mrs. Porter, severely. "I haven't seenmuch Christian spirit in any business, " said Porter, quietly; "they allseem more a matter of written agreements. In fact there's more doneon honor in racing than in any of the business gambles. A man that'scrooked in racing is sure to come to grief in the long run. "

Crane shifted in his chair, and Dolman coughed deprecatingly. "For mypart, " continued Porter, "I've never found it necessary to do anythingI'm ashamed of in racing. "

His wife saw an opening. "But, John dear, you were treated mostshamefully last year; a dishonest boy hauled your horse--"

"Pulled, mother, " interposed Allis; "pulled father's horse, you mean. "

"Perhaps, though I fail to see where the difference can be, if the horseran the other way and your father lost. "

Porter smiled indulgently. "The boy was punished, Helen, " he said. "Dishonesty is not tolerated on the race course. "

"Yes, but something is always happening, " she continued in lament. "It'scontrary to the law of the church, John. It seems just like a visitationof divine wrath the way things happen. And you're so sanguine, John;last year you were going to win a big race with Diablo when he threw hisleg--"

"Threw a splint, mother, " prompted Allis. 

"I thought your father said it was his leg had something the matter withit, " argued Mrs. Porter. 

"The splint was on his leg, mother dear. "

"Well, I'm not familiar with racing phrases, I must say, though I shouldbe, goodness knows; I hear little else. And talk of cruelty to animals!"she turned to Mr. Dolman; "they burned the poor beast's leg with hotirons--"

The minister held up his hands in horror. 

"It didn't give him as much pain as the doctor gave Mr. Mortimer settinghis arm, " declared Allis. 

"But it was racing injured the horse's leg, " interposed Dolman. 

"But your horse has got a ringbone, Mr. Dolman, " said Allis, "and aspavin, too. I've been looking at him. That's because you drive him toofast on hard roads. And his feet are contracted from neglect in shoeing. It's just cruel the way that poor old horse has been neglected. Racehorses are much better taken care of. "

Allis's sudden onslaught switched Mr. Dolman from the aggressive to thedefensive with great celerity. 

"I confess I know very little about horses, " he was forced to apologize;then, with something of asperity, "the spiritual welfare of mycongregation takes up my entire time. "

This rebuke caused a momentary silence, and Dolman, turning to Mortimer, said, "I hope you don't approve of racing, sir. "

Mortimer didn't, but a look from Allis's eyes inexplicably enough causedhim to hedge very considerably in his reply. 

"I know nothing about the race course, " he said, "but from what I see ofthe thoroughbreds I believe a man would have to be of very low orderif their noble natures did not appeal to him. I think that courage, andhonesty, and gentleness--they all seem to have it--must always have agood influence. Why, sir, " he continued, with a touch of excitement, "Ithink a man would be ashamed to feel that he was making himself lowerthan the horses he had to do with. "

Allis looked grateful. Even Porter turned half about in his chair, and gazed with a touch of wonderment at the battered young man who hadsubstituted common sense for sophistical reasoning. 

The reverend gentleman frowned. "It's not the horses at all, " he said, "it's the men who are disreputable. "

Mrs. Porter gave a little warning cough. In his zealousness Mr. Dolmanmight anger her husband, then his logic would avail little. 

"The men are like the horses, " commented Porter, "some bad and somegood. They average about the same as they do in anything else, mostlygood, I think. Of course, when you get a bad one he stands out andeverybody sees him. "

"And sometimes horses--and men, too, I suppose--get a bad name when theydon't deserve it, " added Allis. "Everybody says Lauzanne is bad, but Iknow he's not. "

"That was a case of this dreadful dishonesty, " said Mrs. Porter, speaking hastily. She turned in an explanatory way to Crane. "You know, Mr. Crane, last summer a rascally man sold my husband a crooked horse. Now, John, what are you laughing at?" for her husband was shaking in hischair. 

"I was wondering what a crooked horse would look like, " he answered, andthere were sobs in his voice. 

"Why, John, when you brought him home you said he was crooked. "

As usual, Allis straightened matters out: "It was the man who wascrooked. Mother means Lauzanne, " she continued. 

"Yes, " proceeded the good woman, "a Mr. Langdon, I remember now, treatedmy husband most shamefully over this horse. "

Crane winced. He would have preferred thumbscrews just then. "John ishonest himself, " went on Mrs. Porter, "and he believes other men, andthis horse had some drug given him to make him look nice, so that myhusband would buy him. "

"Shameful, " protested Dolman. "Are men allowed to give horses drugs?" heappealed to Mr. Porter. 

"No; the racing law is very strict on that point. "

"But evidently it is done, " contended Dolman. 

"I think there's very little of it, " said Porter. 

This turn of the conversation made Crane feel very uneasy. "Do youthink, Mr. Porter, " he asked, "that there was anything of that sort overLauzanne? Do you think Langdon would--" He hesitated. 

"Mr. Langdon has a tolerable idea of what I think, " answered Porter. "I shouldn't trust that man too much if I were you. He's got cunningenough, though, to run straight with a man like yourself, who has ahorse or two in his stable, and doesn't go in for betting very heavily. "

"I know very little about him, " protested Crane; "and, as you say, hewill probably act quite straightforward with me, at least. "

"Yes, " continued Porter, half wearily, as though he wished to finish thedistasteful discussion; "there are black sheep in racing as there arein everything else. My own opinion is that the most of the talk we hearabout crooked racing is simply talk. At least nine out of ten races arehonestly run--the best horse wins. I would rather cut off my right handthan steal a race, and yet last summer it was said that I had pulledLucretia. "

"I never heard of that, John, " cried Mrs. Porter, in astonishment. 

"No, you didn't, " dryly answered her husband. 

Allis smiled; she had settled that part of it with her father at thetime. 

"If you'll excuse me, " began Crane, rising, "I think Mr. Wortimer isgetting tired. I believe I'll jog back to Brookfield. "

Reluctantly the Reverend Dolman rose, too. He felt, somehow, that theatmosphere of racing had smothered his expostulation--that he had madelittle headway. The intense honesty that was John Porter's shielded himabout almost as perfectly as, a higher form of belief might have done. 

But with almost a worldly cunning it occurred to the clergyman that hecould turn the drawn battle into a victory for the church; and as theystood for a minute in the gentle bustle of leave-taking, he said: "Theever-continuing fight that I carry on against the various forms ofgambling must necessarily take on at times almost a personal aspect--"he was addressing Mr. Porter, ostensibly--"but in reality it is notquite so. I think I understand your position, Mr. Porter, and--and--whatshall I say--personally I feel that the wickedness of racing doesn'tappeal to you as a great contamination; you withstand it, but youwill forgive me saying so, thousands have not the same strength ofcharacter. "

Porter made a deprecatory gesture, but Dolman proceeded. "What I wasgoing to say is, that you possibly realize this yourself. You have actedso wisely, with what I would call Christian forethought, in placing yourson, Alan, in a different walk in life, and--" he turned with a gravebow in Crane's direction--"and in good hands, too. "

"His mother wished it, " Porter said, simply. 

"Yes, John was very good about Alan's future, " the mother concurred. "But, husband, you quite agreed that it was much better for Alan to bein the bank than possibly drifting into association with--well, suchdishonorable men as this Mr. Langdon and his friends. He is so muchbetter off, " she continued, "with young men such as Mr. Crane would haveabout him. "

The Reverend Dolman smiled meekly, but it was in triumph. He had calledattention to an act which spoke far louder than Mr. Porter's disclaimingwords. 

Porter was not at all deceived by the minister; in fact, he ratheradmired the other's cleverness in beating him on the post. He gave alittle laugh as he said: "I should not have succeeded very well in abank. I am more at home with the horses than I am with figures; but Iexpect I would have gone fairly straight, and hope the boy will do thesame. I fancy one of the great troubles about banking is to keep the menhonest, the temptation of handling so much money being great. They seemto have more chances to steal than men on the race course. "

As usual, Porter seemed to be speaking out of his thoughts and withoutmalice; no one took offense. It was simply a straightforward answer toDolman's charge. 

Porter had simply summed up the whole business in a very small nutshell. That there was temptation everywhere, and that honest men and thieveswere to be found on race courses, in banks, in every business, but that, like the horses, a fair share of them were honest. 

"Speaking materially of race horses quite outside of the moral aspect, "said Crane, as he was taking his leave, "you'll have to be mightycareful of that Diablo, Mr. Porter, when Miss Allis is about; he seems avindictive brute. "

"Yes, John; you'll have to sell him right away; I'll be frightened todeath while he's about the place. "

"I shall never be a bit afraid of him, " remonstrated Allis; "Shandy, whomade all the mischief, has been discharged. "

"Diablo has always been more trouble than he's worth, " said Porter. "Ithought he was going to be a good horse, but he isn't; and if he hastaken to eating people I'll give him away some day. I wouldn't sell himas a good horse, and nobody'd buy a man-eater. "

"I'll buy him when you make up your mind, Mr. Porter, " exclaimed Crane, somewhat eagerly. "I have nobody sweet enough to tempt his appetite. Inthe meantime, Miss Allis, if I were you I should keep away from him. "

Then presently, with good-nights and parting words of warning aboutDiablo, the guests were gone; and Mortimer, having declinedPorter's proffered help, was somewhat awkwardly--having but one goodhand--preparing to retire in Alan's room. 

His mind worked somewhat faster than his fingers; several new problemshad been given it to labor over within the compass of a single moon. That horse racing should ever become a disturbing interest in his lifehad seemed very improbable; now it was like a gale about his soul, itswayed him. He was storm-tossed in the disturbing element; he could cometo no satisfying conclusion. On the one hand the thoroughbred horseswere to be admired; they were brave and true, creatures of love. AlsoPorter was an honest man, the one thing he admired above all else. 

And Miss Allis! Somehow or other his eyes wandered to a picture thatrested on a mantelpiece in the room. He took it down, looking furtivelyover his shoulder as he did so, and taking it close under the lamp thatwas on the table sat and gazed steadfastly into the girlish face. 

Even in the photograph the big, wondrous eyes seemed to say, "Whatof wrong, if we are not wrong?" That was the atmosphere so thoroughlystraightforward and honest that wrong failed of contamination. 

Still it was unconvincing to Mortimer. The horses might be good, theman honest, and the girl pure and sweet, but the life itself wasdistasteful. Reason as one might, it was allied to gambling. Mortimerrose with a sigh, the whole thing wearied him. Why should he distresshis mind over the matter? As he put the photograph back on the mantel heheld it for an instant, then suddenly; with a nervous, awkward gesture, brought it to his lips and kissed the eyes that seemed to commandtribute. 

The movement twisted his broken-ribbed side and an agony of pain cameto him in quick retribution. It was as though the involuntary kiss hadlurched him forward into a futurity of misery. The spasm loosed beadsof perspiration which stood cold on his forehead. Swift taken from thestimulant of his thoughts, his nerves overtaxed by the evening, jangleddiscordantly, and he crept into bed, feeling an unutterable depressionas though the room, was filled with evil, threatening spirits. 

XIII

In coincidence the two men, Mortimer and Crane, had similar thoughtsthe day after Mr. Dolman's discussion; and, rather remarkably, their deductions were alike, having the same subject of mentalretrospect--Allis Porter. 

It was evident that outside of her family little interested her buthorses; certainly not a very lofty aspiration. When the conversation haddealt with broad principles, men and their shortcomings, the previousevening, she had centralized it in Lauzanne, picturing him as symbolicalof good acts and evil repute. Patently it was difficult to becomeinterested in such a young woman; actually she monopolized theirthoughts. Inconsistently the fair offender felt no recoil of thissomewhat distressing situation; her mind busied itself chiefly over thereclamation of Lauzanne. 

By inheritance all the qualities of a good horse had come to him excepta submissive temper. Allis worked on the theory that his dispositionhad been set awry by injudicious handling; that unlimited patience wouldcause him to forget all that. He could gallop, else he had not won therace in which he beat The Dutchman. That he had needed a stimulant thatday was because he had been soured and would not try with his wits abouthim. From the time of coming back to Ringwood Allis had ridden him inall his exercise gallops, and had asked Mike personally to supervise hisstable education. It had taken all her great patience, all her youthfulenthusiasm and faith, for the Chestnut had notions beyond all belief. Atfirst, missing the abuse, he almost seemed to thirst for it; tried thegentle girl in every way--sulked, and loafed, and took little streaks oftrying to cut the course, and made false breaks as though he were goingto run with a full vigor; even laid hold of the horses with his teethwhen opportunity offered. These antics did not break the girl's faith;she rode him with the gentle hand a woman knows and a horse soon learnsto appreciate, and gave him to understand that he was to have fairtreatment. 

Porter viewed this continuous performance with silent skepticism. He didnot abuse horses himself, neither did he put up with too much nonsensefrom them. To him they were like children, needing a lot of tolerantkindness, but, also, at times, to be greatly improved by a soundwhipping. Once when he suggested something of this sort to Allis, saying that Lauzanne was a spoiled child, she admitted he was, but thatthoughtless cruelty and not indulgence had done the harm, thereforekindness was the cure. The first sign of regeneration was the implicitfaith that Lauzanne began to place in his young mistress. At first whenshe put up a hand to pet him he would jerk his head away in affright;now he snuggled her shoulder, or nibbled at her glove in full spirit ofcomradarie. Then one day in a gallop came a stronger manifestation, a brief minute of exhilaration, with after-hours of thankfulness, andbeyond that, alas for the uncertainty of a spoiled temper, an addedperiod of wallowing in the Slough of Despond!

It was on a crisp, sparkling morning, and with Shandy--it was before hisdownfall--on Lucretia, another stable lad, Ned Carter, on Game Boy, andAllis on Lauzanne, the three swung off for a working gallop of a mile ormore. Lauzanne was in an inquisitive mood, as the other two raced onin front. What was his light-weighted rider up to anyway? Why did shealways leave it to him to do just as he liked? Was she really deceivinghim? Did she wish him to lie back there behind the others always? Hefell to wondering what she would do if he were to take hold of the bitand spread his big muscles in one rushing gallop, and go on past theothers and get home to the feed box first. He rattled the snaffle in hismouth with nervous indecision--he had a notion to try it. 

"Steady, my boy!" said Allis, as she slipped the reins back through herfingers till they stretched tight. A dozen times she had sought in vainto make him think she did not wish him to gallop, but something in thecrisp air this morning threw him off his guard. Why should he be forcedto lag behind? He stretched the arch of his neck straight till the bitheld hard in his mouth; the ears pitched forward in eager point; thegreat frame under the girl quivered and sank closer to earth; the roarof his beating hoofs came up to her ears, muffled by the drive of thewind that was now a gale as the Chestnut raced into it with the speedof an express. How her heart sang! Here was speed, and with suchstride--strong, and straight, and true! Low she crouched, and her callto Lauzanne was but a joyous whisper. Her small hands were framed insteel, strength to steady the big Chestnut as he swung round the courseglued to the rail. On Lauzanne sped, and to the rhythm of his bigheaving quarters the girl's soul sang a song of delight. At last, atlast was coming her reward. 

And then, just when everything had been achieved, when the greatgallop had brought them half up the stretch, something came toLauzanne--perhaps the memory of the whipping finishes; at any rate, hecurled up like a dog, threw his ears back--Allis could feel the suddenstiff prop of the forelegs as he set himself against the rush ofspeed--and in a dozen strides he was Lauzanne again, Lauzanne theDespised. 

And so it had gone on for weeks, Allis working out her theory up to thetime of the trouble over Diablo. There was something in the girl's quietdetermination that was masterful; perhaps that was why she had alwayshad her own way at home. Now this mastery was spreading out wonderfully;Lauzanne, and Mike, and her father, and Crane, and Mortimer, all indifferent degrees of subjection, but, as Fate knew, all subject. 

Mrs. Porter's continual lament on the subject of racing had given Cranea keynote for his line of action. It was the day following her scoringof the tolerant husband that Crane revisited Ringwood full of his newidea. 

He had an impulse to buy back Lauzanne. For almost the first time inhis life he experienced twinges of remorse; this was because of Allis. Porter's affairs were in a bad way, and he would probably accept eagerlyan offer from Crane to lighten his load. Individually he cared little forPorter's financial troubles, but it was a good opportunity to preparethe way for a stronger pressing of his suit with the girl. With hisusual fine discrimination he spoke to Mrs. Porter first, intimatingnever so slightly that her words had won his entire sympathy; that ifher husband would sell any of the horses he would buy them. 

There was a convincing sincerity about Crane at all times; what he didhe did with the full vigor of a man believing in its truth. Onemight almost have suspected that he deceived himself, that he had noconception of the unrighteousness of his acts. At any rate, he imposedmost successfully upon the mother of Allis. Quite egotistically sheattributed to herself the trend of his friendship. In racing phrase, Crane was out for a killing and playing his cards with consummate skill. 

With the master of Ringwood he went very straight to the point. Thiswas possible, as Porter could not hesitate to discuss his financialcondition with his banker. Crane offered to buy Lucretia; this withhim was purely a speculation, but Porter would not part with his littlemare. Then the banker spoke of Lauzanne, saying that he felt somewhatguilty since learning the previous evening that the horse had beendoped. Porter failed to see where Crane had anything to do with it. Butthe latter insisted that he had unwittingly helped Langdon by speakingof Lauzanne as a good horse. He had known nothing of the matter, beyondthat his trainer had assured him the horse would win; in fact, he hadbacked him. 

Porter laughed at the idea that responsibility could attach to Crane. Asto the Chestnut, he was not worth a tenth of the three thousand he hadcost--that was well known; and if Crane or any other man sought tobuy him at that price it would savor too much of charity. At any rate, Lauzanne belonged to Allis, and Crane would have to bargain with her. 

Then there was Diablo, Crane said; his presence was a menace to MissPorter. 

"I've nursed him for a good while, " Porter replied, "and he's a badbetting proposition--he's too uncertain. You don't want such a horse asthat--nobody does. I'll keep him a bit longer, and put him in a handicapor two where the purse will be worth running for, and I won't have toback him; he'll get in with a featherweight, and some day may take itinto his head to gallop, though he's a rank bad one. "

Crane did not press the point; he understood Porter's motivesthroughout. He knew the master of Ringwood was an unchanging man, veryset in his ways, adhering closely to his plans and opinions. So Cranewent back to Brookfield without purchasing a horse, saying as he left, "I claim first privilege when you wish to sell. "

He had talked to Porter in the stable, and Mike, busy near by, heardthat part of their conversation referring to the horses. 

"They haven't got money enough in the bank to take the little mare fromus yet, have they, Mike?" Porter said to Gaynor, full of his pride inLucretia. 

"That they haven't, sor, " replied Mike, proudly. "But, faith, I wish th'gint hadn't come a-tryin' to buy her; it's bad luck to turn down a bigoffer fer any horse. "

Porter smiled indulgently. This stable superstition did not appeal tohim. 

"It would a-broke the bad luck, sor, to have let him took the Black. "

"It would have broken his bank, you mean, Mike. "

"Well, he'll break somewan's back here yet, an' I'm tellin' you thatsthraight. They say a black cat's full av th! divil, but Diablo's ouldNick hisself, though I'm sayin'it was th' b'y Shandy's fault sp'ilin'him. An' if it wasn't fer Miss Allis it's a pity you couldn't a-soldhim the Chestnut. He's a sawhorse--he's as heavy in th' head as a bag ofsalt; he'll never do no good to nobody. Them's the kind as kapes a manpoor, eatin' their heads off, an' wan horse, or maybe two, in thestable earnin' th' oats fer them. It's chaper to cut th' t'roats av suchcattle. "

"I believe you're right, Mike, " Porter answered, quietly, as he left thestable. 

Crane, driving back to Brookfield, turned over in his mind the matterof his mission. He was satisfied. He had succeeded in the main objectivepoint. It would have been a good move to have acquired Lucretia, to havetempted her owner to part with her for ready money in sight. The moneywould soon have disappeared; then Porter, with a lot of bad horses onhis hand, would almost certainly have come more firmly into the graspof Crane. The offer to buy Lauzanne had been a bit of saving grace, afaint, generous impulse, begot of Allis's regenerating influence; butCrane had discovered that Porter did not at all suspect him of interestin the fraud--that was a great something. He had also establishedhimself firmly in Mrs. Porter's good graces, he could see. It would beindeed strange if in the end he did not succeed completely. 

XIV

Shandy's escapade with Diablo had brought a new trouble to Mike Gaynor. 

The boy had been discharged with a severe reprimand from Mr. Porter, anda punctuation mark of disapproval from the Trainer's horn-like hand. He had departed from Ringwood inwardly swearing revenge upon everybodyconnected with that place; against Diablo he was particularly virulent. 

Mike tried to secure a boy in the Brookfield neighborhood to ride Diabloin his work, but Shandy's evil tongue wagged so blatantly about thehorse's bad temper that no lad could be found to take on in the stables. Ned Carter might have ridden Diablo at work, but the big Black wasindeed a horse of many ideas. He had taken a notion to gallop kindlywhile accompanied by Lucretia and Lauzanne; worked alone he sulkedand was as awkward as a broncho of the plains. Also he dislikedCarter--seemed to associate his personality with that of Shandy's. 

Mike's discontent over the hitch spread to John Porter. It was too bad;the horses had been doing so well. For three days Diablo had no gallop. On the fourth Porter determined to ride the horse himself; he would notbe beaten out by an ungrateful whelp like Shandy. In his day he had beena famous gentleman jock, and still light enough to ride work. 

"I don't like the idea, sor; it's not good enough, " remonstrated Mike. 

But his master was obdurate. If Allis rode Lauzanne, why shouldn't heride Diablo?

Gaynor would have ridden the horse himself rather than have his masterdo so, but he had a bad leg. Once upon a time it had been crushedagainst the rail. Somebody must ride Diablo; the horse, naturallyhighstrung, was becoming wild with nervousness through being knocked outof his work. 

For three days after his discharge Shandy sat brooding with the lowcunning of a forest animal over his fancied ill-treatment. More thanonce he had received money from Langdon for touting off to him Porter'sstable matters; now in his unreasoning bitterness he contrasted Langdonand Porter. 

"Dick's white, he is, an' I'll go git a job from him. I gits half eatby that crazy skate, an' fired without a cent fer it. God drat 'em!"he muttered; "I'll get even, or know why. They'll put Ned up on Diablo, will they? The sneak! He split on me fer beltin' the Black, I know, damnhim! They ain't got another boy an' they won't git one. I'll fix thatstiff, Carter, too; then they won't have no boy. "

He drank beer, and as it irritated his ferret mind a devilish plot cameinto his being and took possession of him--a plot easy of executionbecause of his familiarity with the Ringwood stables. 

That night he slipped through the dark, like a hyena pup, to Ringwood. That the stable was locked mattered not. More than once, out oflaziness, Shandy had shirked going to Mike's quarters for the keys andhad found ingress by a small window, a foot square, through which thesoiled straw bedding was thrown into the yard. Standing on the dungheap, Shandy worked open the board slide that closed this window, andwormed his weasel-form through the small opening. He passed down thepassage between the stalls and entered a saddle room at the farther end. 

"The bloomin' thing used to be on the fourth peg, " he muttered, drawinghis small figure up on tiptoe and feeling along the wall for something. "Blow me!" and he chuckled fiendishly as his fingers encountered thecold steel of a bit, "I'd know that snaffle in hell, if I got a feel ofit. "

There was a patent device of a twist and a loose ring in the center ofthe bit he clutched, which Porter had devised for Diablo's hard mouth. 

Shandy gave the bridle a swing, and it clattered to the floor from itspeg. Diablo snorted and pawed the planks of his stall nervously. 

"All right, my buck, " hissed Shandy, "you wait till to-morror; you'llgit the run of yer life, I'm thinkin', damn their eyes!" and he wentoff into a perfect torrent of imprecation against everybody at Ringwood, hushing his voice to a snarling whisper. Then he shut the door of thesaddle room, sat down on the floor and pulled from his pocket a knifeand stub of candle. He lighted the latter and held it flame down tilla few drops of wax formed a tiny lake; into this he stuck the candleupright, shielding its flame with his coat. He opened the knife andlaying it down, inspected minutely the bridle which lay across his leg. 

"It's Diablo's right enough, " he said; "I couldn't be mistook on thebit, nor them strong lines. "

He picked up the knife, and holding the leather rein across the palm ofhis left hand started to saw it gently with the blade. Almost instantlyhe left off. "Of all the bloomin' ijits! God drat me fer a goat! He'dfeel that cut the first slip through his fingers the leather took. "

He gathered in the rein until he had it six inches from the bit. Therehe cut, stopping many times, and doubling the leather close to the lightto see how deep he had penetrated. 

"There, Mr. Bloody Ned!" he exclaimed at last, as inspection showed thatonly the outer hard shell of the leather remained intact. "That'll justhold till the Black takes one of his cranky spells, an' you give hima stiff pull. God help you then!" Even this was a blasphemous cry ofexultation; not a plea for divine assistance for the man he plottedagainst. 

His next move proved that his cunning was of an exceptional order. Fromhis coat pocket he brought forth a pill box. In this receptacle Shandydipped a forefinger, and rubbed into the fresh cut of the leather atrifle of blackened axle grease which he had taken from a wagon wheelbefore starting out. Then he wiped the rein with his coat tail andlooked at it admiringly. 

"The bloke won't see that, blast him!"

He hung the bridle up in its place, put out the candle, dropped it inhis pocket and made his way from the stable. 

As he passed Diablo's stall the big Black snorted again, and plunged inaffright. 

"You'll get enough of that to-morror, " sneered the boy. "I hope you andNed both break your damn necks. Fer two cents I'd drop somethin' in yourfeed-box that'd settle you right now; but it's the skunk as split on meI want to get even with. "

Shandy trudged back to where he nested in Brookfield and soon slept withcalm restfulness, as though no evil had ever homed in his heart. In thefirst gray of the early morning he rose and went out to the race course. 

XV

The course near Ringwood had formerly been a trotting track, andwas still used at irregular intervals for the harness horses. In itsprimitive days a small, square, box-like structure had done duty asa Judges' Stand. With other improvements a larger structure had beenerected a hundred yards higher up the stretch. 

It was to the little old stand that Shandy took his way. Inside hewaited for the coming of Gaynor's string of gallopers as supremely happyin his unrighteous work as any evil-minded boy might be at the prospectof unlimited mischief. 

"Ned'll ride Diablo, sure; there's nothin' else to it, " he muttered. "I hope he breaks his blasted neck. I'll pay 'em out fer turnin' me offlike a dog, " he continued, savagely, the small ferret eyes blazingwith fury. "I'll learn the damn--Hello!" His sharp ears had caught themuffled sound of hoofs thudding the turf in a slow, measured walk. Hepeeped between the boards. 

"Yes, it's Mike. And the girl, too--blast her! She blamed me fer nearbein' eat alive by that black devil of a dope horse. Hell!"

This ambiguous exclamation was occasioned by the sight of his formermaster springing into the saddle on Diablo's back. 

"That's the game, eh? God strike me dead! I hope you git enough ofhim. My arms ache yet from bein' near pulled out of the sockets by thatleather-mouthed brute. Gee, if the boss hasn't got spurs on! If he evertickles the Black wit' 'em--say, boys, there'll be a merry hell to pay, and no pitch hot. "

The young Arab spoke to the boards as though they were partners in hisiniquity. Then he chuckled diabolically, as in fancy he saw Porter beingtrampled by the horse. 

"The girl's on Lauzanne, " he muttered; "she's the best in the lot, ifshe did run me down. A ridin' that sorrel mut, too, when she ought to bein the house washin' dishes. A woman ain't got no more business hangin''round the stable than a man's got in the kitchen. Petticoats is thedevil; I never could abide 'em. " Shandy sometimes harked back to hisearly English Whitechapel, for he had come from the old country, and hadbrought with him all the depravity he could acquire in the first fiveyears of his existence there. 

"Ned's got the soft snap in that blasted bunch, " as his eye discoveredCarter on Lucretia. "He's slipped me this go, but I've nobbled the boss, so I don't care. I'm next 'em this trip. "

As the three horses and their riders came on to the course he pulled outa cheap stop-watch Langdon had equipped him with for his touting, andstarted and stopped it several times. 

"You'll pay fer their feed, you damn ole skinflint, " he wasapostrophizing Porter, "an' I'll be next the best they can do, an'stan' in on the rake-off. Gee! I thought they was out fer a trial, " hemuttered, looking disconsolately at the three as they cantered the firstpart of the journey. "I'll ketch 'em at the half, on the off chance, " headded. 

But though the timepiece in his hand clicked impatiently, after hepressed the stem with his thumb, as Diablo's black nozzle showed pastthe half-mile post, the three horses still cantered. Lauzanne was lopingleisurely with the action of a wooden rocking-horse. Lucretia, her long, in-tipped ears cocked eagerly forward, was throwing her head impatientlyinto the air as though pleading for just one strong gallop. Diablo'sneck was arched like the half of a cupid's bow; his head, almost againsthis chest, hung heavy in the reins tight-drawn in Porter's strong hands. His eyes, showing full of a suspicious whiteness, stood out from hislean, bony head; they were possessed of a fretful, impatient look. Frothflecked back from the nervous, quivering lips, and spattered against hisblack satin-skinned chest, where it hung like seafoam on holding sand. 

"Whoa! Steady, old boy!" Porter was coaxing soothingly. "Steady, boy!"

"The ease up has put the very deuce into this fellow, " he flung overhis shoulder to Allis, who was at Diablo's quarter. "He's a hard-mouthedbrute if ever there was one. "

"He'll be all right, dad, " she called forward, raising her voice, forthe wind cut her breath; "Shandy rode him with a heavy hand, that'swhy. "

"I'll put a rubber bit in his mouth, to soften it, " he pumped brokenly. "Let out a wrap, girl, and we'll breeze them up the stretch; come on. Carter, get to the front with the mare. " A quarter of a mile from thefinish the horses raced into a swinging stride. Diablo was simply madwith a desire to gallop; but in the saddle was his master; no horseever did as he wished with John Porter. Battling against the sharpshis honesty might handicap him out of the strife, but in the saddle theelation of movement crept into his sinews, and he was superb, a king. As a jockey, he would have been unsurpassed. It filled his heart withdelight to play with the fierce, imperious animal he rode. 

"Steady, my boy--no you don't!" This as Diablo stuck his neck straightout like an arrow and sought to hold the bit tight against the bridleteeth, that he might race at his own sweet will. Back came the righthand, then the left, three vicious saws, and the bit was loose andDiablo's head drawn down again close to the martingale. Lucretia andLauzanne were pulling to the front. 

"Go on!" called Porter to Ned Carter; "I want to see the little mare inher stride. Take them out at three-quarter gallop down the back stretch. I'll be treading your heels off. "

By this they were opposite the old stand, where Shandy was hiding. Theboy, surmising that a gallop was on, and anxious to see them as theyrounded the turn going down the back, had knocked a board loose to widenthe crack. As the horses came abreast, Shandy, leaning forward in hiseagerness, dislodged it at the top, and it fell with a clatter, carryinghim half through the opening. The wind was blowing fair across thelittle stand, so the scent of the boy came to Diablo's nostrils at thesame instant the startling noise reached his nervous ears. In a swervehe almost stopped, every muscle of his big body trembling in affright. Porter was nearly thrown from his seat by this crouching side step;the horse seemed to shrink from under him. Just for an instant, but thereins had flapped loose against the wet neck and Diablo felt freedom. With a snort he plunged forward like a wounded buck, and raced madlyafter Lucretia, who had bolted when the crash came. 

Porter had lost a stirrup in the sudden twist, and the reins had slippedthrough his fingers as he grabbed the mane on Diablo's wither to pullhis weight back into the saddle. 

Now the black neck was straight and taut, flatcapped by the slim earsthat lay close to the throatlatch. The thunder of his pounding hoofsreached to the ears of Lucretia and Lauzanne in front, and urged themonward. Carter had sat down in the saddle, and taken a steadying pull atthe brown mare. Even Lauzanne seemed lifted out of his usual lethargy, and, widemouthed, was pulling Allis out of the saddle. 

"Curse the brute!" gasped Porter, burying his knees in the saddle flaps, and searching for the dangling stirrup with the toe of his right foot. Once he almost had it, but missed; the iron, swinging viciously, caughtDiablo in the flank--it made little difference, his terror was complete. All the time Porter was kneading the dangling reins back throughforefinger and thumb, shortening his hold for a strong pull at thegalloping brute's head. 

"Who-o-o-a-h, who-o-o-ah, stead-y!" and, bracing himself against thepummel he swung the weight of his shoulders on the reins. As well mighthe have pulled at the rock of Gibraltar. Diablo's head was up, his teethset hard and the man's strength was as nothing against the full-muscledneck of the big horse. Diablo was cutting down the lead the other twoheld over him, galloping like a demon. Porter felt that he must loosenthe bit and throw that set head down to get command of the horse. Onefierce yank to the right and the black head swayed a trifle; another tothe left and--God in heaven! the rein snapped, and its loose end cameback, slashing the rider across the face. He reeled with the recoil, nearly bringing Diablo to his knees with the sudden swing of weight onthe right rein. Porter's brain jerked foolishly for an instant; then hewas the trained horseman again, and had let the remaining leather slipthrough his fingers a trifle. 

"Go on!" he shouted to those in front; "go on--give me a lead! Hang tothe course!"

He realized now that the crazed brute under him must run himself out. All he could do was to sit tight and wait till Diablo had raced himselfto a standstill. To use the one rein meant a crash into the rail, andsurely death. Before, he had thought only of the horse's welfare; nowit was a matter of his own life. All that remained to him was to keep acool head, a steady nerve, and wait. 

Freed of restraint, not battled with, the Black's stride lengthened, hisnostrils spread wider, the hoofs pounded quicker and quicker until theearth echoed with their palpitating beat. The other horses heard theturmoil, and they, too, became more afraid, and took up the mad rush. 

Diablo's reaching nose was at Lauzanne's hip when Allis took one swiftbackward glance. She saw the dangling rein, the set look in her father'sface, the devil eyes of the horse, and for one breath-gasp her heartfluttered in its beat. As quickly she put the fear from her, andswinging Lauzanne a shade wide, left Diablo more room next the rail. 

"On, Lauzanne!" she called through drawn lips; and hitched encouraginglyin the saddle. 

Lucretia was still in front, her speed mocking at the swift rush ofLauzanne and Diablo. But how the Black galloped! Every post saw himcreeping up on the Chestnut, and Allis riding and nursing him to keepthe runaway hemmed in at the turns, so that he could not crash throughthe outer rail. No one spoke again. Each knew that nothing was left todo but keep Diablo to the course, and ride, ride. 

Just in front of Lauzanne, with swinging stride raced the brown mare, waiting till the Chestnut should drop back beaten, to take up therunning with Diablo. That was Carter's good judgment; and he rode asthough it were the Derby, and he was nursing his mount for the last callat the finish. 

At the three quarters Lauzanne and Diablo were neck and neck; at thehalf, the Black was lapped on Lucretia; another furlong and she waslaboring to keep her place, nose and nose with him. 

"I'm done, " panted Carter, feeling the mare swerve and falter; "I'mdone--God help us!"

Still there was no check in the Black's gallop; he was like a devil thatcould go on forever and ever. 

They had turned into the straight with Lucretia a neck to the bad, whenCarter heard the girl's voice faintly calling, "Pull out, Ned!" Theboy thought it fancy. Lauzanne the Despised couldn't be there at theirheels. He had thought him beaten off long ago. But again the voice came, a little stronger, "Pull out, Ned!"

This time there was no mistake. It might be a miracle, but it washis duty to obey. As he galloped, Carter edged Lucretia to the right. Without looking back he could feel Lauzanne creeping up between him andDiablo. Soon the Chestnut's head showed past his elbow, and they wereboth lapped on the Black. Halfway up the stretch Allis was ridingstirrup to stirrup with her father. Porter's weight was telling onDiablo. 

"She's got him. Lauzanne'll hold him if he doesn't quit, " Cartermuttered, as he dropped back, for Lucretia was blown. 

Past the finish post Lauzanne was a head in front, and Diablo wasgalloping like a tired horse. 

"He's beat!" ejaculated Carter. "Hello! that's it, eh? My word, what agirl!"

He saw Allis reach down for the slack rein running from her father'shand to Diablo's mouth. "Missed! She's got it!" he cried, eagerly. "Thedevil!"

As Allis grasped Diablo's rein, the horse, with sudden fury at beingdrawn toward Lauzanne, his old foe, snapped at the Chestnut. As he didso, thrown out of his stride, his forelegs crossed and he went down ina heap with the rider underneath. The force of his gallop carried theBlack full over onto his back. He struggled to his feet, and stood, shaking like a leaf, with low-stretched neck and fearcocked ears, staring at the crushed, silent figure that lay with its face smotheredin the soft earth. In a dozen jumps Allis stopped Lauzanne, threwherself from the saddle, and leaving the horse ran swiftly back to herfather. 

"Oh, my God! he's dead, he's dead!" she cried, piteously, the nerve thathad stood the strain of the fierce ride utterly shattered and unstrungat sight of the senseless form. 

"He's not dead, " said Carter, putting his hand over Porter's heart. "It's just a bad shake-up. Mike's coming, and we'll soon get him home. He'll be all right, Miss Allis--he'll be all right, " he kept mutteringin a dazed manner, as he raised her father's head to his knee. 

"Take Lucretia and gallop for the docthor, Miss 'Allis, " commanded Mikecoming up on the run. "We'll get yer father home in the buggy. "

"In God's mercy, don't let him die, Mike, " and bending down she pressedher lips to the cold forehead that was driven full of sand. "Get himhome quick, and try not to let mother see. I'll take Lauzanne. "

Lauzanne had followed her and was standing waiting; his big eyes full ofa curious wonderment. Mike lifted Allis to the saddle. As he drew backhis hand he looked at it, then up at the girl. "Don't cry, Miss, " hesaid, struggling a little with his voice that was playing him tricks;"yer father's just stunned a bit. The dochtor'll brace him up allright. "

"It's bad business, this, " he continued, as Allis galloped on hererrand, and he helped Carter lift the injured man. "There, that'sroight; jist carry his legs; I'll take him under the back. "

As they moved slowly toward the buggy that stood in the paddock, Diablofollowed at their heels as though he had done nothing in the world buttake a mild gallop. "Ye black divil!" muttered Mike, looking over hisshoulder; "ye've murthered wan av the best min as iver breathed. If I'dme way, I'd shoot ye. I'd turn ye into cat meat; that's what ye'r fitfor!"

"What broke the rein?" he asked of Carter as they neared the buggy;"what started thim goin'?"

"Somebody was in the old stand, " Carter replied, as putting his foot onthe step he raised himself and the dead weight of the limp man. 

"There, steady, Ned. Pull the cushion down in the bottom. Now ye've gotit. Bot' t'umbs! it's as good as an ambulance. I'll hold his head in melap, an' ye drive. Here, Finn, " he continued, turning to the boy whohad caught and brought up Lucretia, "take the wee filly an' that divil'sbaste back to the barn; put the busted bridle by till I have a good lookat it after. Go on, Ned; slow; that's it, aisy does it. When we get outon the turnpike ye can slip along. "

When they had turned into the road he spoke again to Carter, "Ye weresayin', Ned, there was a guy in th' ould stan'. "

"Yes, " replied Carter; "somebody was toutin' us off. A board broke, an'that frightened the boss's mount. "

"I t'ought I see a b'y skinnin' off the track, " commented Gaynor. "FirstI t'ought it was Shandy, but what'd he be doin' there? Did ye see hisface, Ned?"

"I was too busy takin' a wrap on Lucretia; she was gettin' a bit out ofhand. "

When they came to the gate which gave entrance to Ringwood house Mikesaid to Carter, with rough sympathy in his voice: "Slip in ahead, Ned, and tell the Misses that the boss has had a bit av a spill. Say he'sjust stunned; no bones broke. Bot' t'umbs! though, I fear he's mashed toa jelly. Ask fer a bottle of brandy till we give him a bracer. Ned!" hecalled, as Carter slipped from the buggy, "see if ye kin kape the Missesfrom seein' the boss till the docthor comes. Git hould of the girlCynthie, an' give her the tip that things is purty bad. Go on now; I'lldrive slow wid wan hand. "

Mike's kindly precautions were of little avail. Mrs. Porter saw theslow-moving conveyance crawling up the broad drive, and instinctivelyknew that again something terrible had occurred. That Allis was notthere added to her fear. 

"He's just bad, ma'am, " Carter was saying, as Mike reached the steps. But she didn't hear him; her face was white, and in her eyes was thehorror of a great fear, but from her lips came no cry; her silence wasmore dreadful than if she had called out. 

"We'll carry him, ma'am, " Mike said, as she came down the steps to thebuggy, and clutching the wheel rim swayed unsteadily. "Jest git a bedready, Misses, " Gaynor continued, softly; "git a bed ready, an' he'll beall roight afther a bit. He's just stunned; that's all, just stunned!"

It was curious how the sense of evil had limited each one's vocabulary. 

"Let me help, " pleaded Mrs. Porter, speaking for the first time. 

"We'll carry him, Misses--he's just stunned, " repeated Mike, in a drearymonotone, as feeling each step carefully with his toe he and Carter borethe still senseless form into the house. The wife had got one of thebattered hands between her own, and was walking with wide, dry, staringeyes close to her husband. 

"O John, John! Speak to me. Open your eyes and look at me. You're notdead; O God! you're not dead!" she cried, passionately, breaking down, and a pent-up flood of tears coming to the hot, dry eyes as the two menlaid Porter on the bed that Cynthia had made ready. 

"There, Misses, don't take on now, " pleaded Mike. "The boss is jeststunned; that's all. I've been that way a dozen toimes meself, " headded, by way of assurance. "Where's the brandy? Lift his head, Ned;not so much. See!" he cried, exultantly, as the strong liquor causedthe eyelids to quiver; "see, Misses, he's all roight; he's jest stunned;that's all. There's the dochtor now. God bless the little woman! Shewasn't long!"

The sound of wheels crunching the gravel, with a sudden stop at theporch, had come to their ears. 

"Come out av the room, Ma'am, " Mike besought Mrs. Porter; "come out avthe room an' lave the docthor bring the boss 'round. " He signaled toCynthia with his eyes for help in this argument. 

"Yes, Mrs. Porter, " seconded Cynthia, "go out to the porch; Miss Allisand I will remain here with the doctor to get what's needed. "

"Ah, a fall, eh, " commented Dr. Rathbone, cheerily, coming briskly intothe room. Then he caught Mike's eye; it closed deliberately, and theIrishman's head tipped never so slightly toward Mrs. Porter. 

"Now 'clear the room, ' as they say in court, " continued the doctor, witha smile, understanding Mike's signal. "We mustn't have people aboutto agitate Porter when he comes to his senses. I'll need Cynthia, andperhaps you'd better wait, too, Gaynor. Just take care of your mother, Miss Allis. I'll have your father about in a jiffy. "

"He's jest stunned; that's all!" added Mike, with his kindly, parrotlikerepetition. 

It seemed a million years to the wife that she waited for the doctor'soutcoming. Twice she cried in anguish to Allis that she must go in; mustsee her husband. 

"He may die, " she pleaded, "and I may never see his eyes again. Oh, letme go, Allis, I'll come back, I will. "

"Wait here, mother, " commanded the girl. "Doctor Rathbone will tell usif--if--" she could not finish the sentence--could not utter the dreadwords, but clasping her mother's hands firmly in her own, kept her inthe chair. Once Mike came out and said, "He's jest stunned, Ma'am. Thedocthor says he'll be all roight by an' by. "

"He won't die--"

"He's worth a dozen dead men, Ma'am; he's jest stunned; that's all!"

There was another long wait, then Dr. Rathbone appeared. 

"Porter will be all right, Madame; it'll take time; it'll take time--andnursing. But you're getting used to that, " he added, with a smile, "but, "and he looked fixedly at Allis, "he must have quiet; excitement willdo more harm than the fall. "

"Tell me the truth, doctor, " pleaded Mrs. Porter, struggling to herfeet, and placing both hands on his shoulders, "I can stand it--see, I'mbrave. "

"I've told you the truth, Mrs. Porter, " the doctor answered. "There's nofear for your husband's recovery if he has quiet for a few days. "

She looked into his eyes. Then crying, "I believe you, doctor; thankGod for his mercy!" swayed, and would have fallen heavily but for Mike'sready arm. 

"She'll be better after that, " said the doctor, addressing Allis. "Ithas been a hard pull on her nerves. Just bathe her temples, and get herto sleep, if you can. I'll come back soon. Your father is not conscious, or will he be, I'm thinking, for a day or two. He has heavy concussion. Cynthia has full directions what to do. "

XVI

After Dr. Rathbone had left Mike and Carter went down to the stables. 

"I'll jest have a look at that broke rein, " said Gaynor; "that sthrapwas strong enough to hang Diablo. If there's not some dirty business inthis, I'll eat me hat. T'umbs up! but it was a gallop, though. The Blackkin move whin he wants to. "

"But what do you think of old Lauzanne?" exclaimed Carter. "He just woreDiablo down, hung to him like a bulldog, an' beat him out. "

"It was the girl's ridin'; an' Lauzanne was feared, too. He'schicken-hearted; that's what he is. Some day in a race he'll get away infront av his horses, an' beat 'em by the length av a street. He'll be ahun'red to wan, an' nobody'll have a penny on. "

When they arrived at the stable Mike headed straight for the harnessroom. The light was dim, coming from a small, high, two-paned window;but Mike knew where every bridle and saddle should be. He put hishand on Diablo's headgear, and bringing it down carried it through thepassage to a stable door where he examined it minutely. 

"Jest what I tought. Look at that, " and he handed it to Carter forinspection. "How do ye size that up, Ned?"

"The rein's been cut near through, " replied Carter. "I wonder it held aslong as it did. "

"A dirty, low-down trick, " commented Mike. "I'll hang it back on the pegjust now, but don't use it again fer a bit. "

As he reentered the saddle room briskly his heel slipped on the plankfloor, bringing him down. "I'd take me oath that was a banana peel, if it was on the sidewalk, " he exclaimed, after a gymnastic twist thatnearly dislocated his neck. "Some of ye fellows is pretty careless wit'hoof grease, I'm thinkin'. "

More out of curiosity than anything else he peered down at the cause ofhis sudden slip. "What the divil is it, onyway?" he muttered, kneelingand lighting a match, which he held close to the spot. "Bot' t'umbs!" heexclaimed, "it's candle grease. Have aither of ye b'ys been in here wit'a candle? It's agin the rules. "

"There isn't a candle about the barn, an' you know it, Mike, " criedCarter, indignantly. 

Mike was prospecting the floor with another light. 

"Here's two burnt matches, " he continued, picking them up. "An' theywere loighted last night, too. See that, they're long, an' that meansthat they wasn't used for lightin' a pipe or a cigar--jes' fer touchin'off a candle, that's all. I know they was loighted last night, " hesaid, as though to convince himself, "fer they're fresh, an' ain't beentramped on. If they'd been here fer two or three days, roight in frontof the door, they'd have the black knocked off 'em wid ye boys' feet. This wan didn't light at all hardly, an' there's a little wool fuzzstickin' to it. Gee! that manes some wan sthruck it on his wool pants. Git the lantern, Ned, p'raps we'll fin' out somethin' more. The lightfrom that high up winder ain't good enough fer trackin' a bear. "

When the lantern was brought, Mike continued his detective operations, nose and eyes close to the floor, like a black tracker. 

"What's that, Ned?" he asked, pointing his finger at a dark brown spoton the boards. 

Carter crouched and scrutinized Mike's find. "Tobacco spit, " and he gavea little laugh. 

"Roight you are; that's what it is. Now who chaws tobaccie in thisstable?" he demanded of Carter, with the air of a cross-examiningcounsel. 

"I don't. "

"Does Finn?"

"No; I don't think so. "

"Didn't Shandy always have a gob of it in his cheek--the dirty pig?"

"Yes, he did, Mike. "

"I t'ought so; I t'ought it was that blackguard. But how did the swineget in here? The stable was locked, an' I had the key in me pocket. I'lltake me oath to that. "

Carter took his cap off, ran a hand reflectively up and down the crownof his head, canvassing every possible entry there might be to thestalls. Suddenly he replaced his cap and whistled softly. "I know, Mike;he crawled through the dung window. I've seen him do it half a dozentimes. When he was too lazy to go for the keys, he'd wiggle through thathole. "

Mike said nothing, but led the way to the back of the stable. There heclimbed upon the pile of rotting straw, and examined closely the small, square opening, with its board slide, through which Shandy had passedthe night before. 

"God! I t'ought so!" he ejaculated. "Here's more tobacco spit, where thecutt'roat divil stood when he opened the winder. "

Looking down, his eye caught the glint of something bright deep in thestraw. He dug his hand down into the mass and brought up a knife. "Whoseis that, Ned?" he queried. 

Carter looked at it closely. "Shandy's, " he answered; "I'll swear tothat. I've borrowed it from him more than once to clean out the horses'hoofs. "

"Bot' t'umbs up! I'd hang that b'y to a beam if I had him here. He cutthat rein as sure as God made little apples, " declared Mike, vehemently. "An' the gall av him to go an' sit there in the ould stand to watch theBlack run away wit' somewan an' kill 'em. Now jest kape yer mouth shut, Ned, an' we'll put a halter on this rooster. By hivins! when I git himI'll make him squale, too!"

XVII

The seriousness of Porter's accident became clearer to Doctor Rathbonethe following day. He imparted this information to Allis; told her thatin all probability it would be weeks before her father would be strongagain. 

"In the meantime, little woman, what are you to do with all these hungryhorses on your hands?" he asked. 

The girl's answer came quickly enough, for she had lain awake throughall the dreary night, thinking out this problem. Without medicalknowledge she had felt certain that her father was badly injured, andthe gloomy future had come to her in the darkness instead of sleep. 

"I'll look after them, " she answered the doctor, quite simply. 

A smile of skepticism hovered about his full lips, as he raised his eyesto the girl's face, but the look of determination, of confidence that hemet put his doubts to flight. "I believe you can do it, if any man can, "and he put his big hand on her slight shoulders, as much as to say, "I'mbehind you; I believe in you. "

Of course an inkling of Porter's condition had to be given his wife, though the full gravity was masked. This was done by Allis, and Mrs. Porter immediately became a prey to abject despair. 

The first thing to be done was to get rid of Diablo. She was too gentleto ask that he be shot, but he must go, even if he be given away. She would willingly have sacrificed all the horses. Always with theirpresence had come financial troubles, spiritual troubles; now the livesof those dear to her were in actual peril. No wonder the good woman wasrendered hysterical by the strong emotions that swayed her. 

In her depression she somewhat startled Allis by insisting that theymust send for Mr. Crane at once. After all, it was not so unreasonable;with the master of Ringwood helpless, who else could they consult withover their entangled condition? For, the past year Porter had found itnecessary to keep in constant touch with the bank; so they must becomefamiliar with the details of the entanglement. 

Mrs. Porter had come to have the utmost confidence in Crane's friendshipand ability; he was the one above all others to have Diablo taken offtheir hands. So Philip Crane, to his intense delight, was summoned toRingwood. This was his first knowledge of Porter's mishap, for he hadbeen in New York. 

Crane was supposed to possess a rare magnetism; most certainly men cameunder his influence with a noiseless, cheerful complaisance. It may havebeen that there was a slight fascination in the oblique contour of hiseyes, but in reality his power lay in his exquisite finesse; peopledelved for him under the impression that they were laboring according tothe dictates of their own sweet wills. Figuratively speaking, he twistedMrs. Porter round his finger, and so delightfully, that she was filledwith gratitude because of Crane's kindness in their hour of trouble. 

The matter of Diablo was settled in a minute; he would buy the horsehimself, and the price could be arranged when Mrs. Porter was able todiscuss the matter--that is, definitely; in the meantime he would paya thousand for him. He understood Porter had bough him for that price. With a touch of kindly humor, Crane declared that he would have a smallbet on the horse for Allis the first time he started. 

Beyond parting with Diablo, Allis would not go farther in the matter ofselling the horses; this was the full extent of her concession to themother. Had she known that her father had entered Diablo in the BrooklynHandicap she might even have refused to part with the horse. As ithappened, Porter had entered both Lucretia and Diablo in the Brooklyn aday or so before his accident, but had not spoken of it. 

Crane assured Mrs. Porter that she need not distract her mind over moneymatters, the bank could easily carry their lead until her husband washimself again. No matter how things turned out, it was a delicate matterto touch upon, the possibility of Porter's condition taking aserious turn, but coming from Crane it seemed like an earnest of hissincerity--well, Mrs. Porter would find a friend in him, quite willingand able to smooth their difficult path. 

Crane had meant to defer any protestations of regard for Allis untila propitious future, but with his quick perception he saw that thepsychological moment had been moved forward by the sudden effacement ofthe master of Ringwood. If he spoke now to Mrs. Porter it would giveher a right to call upon his services. He would appear in the light ofa debtor; it would break down barriers which might seem to exist becauseof their non-relationship. 

Crane had not been without a suspicion that the younger man, Mortimer, might prove a rival; heroics such as the Diablo episode were apt togive young people a romantic interest in each other; Fate had more thanevened matters up by giving him the present opportunity. He thought withsome satisfaction how perfectly helpless Mortimer was in the presentinstance, for he was most undeniably poor. It was an opportunity to begrasped; and Crane never let the tide pass its flood in the waters ofhis life. 

So the banker spoke to Mrs. Porter of his strong love for Allis; sodelicately, and with so much sincerity, that she was completely wonover. It is true, the ground had been prepared for the seed, for themother had long feared that Allis might become attached to some one ofPorter's racing associates. Though strong in spiritual matters, thegood woman was not without worldly instinct. She was pleased with Cranepersonally; he was not by any means a racing man; a rich banker, whowould make a most desirable husband for her daughter. Of course, itwould rest with the girl herself. Mrs. Porter would not coerce norinfluence her; but why should not Allis come to care for Crane under theinfluence of his strong love?

Mrs. Porter's mind had rebounded from its dazed condition after herhusband's accident, and was now acute. All these thoughts came to herwith rapidity, as Crane talked with masterly judgment. 

To the mother's suggestion that he speak to Allis he put forward a pleaof delicate consideration for the girl; he would rather deny himself; hewould wait patiently until her mind was in a happier condition. Cleverlyenough he knew that Mrs. Porter was now his ally, and would plead hiscause with less chance of failure than if he startled Allis by thesudden fronting of life's great problem. 

When Crane had gone Allis found her mother calmed by his visit; hisassurances had driven away distressing clouds of financial worry. 

Almost immediately Mrs. Porter transmitted to the girl what had come toher of Crane's declaration. 

"It seems almost like an answer to my prayer, " she said to Allis; "not, of course"--she interrupted herself--"that I've been praying for ahusband for you, but this wicked racing has warped the whole woof ofmy life; it seemed inevitable in the strength of its contaminatingatmosphere that you would be wedded into it, though one were better deadthan willingly choose a path of sin. "

"Then you've settled it, mother!" Allis's big eyes took on a dangerouslook of rebellion. 

"No, daughter; you must choose for yourself; only you will be wise notto go contrary to your parent's wishes. I did--"

"But you are not sorry, mother?" there was reproach in the girl's voice. 

"Not for having wedded your father, but because of his racing life. Ishould have been firmer, and asked him to give it up before I marriedhim. He might have done it then. Mr. Crane is a gentleman, Allis. Thatis a great deal nowadays, and he loves you most sincerely. Words oftenmean very little, but one can tell--at least when they've come to yearsof discretion they can--from a man's voice whether he is in earnest ornot. I suppose it is very worldly to speak of his riches, but in povertyone can do very little, very little good. I had rather that you didn'thave to look with misgiving into the future, Allis; it has taken muchjoy out of my existence. The dread of poverty is a nightmare; it wearsone's life threadbare. To the young, buoyed up by confidence in the rosyfuture, this may seem sordid, but this feeling of insecurity mars manylives which might otherwise be happy. 

"You see, Allis, " her mother continued, "I know you are heart-whole, soI can't cause you any misery by my well-meant advice. You've been a goodgirl, and there has been nobody of your class about. Mr. Mortimer is, I dare say, a gentleman, and I must confess I was afraid that you mightmistake a feeling of generosity to him for something stronger; but thatwas only an idle fancy, I see. It would have been unfortunate if itwere otherwise, for he is very poor indeed. His small salary must be alltaken up in keeping himself, his widowed mother, and a younger sister. "

Allis gave a sudden start. She had not known these particulars ofMortimer's life; but they carried certain explanations of his conduct. Quite casually she had formed an impression that he was penurious;something he had dropped about not being able to afford certainpleasures. That was where the money went--to support his mother andsister. Unwittingly her mother was pleading the cause of two men. 

The mother's talk depressed Allis greatly. Why should this troublesomematter come to her when she had so much to bear, so much to do. It gaveher quite a shock to find that as her mother talked she was notthinking of Crane at all. She could not picture his face, even; just thenarrow-lidded eyes peeped at her in her thoughts once or twice; it wouldbe horrible to look into them forever and ever. The face of Mortimer, pale and firm-set as it had been in that day of strife, was alwaysobliterating the other visage. Was her mother right? Was she soheart-whole? As if her thoughts had bearing on her mother's mind, thelatter said: "I wouldn't have spoken to you of this matter while yourfather is so ill if it weren't for the fact that our position isvery precarious. I can't understand just how badly off we are, but ifanything were to happen your father, I hardly know what would become ofus. "

"And Mr. Crane has promised to help us if--if--" There was a hard ringin the girl's voice as she spoke, getting not past the "if, " refusing toput into words the distressing thought. 

"There is no 'if' about it, daughter. Mr. Crane is our friend, yourfather's friend, and he is going to help us; and he only spoke ofhis regard for you by way of an excuse--it was delicacy on his part, thinking that I would have less compunction in accepting his goodoffices. All I ask, girl, is that you will try to like Mr. Crane; if youcan't, well, you won't find me making you unhappy. But I can tell youthis, Allis, unless matters mend, and how the change is to come I can'tsay, your father will lose Ringwood and it will belong to Mr. Crane. Even if the horses were sold off, the money would not clear the debts;besides, I think that even the horses are encumbered. "

Allis stood in indecision for a little, thinking deeply; then she wentup to her mother, and, taking her face in her hands, kissed her. 

"I understand, mother, " she said, "you are worrying over the dear oldplace, over my future, and over father, and it is nothing but worry, worry, worry all the time. But I'll save Ringwood for you, mother. I hope father will soon be well again and that luck will change; butanyway, mother, I promise you that no matter what effort it costs me yousha'nt sacrifice the dear old place. "

Mrs. Porter's eyes were wet with tears of gratitude. She was thinkingonly of the redemption of the place through Crane; but Allis's wordshad meant far more than she had taken from them. They were inspired by afaith that she could save their fortunes without sacrificing herself toCrane. If not, if she failed, she was brave, she was a Porter, and wouldkeep her word and save Ringwood, even at that price. 

XVIII

Journeying back to New York, Crane reviewed in detail his interviewwith Mrs. Porter. He congratulated himself upon his wisdom in havinginstituted his love suit by proxy. With all his masterfulness he wasvery considerably in awe of Miss Allis. There was a not-to-be-dauntedexpression in her extraordinary eyes which made him feel that a lovetilt with her would be a somewhat serious business. He pictured himselfas an ardent lover; he would cut a droll figure in that role, he knew;emotions were hardly in his line. He might feel such an assertiveemotion as love quite as strongly as anyone, in fact, did, but could heexpress himself with faultless consistency? He rather doubted it. Hisusual slow-advancing method was certainly ordained of this intricateendeavor; and he had made great progress with the mother, the one aboveall others to be placated; adversity, continuous as it promised tobe, would probably settle Porter's influence in his favor. His plan ofaction plainly was to be often at Ringwood to familiarize the householdwith his presence. The acquiring of Diablo would facilitate that. 

Diablo--a skate! He laughed to himself over his purchase. CertainlyLangdon would laugh at him, too; not openly, of course; Crane wouldn'ttolerate that. What an influence this girl had over him, to be sure! Anyman who had endeavored to sell him a bad horse would have had a hopelesstask; with but a nod of encouragement from Allis he would have boughtevery horse--all the useless crooks they had; the stable was full ofthem, Lauzanne among the rest. 

The influence was dividing his nature into a dual one; starting intolife infantile thoughts of a generous morality; an unrest of greatvigor was coming to him, retribution; possibly the power to feel thedifference between an avariciousness, fathering dishonesty, and this newrecognition of other rights. 

On his arrival in New York he sent for his trainer. 

"I bought a horse at Ringwood. I want you to look after him, Langdon, "he said. "Their man, Gaynor, will send him direct to your stables. "

The Trainer's face brightened. "Did you get Lucretia after all?"

"No; I bought a big black, Diablo. "

The look of delight faded from Langdon's eyes quickly. "The devil!" heexclaimed. 

"That's what I said; that's his name. "

"But he's the most uncertain brute that ever wore a set of plates. You'll get no good of him, sir; he's bad, clean through. It's come downto him from his second sire, Robert the Devil, without a bit of thegood, either. He'd break a man that would follow him. "

"He won't break me, " answered Crane, quietly; "nor you, either, Langdon--you've got too much sense. "

This subtle tribute mollified the Trainer. 

Crane proceeded: "I remember the horse quite well. Four thousand waspaid for him as a yearling; as a two-year-old he was tried out goodenough to win the Futurity; but when it came to racing he cut it andfinished in the ruck. "

"That's right, " commented Langdon. "He owes me a good bit, that sameJohnny; his people thought him a lead-pipe cinch, and I went down theline on him to my sorrow. "

"Just so. You know him as well as I do. It's a great way to getacquainted with them, isn't it, Langdon; put your money on, and have thegood thing go down?"

Langdon had the highest possible opinion of his master's astuteness andbegan to waver in his antipathy to Diablo. 

"You think he's really good, then, sir; did he show you a fast trial?"

"I didn't even see the horse, " Crane answered, looking dreamily out ofthe window. "I bought him to--"

He paused in reflection; he couldn't tell Langdon why he had bought him, and he hardly cared to have his prestige with the Trainer destroyed. Hecontinued, shifting the subject--matter a trifle, "You did John Porterup over Lauzanne last summer, Langdon--"

"Me?" questioned 'the Trainer. Was Crane forgetting his share in thematter?

"Yes, you!" affirmed the other, looking him steadily in the eye. "Yousold him Lauzanne, and Lauzanne was loaded. "

Langdon said nothing. What the devil was coming?

"Well, " drawled Crane, "Porter's badly hurt; he's out of the race forsome time to come. They're friends of mine. "

"They're friends, " mused Langdon; "who in thunder are they?"

"They're friends of mine, and I offered to buy Lauzanne back, just tohelp them out; but the old man's daughter has got the Chestnut for ahack, and she won't sell him. It was Diablo's fault that Porter got thefall, so they were willing to part with him, and I took the brute. "

This was certainly a new role for Crane to play, Langdon thought;his employer helping people out when they were in difficulties wasa revelation. The Trainer felt inclined to laugh. No doubt there wassomething back of it all; some tout must have given Crane informationof a fast gallop Diablo had done, and he had gone to Ringwood to buy thehorse, thinking that Porter would be selling some of his racers owing tothe accident. 

Langdon tried to remember what Shandy had said about Diablo, or whetherthe boy had mentioned his name at all. 

"I wonder what condition he's in?" the Trainer remarked, questioningly. 

"Physically I think he's all right; it seems he galloped something underforty miles with Porter before he came a cropper. But I understand theyhad an imp of a boy, Sheedy, or 'Shaney'--"

"Shandy, " corrected Langdon. 

"Yes, that's the name, " affirmed Crane, drawing a semicircle in the airwith his cigar, "and he's a devil on wheels, by all accounts. Diablo'sno angel, as you've said, Langdon, and this boy made him a heap worse. You've handled some bad horses in your time, and know more about it thanI do; but I'd suggest that you put Westley--he's a patient lad--to lookafter the Black; give him quite a bit of work, and when you've got himright, try him out with something, and if he shows any form we'll pickout a soft spot for him. Let me see, he's a maiden--fancy that, buying afour-year-old maiden!"

Langdon laughed approvingly. Crane was evidently coming back to his viewof the case. 

"Well, as I've said, he's a maiden, and we'll try and graduate him outof that class. It will be a great chance for a killing if we can roundhim into his early two-year-old form; and you can do it, Langdon, ifanybody on earth can. "

"Now I've got him on his reputation, " thought Crane, idly brushingspecks of cigar ash from the front of his coat. 

"Just as I thought, " mused Langdon; "the old man's got a horse after hisown heart. Everybody thinks Diablo's no good, but the boss has found outsomething, and is on for the biggest kind of a coup. "

"How's The Dutchman coming on?" asked Crane, intimating by the questionthat the subject of Diablo bad been closed out, for the present, atleast. 

"Great. He cleans up his four quarts three times a day, and is as big asa cart horse. I never had a better doer in my hands. If he keeps well, and I think he will, you have a great chance with him for the BrooklynDerbv. "

"That's encouraging. There are some good horses in it, though, WhiteMoth and others. However, I'll back The Dutchman to win fifty thousand, and there'll be ten thousand in that for you, Langdon, if it comes off. "The Trainer's mouth watered. Money was his god. Horses were all right asa means to an end, but the end itself was gold. He would stop at nothingto attain that end; his avaricious mind, stimulated by Crane's promise, came at once to the disturbing element in the pleasant prospect, Shandy's report of Lucretia's good form. 

"Did you find out anything about Porter's mare Lucretia? I know WhiteMoth's form; both fit and well. The Dutchman holds him safe over theDerby journey. "

"No; I didn't hear anything about Porter's mare. "

"I have, " said Langdon, decisively. "I paid a boy to keep an eye on her, and he says she'll be hard to beat. "

Crane frowned. "What boy?" he asked, abruptly. 

"Shandy. "

"Well, just drop that; chuck that game. John Porter has his owntroubles. If he can win, let him. He can't if The Dutchman keeps well;but anyway, our own horses will keep us fully occupied. "

Langdon was dumbfounded. If Crane had opened the Bible and read achapter from St. Luke he would not have been more astonished. It hadoccurred to him that he had done a remarkably smart thing; he hadexpected commendation for his adroitness in looking after his master'sinterests. This disapprobation of such a trivial matter as the toutingoff of an opponent's horses was another new discovery in his master'scharacter. Where were they at, anyway? Presently Crane would be askinghim to give the public a fair run for their money each time out. 

All at once a light dawned upon Langdon. Crane was doubling on him. Hesaw it like a flash. His employer had a tout on the ground himself; thatwas how he had got next some good performance of Diablo's. My, but itwas clever; he could appreciate it. Crane rose in his estimation again. 

Quite humbly he answered: "Very, well; it's not my funeral; I'll bringThe Dutchman to the post fit to run the race of his life. If Lucretiabeats him it won't be my fault. I thought perhaps you might want tohedge a bit on Porter's mare. "

"I don't think it. I'll stand The Dutchman; there are too many into start backing them all. Let me know if the Black gives you anyencouragement, and I'll see about placing him. "

After Langdon had gone Crane lighted a fresh cigar and let his thoughtscircle about Allis and Diablo. It would be just like the play of Fatefor the horse to turn out good, now that John Porter had got rid of him. When evil fortune set its hard face against a man he could do littletoward making the wicked god smile, and Porter, even when he was about, was a poor hand at compelling success. 

 . . . . . . . . . . 

Jakey Faust learned of Diablo's transition from Porter's to Langdon'sstable. This information caused him little interest at first; indeed, hemarveled somewhat at two such clever men as Crane and Langdon acquiringa horse of Diablo's caliber. 

Faust's business relationship with Crane was to a certain degreetentative. Crane never confided utterly in anybody; if agents obeyedhis behests, well and good; and each transaction was always completed initself. He had discovered Faust and used him when it suited his purpose. 

Some time after the purchase of Diablo, Jakey, reading his MorningTelegraph, came with much interest upon the entries for the BrooklynHandicap, published that day. They were all the old campaigning Handicaphorses, as familiar to Faust as his fellow members of the betting ring. As his eye ran down the long list a sudden little pig grunt of surprisebubbled up through his fat throat. "Gee, Diablo! Oh, ho, Mr. Crane!"

He tore out the list and put it in his pocket; then he sat for a time, thinking. The result was a run down to Gravesend to pay just a friendlyvisit to Langdon. 

As far as Crane was concerned, the Trainer and the Bookmaker were liketwo burglars suddenly coming upon each other while robbing the samehouse; they were somewhat in a condition of armed neutrality, towardeach other. 

Faust hoped that Langdon would talk about Diablo; but the Trainer waslike most of his guild generally, a close-mouthed man, so Jakey had tomake his own running. 

"What's the boss goin' to do with Diablo?" he asked Langdon. 

"Must 've bought him for a work horse, I guess, " the Trainer answered. 

"Is he any good?"

"He can eat; that's all I see from him yet. "

"What did he buy him for?"

"To help a snoozer that was sittin' in bad luck. "

Faust had an odd habit of causing his fat sides to ripple like troubledwater when he wished to convey the impression that he was amused; henever laughed, just the rib ripple. 

"What's funny?" Langdon asked, eying Jakey, with querulous disfavor. 

"Crane buying a horse to help a man, " answered the Cherub, wondering ifLangdon was so devoid of humor as to take it seriously. 

"Crane told me so himself, " said the Trainer; "Porter's hurt, an' Iguess they're in a hole, an' the boss took over Diablo. "

"Say, Dick, " and Faust edged close enough to tap the other man's ribswith his thumb, "were you born yesterday? I say, " continued the Cherub, for Langdon had turned away somewhat impatiently, "what's the good avgivin' me that gup; you didn't stand for it yourself--not on yer life. Th' old man's pretty slick; buys a bad horse to help a poor mutt, an'enters him in the Brooklyn, eh?"

"The Brooklyn!" exclaimed Langdon, thrown off his guard. 

With corpulent intensity the Cherub melodramatically drew from hispocket the Telegraph clipping and tendered it to Langdon, watching thelatter's face closely. "That's the pea, Dick, eh?" he asked. 

Langdon was thinking. Was Crane doubling on him all around? Why thedevil hadn't he told him?

"Now you ain't takin' in that fairy tale of Crane's any more'n I am, Dick. Why can't we do a bit for ourselves over this; it won't hurt theboss none. Won't throw him down. This horse was a good youngster, an'Crane didn't get him without seein' him do somethin'. You jest keep meposted, an' if he shapes good I can back 'm fer an old-time killin', see? I'll divvy up straight. "

Langdon didn't answer at once--not with satisfaction to Faust; he knewthat Crane held the butter for his bread, even the bread itself; buthere was a man with cake, and he loved cake. Finally, in the glamourof Jakey's talk of untold wealth to be acquired, Langdon, swayed bythe cupidity of his nature rather than his better judgment, promisedhalf-heartedly to cooperate with Faust. 

But no sooner had the latter gone than the lode-star of Langdon'sself-interest flickered clearly in view, and he promised Mr. Jakey, mentally, a long trip to a very hot place, indeed, rather than asurreptitious partnership over Diablo. 

It was some little time after this, while Faust was feeling somewhatirritated at the absence of information from Langdon, that he had aninterview with Crane. 

"I want you to back The Dutchman to win fifty thousand for me over theBrooklyn Derby, " the latter said. 

"But there's no winner book on it, " objected Faust. 

"That's just where your cleverness will come in, " suavely answeredCrane. "There's no hurry, and there are always people looking forfoolish money. There's one such in Chicago, O'Leary; and I fancy theycould even be found in New York. But you ought to get fifty to one, about it, if you put it on easy. "

"I see you have Diablo entered for the Brooklyn, " Faust put out as afeeler. "Don't you want a commission worked on him?"

"I didn't enter him; that was somebody else's foolishness, and I don'twant to back him. "

"He's a hundred to one. "

"A thousand would be short odds, I should say, " answered Crane. "Butwait a bit. I bought him just to--well, I took him from some people whowere tired of his cannibal ways, and promised to have a small bet on himthe first time he ran, for--for the man. " The equivocation was really atouch of delicacy. "You might take the odds to fifty for me; there's notone chance in a million of his starting, but I might forget all aboutthis little matter of the bet, even if I were foolish enough to paypost-money on him. "

"Hadn't I better dribble on more from time to time, if he has a chance?"

"Not of my money, thanks!" The "thanks" clipped like a steel trap, andthe business was completed. 

Faust went away more than ever suspicious of Crane and Diablo. Thatfifty dollars being put on for anybody else was bunkum. What was Craneup to anyway? If he really meant to back the horse he would not havestarted with such a trifle. Perhaps Diablo had been stuck in theBrooklyn simply to see how the handicapper would rate him. 

Faust was convinced that Crane had some big coup in view; he would waita little, and at the first move have a strong play himself. 

XIX

Langdon was a consummate trainer, a student of horse character. He knewthat while biniodide of mercury would blister and put right a bowedtendon, or the firing iron take the life out of a splint, that a muchfiner knowledge than this was requisite to get fullhearted work out ofa thoroughbred. Brain must be pitted against brain; so he studiedhis horses; and when Diablo came into his hands, possessed of a minddisease, he worked over him with considerable intelligent patience. 

This study of horse character was the very thing that had caused him togo wrong over Lauzanne. He had not gone quite far enough; had notwaited for time to demonstrate clearly the horse's temperament, but hadrecourse to a cocaine stimulant. But with him Lauzanne's case had beenexceptional. 

At first there was little encouragement over Diablo, but almost byaccident Langdon discovered that the Black's bad temper was alwaysfanned into a blaze by the sight of the boy Shandy. 

Then came a glint of hope. Diablo took a fancy to Westley, the jockey, who was experimentally put on his back in the working gallop. After thatShandy was kept out of the way; Westley took Diablo under his care, andthe big horse began to show a surprising improvement. 

Crane had been quite honest in his statement that he thought Diablo abad horse. His having been entered by Porter in the "Brooklyn" suggestedthe possiability that his former owner must have seen some merit in thehorse. At any rate, he advised Langdon to give Diablo a patient trial. He really had very little idea that the horse would start in theHandicap--it seemed improbable. Langdon was also convinced that Porterhad discovered something great in Diablo; that Crane knew this, and hadpaid a stiff price for the horse, and to his own ends was keeping itdark. 

As the winter turned into April he intimated to Crane that it was timefor them to decide the placing of the horses, and suggested that theytry them out. Crane had already decided to race The Dutchman thisyear in his own name and not in Langdon's. If The Dutchman came up toexpectation they could give him a slow preparation up to Derby time;they could find out whether Diablo was worth keeping for--well, forMorris Park or Gravesend, or they could hurry him on a little, and starthim at Aqueduct. 

Crane agreed with this reasoning, and it was decided to give the twohorses a home trial. 

On the day that Langdon had said he would try Diablo and The Dutchman, Crane went down to Gravesend. When he got to the Trainer's house hefound the latter waiting for him. 

"I sent the horses over with the boys, " Langdon said; "if you'll justwait a minute, I'll have a buggy hitched up and we'll drive over. "

A stable-boy brought the trap to the door in a few minutes, and Langdon, telling Crane to get in, disappeared into the house, returning presentlywith two saddles, which he placed in the buggy. 

"A couple of favorite saddles of mine, " he explained, "they're like oldfiddles that great players carry about under their arms an' sleep with, an' never let no one but themselves touch. "

"Are you that particular with these?" asked Crane by way ofconversation, not feeling at all interested in what he considered a fadof the Trainer's. 

"Yes; I mostly handle 'em myself. They cost a bit. I had 'em made toorder. The boys is that careless, they'd smash anything. "

As they jogged along, Langdon kept up a monologue dissertation on themerits of the two horses. "It's a good day for a gallop, " and he flickedthe driving beast's quarter with the whip; "there's not much wind, an'the air's a bit sharp. They'll be on their mettle, the both of 'em, more'specially Diablo. I had his plates changed. 'Pears to me he hadn't beenshod in three moons; I'll bet the smith took an inch off his toes. " Thenhe broke off to chuckle awhile. 

Crane was not skilled in the anatomy of a horse, beyond as it worked outin winning races and money. That a horse had toes had never quite comeinto his knowledge, and Langdon's gurgle of mirth he put down to asuspicion that the Trainer was taking a rise out of him in what he hadsaid. 

"I was thinking of Paddy Caramagh when he shod Diablo the other day. Ithink you've heard Pat swear. He holds the belt for cussin' in this partof the country. Well, he let it all out of him before he'd finished withthe Black. Ha, ha, ha, ha! I can hear him still, with the sweat runningoff his face like oats spilling from a feed bag. I says to Paddy, 'Rubhis nose a bit, ' for I could see it was more nervousness with the horsethan sheer deviltry. 'With what?' says Paddy, 'the hammer? Be gor!You're right, though, ' says he, and with that he tries to put a twisteron Diablo's nose. Holy mother! Diablo reached for him, and lifted theshirt clean off his back. Say, there was a scared Irishman, if you eversaw one in your life. He threw down the plate, cussin' as only Paddycan, and swore the brute could run till he'd wore his hoofs off, for allof him. Well, I takes hold of the Black's head, an' kids him a bit, onlyfirm-like, and we shod him right enough. "

"He is bad tempered, then?" asked Crane. 

"No; just wants a fair deal; that's all. You make him believe you're onthe square, an' he'll do what's right. But he hasn't got no use for anyof the guys that gets a cranky play in on him; he won't stand it. I'mgoing to put Westley up on him to-day. "

"What about The Dutchman?"

"Colley'll do. Any kid can ride him, if they sit still. He's just theeasiest-tempered horse ever looked through a bridle; he knows what'sdoin' all the time. But Colley ain't no good on Diablo, an' if he cansmell Shandy, that settles it--it's all over. I'll put Westley up; ittakes a man to ride that horse. "

"What about this gallop?" asked Crane; "there'll be spies about tryingto find out things, won't there?"

"Bet yer life, there'll be somebody, sir. It's just like when I wasout in Colorado; you couldn't see a vulture if you traveled forty days, perhaps, but plant a dead thing anywhere and in an hour the sky simplyrained 'em down. These touts is most like vultures of anything I know;you've just got to work your stunt to give 'em the go-by, that's all. "

Crane took but an apathetic interest in the matters that held full swayover the Trainer's mind; looking after these incidents was Langdon'spart of the contract. 

That was why they were so strong together. Langdon could do it. Just howthe trial was to benefit them alone, with the inevitable tout at hand, Crane knew not, neither did he investigate; that was up to the Trainer. 

They drove into the paddock. Westley, Colley, and the two stable ladswere there. 

"Shall we bring out the horses?" asked Westley, as Langdon sat swinginga leg loosely over the end of the buggy seat. 

"Any of the talent about, Bill?"

"Quite likely, though I haven't seen none. "

"Well, we'll slip 'em now. Just saddle up careless like, and nopreliminary, mind you. The sharks won't look for a brush till you'vegone around once. Take your mounts down the stretch to the quarter post, an' then come away the first break; if there's anyone toutin' you off, they'll think it just a pipe opener, an' won't catch the time. Run outthe mile-an'-a-quarter, make a race of it, but don't go to the bat. Diablo an' The Dutchman don't need no whip to give us about the bestthey've got. "

"All right, sir, " answered Westley. "If I'm a judge, when the Black'sthrough pullin', he's done racin', 'cause he's a keen one, so therewon't be no call to put the bud to him. If any of the rail birds islookin' they'll think we're goin' under a strong wrap, even when we'reall out. "

Lang don nodded his head. He was a man not given to exuberantappreciation. The boys averred that when Dick Langdon didn't curse atthem they had done pretty well, indeed. 

"What's your weight?" he asked of Westley, abruptly. 

"I've just tipped the scales at a hundred-and-three in my sweater. "

"One hundred and three, " mused the Trainer, making a mental calculation. "What's Colley's weight?"

"He's as near a hundred as you can make it. "

"Did you bring over a saddle?"

"Yes; two of 'em; one apiece for the horses. "

"Tell Colley to take one, and some leads, and weigh out a hundred andtwelve. That'll be three pounds above the scale for May, weight for age, for the three-year-old, The Dutchman. I guess he won't need more'n sevenpounds dead weight, for it's a five-pound saddle, I think. Let me see, you said a hundred and three, you were. "

"Yes, sir; in the sweater; I can take that off--"

"No; never mind. Take this saddle, " and he lifted one from the buggy;"it'll just suit Diablo; he's got a herring-bone of a wither, an' thisis high in the tree, an' won't cut him. Here's the cloth an' someleads; weigh out a hundred and twelve too. Weight for age--Diablo's afour-year-old; you ought to carry a hundred and twenty-six, but he's notThe Dutchman's class, an' the ycungster'd lose him before they'd gonehalf the journey. We'll run 'em at level weights, an' he'll get closerto The Dutchman, an' the sharks won't have such a fairy tale to tellabout our horse. "

"A hundred and twelve, you said, sir?" queried Westley, as he put thesaddle that Langdon handed him over his left arm, slipped the thinsheets of lead in his pocket, and stood dangling the linen weight clothin his right hand. 

"Yes; level weights--a hundred an' twelve pounds. "

"Westley, " the Trainer called as the little man started off, "just bringthe saddle back to me here when you've weighed. I'll put it on Diablomyself; he's a touchy cuss, and I don't want him ruffled by carelesshandlin'. "

"You take considerable trouble over it, " remarked Crane. "One wouldthink it was a big handicap you meant to capture this morning. "

Langdon started visibly. Was Crane thinking of the Brooklyn? Did thisquiet, clever man sitting at his elbow already know as much as he hopedto discover in his present gallop?

He answered: "Handicaps is usually won pretty much like this; they'regenerally settled before the horse goes to the post for the trip itself. When he goes through the paddock gate the day of the big race he'sout of his trainer's hands; the man's got no more to do with the racehimself than a kid sittin' up in the grand stand. Here's where I comein, if we mean to land the Brooklyn, " and he looked searchingly atCrane, a misleading grin on his lips. But the latter simply joined inthe laugh, doubtingly, perhaps. 

"A hundred and twelve, neat, " declared Westley, as he returned, throwingsome loose leads into the buggy. "Colley's gone to saddle The Dutchman. "

"All right, " answered Langdon, getting down from the seat and takingthe saddle. "Go and tell the boy to bring Diablo out of the stall. I'llsaddle him in the open. He generally kicks the boards when I cinch himup, an' it puts him in a bad humor. "

Langdon started off with the jockey, but turned back, saying, "Oh, Mr. Crane, I wanted to ask you--"

By this he had reached the buggy, while Westley continued on his way tothe stalls. 

"It's a fine day, sir, " continued Langdon, finishing his sentence, and exchanging the saddle held in his hand for the one that was in thebuggy. 

"Going to put the other on?" asked Crane. 

"Yes; I fancy Diablo will like this better. Touchy brutes, these racehorses; got to humor 'em. Come on over to the stalls--the horse'llstand. "

Diablo was being led around in a small circle by his boy. He was amagnificent creature, sixteen and a half hands high, and built on thesame grand scale; perhaps a bit leggy for the huge barrel that toppedthe limbs; that was what caused him to go wrong in his younger days. Hisblack skin glistened in the noonday sun. 

"That's what I call the mirror of health, " said Langdon, in an unwontedburst of poetic eloquence, as he passed his hand across the horse'sribs. Then feeling that somehow he had laid himself open to a suspicionof gentleness, added, "He's a hell of a fine looker; if he could gallopup to his looks he'd make some of the cracks take a back seat. "

Even Diablo had resented either the mellifluous comparison or the rubof Langdon's hand, for he lashed out furiously, with a great farreachingleg that nearly caught Crane unawares. 

"Your polite language seems to be as irritating to him as theblacksmith's oaths, " ejaculated Crane, as he came back from the hastyretreat he had beaten. 

"It's only play. Good horses is of two kinds when you're saddlin' 'em. The Dutchman there'll hang his head down, and champ at the bit, evenif you bury the girt' an inch deep in his belly; he's honest, and knowsit's all needed. That's one kind; and they're generally the same at thepost, always there or thereabouts, waitin' for the word 'go. ' An' theyrace pretty much the same all the time. If you time 'em a mile in 1:40at home, they'll do it when the colors is up, an' the silk a-flappin'all about 'em in the race. 

"Whoa! Hold still, you brute! Steady, steady! Whoa!" This to Diablo, forwhile talking he had adjusted the weight cloth with the gentleness of acavalier putting a silk wrap about his lady love's neck, and had put afold of soft woolen cloth over the high-boned wither. 

"Stand out in front of him and hold his head down a bit;" this to theboy. Then as he slipped the saddle into place and reached underneathfor the girths, he continued his address to Crane on the peculiarity ofracers. 

"Now this is a horse of another color, this one; he ain't takin' thingseasy at no stage of the game. He objects to everything, an' some daythat'll land him a winner, see? He'll get it into his head that theother horses want to beat him out, an' he'll show 'em a clean pair ofheels; come home on the bit, pullin' double. Whoa, boy! Steady, steady, old man!" Then he ceased talking, for he had taken the girth strapbetween his teeth, and was cinching up the big Black with the firm pullof a grizzly. Diablo squirmed under the torture of the tightening web onhis sensitive skin, and crouched as though he would fall on the Trainer. 

"Yes, sir;" continued Langdon, as he ran the stirrups up under thesaddle flap out of the way, and motioned to the boy to lead Diabloabout. "Yes, sir; this fellow's different. He's too damn sensitive. At the post he's like as not to act like a locoed broncho, an' get oneblamed for having 'juiced' him, but he don't need no dope; what he needsis steadying. If he gets away in front, them long legs of his willtake some catchin'. He's the kind that wins when the books are layin' ahundred to one against him. But the worst of it is with his sort, likeas not the owner hasn't a penny on them; but the public'll howl; they'llcall it in-an'-out runnin'; an' the scribblers'll get their paper toprint a notice that the stable ought to be ruled off; an' all the timeyou're breakin' your heart trying to get him to give his true--Hello!there's Colley out on The Dutchman; mount your horse, Westley--wait, you don't need no spurs; yes, carry a whip, an' give the guys that iswatchin' a stage play with it; but don't hit the Black. We'll just seewhat he'll do himself, this trip, " he added, addressing Crane. 

Taking Westley's small-booted foot in his hand, he lifted the lad toDiablo's back, and led the horse out through a gate to the course. 

XX

The two boys cantered their mounts down to the quarter post carelessly, as though they were going around to the far side. 

"Look at 'em!" cried the Trainer; "isn't he a little gentleman?"

To the uninitiated this might have been taken as a tribute to one of theboys, Westley, perhaps; but the Trainer was not even thinking of them. They were of no moment. It was the wine-red bay, The Dutchman, canteringwith gentle, lazy grace, that had drawn forth this encomium. His head, somewhat high carried, was held straight and true in front, and his bigeyes searched the course with gentle inquisitiveness, for others of hiskind, perhaps. 

"He's a lovely horse, " commented Crane, knowing quite well to whatLangdon referred. 

"He's all that, but just look at the other devil. "

Diablo was throwing his nose fretfully up and down, up and down;grabbing at the bit; pirouetting from one side the course to the other;nearly pulling Westley over his neck one minute, as with lowered head hesought to break away, and the next dashing forward for a few yards withit stuck foolishly high, like a badmouthed Indian cayuse. 

"But Westley'll manage him, " Langdon confided to Crane, after a periodof silent observation; "he'll get his belly full of runnin' when he'sgone a mile and a quarter with The Dutchman. Gad! that was neat; herethey come;" for the two boys had whirled with sudden skill at thequarter post, and broke away, with Diablo slightly in the lead. "My God!he can move, " muttered Langdon, abstractedly, and quite to himself. Theman at his side had floated into oblivion. He saw only a great stridingblack horse coming wide-mouthed up the stretch. At the Black's heels, with dogged lope, hung the Bay. 

"Take him back, take him back, Westley!" yelled Langdon, leaning far outover the rail, as the horses raced by, Diablo well in front. 

The Trainer's admonition seemed like a cry to a cyclone, as void ofusefulness. What power could the tiny dot lying close hugged far up onthe straining black neck have over the galloping fiend?

"Yes, that's the way, " Langdon said, nodding his head to Crane, andjerking a thumb out toward the first turn in the course, where thetwo horses were hugging close to the rail; "that's the way he's workedhere. "

"Which one?" asked his companion. 

"The Black, an' if he ever does that in a race--God help theothers--they'll never catch him; they'll never catch him; they'll nevercatch him, " he kept repeating, dwelling lovingly on the thought, as hesaw the confirmation of it being enacted before his eyes; for across thenew green of the grass-sprouted course he could see two open lengths ofdaylight between Diablo and The Dutchman. 

"Fifty-one and a half for the half-mile, " he imparted to Crane, lookingat his watch. "Now The Dutchman is moving up; Colley doesn't mean to getleft if he can help it. I'm afraid Diablo'll shut up when he's pinched;his kind are apt to do that. The Dutchman is game, an' if he ever getsto the Black's throat-latch he'll chuck it. But it takes some ridin';it takes some ridin', sir. " He was becoming enthusiastic, exuberant. The silent man at his side noticed the childish repetition with inwardamusement. He had thought that Langdon would have been overjoyed tosee the bay horse smother his opponent. Was not the Trainer to haveten thousand dollars if The Dutchman won the Handicap? But here he waspinning his satisfaction to the good showing of Diablo. He didn't knowof the compact between Langdon and the Bookmaker Faust, but he stronglysuspected from the Trainer's demeanor that the gallop he was witnessingforetold some big coup the latter scented. 

"He hasn't got him yet, he hasn't got him yet!" cried Langdon, joyfully, as the horses swung around the bottom turn, closer locked, but withDiablo still a short length in the lead. 

Crane saw no great cause for exhilaration. The Dutchman was certainlygiving the Black twenty pounds the best of it in the weights, for onewas a three-year-old while the other was four, and they each carried ahundred and twelve. 

"The mile in 1:42, " chirped Langdon. "That's movin', if you like, considerin' the track, the condition of the horses, an' that they'rerunnin' under a double wrap. Now we'll see a ding-dong finish, if theBlack doesn't show a streak of yellow. Dutchy's got him, " he added, asthrough his glasses he saw them swing into the straight, neck and neck. 

"Clever Mr. Westlev!" for Diablo's rider, having the rail and the lead, had bored out slightly on the turn, so as not to cramp the uncertainhorse he rode, and carried The Dutchman wide. 

Up the straight they came, the boys helping their mounts with leg andarm; the Black holding his own with a dogged persistence that quiteupset Langdon's prognostication of cowardice. 

To the watchers it was as exciting as a stake race. The stamina thatLangdon had said would stand The Dutchman in good stead over the mileand a half Handicap course now showed itself. First he was level withthe Black, then gradually, stride by stride, he drew away from Diablo, and finished a short length in front. 

"A great trial, " cried the Trainer, gleefully, holding out his watch forCrane's inspection. "See that!" pointing to the hand he had stopped asthe Bay's brown nozzle flashed by the post; "two-nine on this course!Anything that beats that pair, fit and well, a mile and a quarter on afast track'll have to make it in two-five, an' that's the record. "

"It looks good business for the Derby, Langdon. "

"Yes, it does. That's the first showing I've had from the colt asa three-year-old; but I knew he had it in him. Hanover was a greathorse--to my mind we never had his equal in America--but thisyoungster'll be as good as his daddy ever was. I don't think you oughtto start him, sir, till the Derby, if you're set on winnin' it. "

He had moved up to the gate as he talked, and now opened it, waiting forthe boys to come back. They had eased down the horses gradually afterthe fierce gallop, turned them about and were trotting toward thepaddock, where stood the two men. Langdon took Diablo by the bridle reinand led him in toward the stalls. 

"How did he shape under you, Westley?" he asked, as the boy slipped fromthe saddle. 

"I wouldn't ask to ride a better horse. I thought I had the colt beaten, sure; but my mount seemed to tire a little at the finish. He didn't tossit up, not a bit of it; ran as game as a pebble; he just tired at thefinish. I think a mile is his journey. He held The Dutchman safe at amile. "

"I guess you're right, Westley; a mile's his limit. At level weightswith the three-year-old, which means that he had twenty pounds the bestof it, he should have held his own the whole route to be a stayer, forthe colt isn't more'n half ready yet. "

"I didn't hustle him none too much, sir; I might a-squeezed a bit moreout of him. Did we make fair time?"

"Quite a feeler, Mister Jockey, " thought Langdon to himself; "it's newsyou want, eh?" Then he answered aloud, with a diplomacy born of manyyears of turf tuition: "Fairish sort of time; it might have been better, perhaps--a shade under two-twelve. I thought they might have betteredthat a couple of seconds. But they'll come on--they'll come on, both ofthem. If anybody asks you, Westley, The Dutchman was beaten off, see?I don't like to discourage the clever owners that has good 'uns inthe Derby" Then he added as a sort of after thought, and with wondrouscarelessness:

"It doesn't matter about the Black, you know; he's only a sellin'plater, so it doesn't matter. But all the same, Westley, when we find asoft spot for him, an over-night sellin' purse or somethin, you'll havethe leg up, with a bet down for you at a long price, see?"

"I understand, sir. "

By the time Langdon had slipped the saddle from Diablo's back the boyhad thrown a hooded blanket over him, and he was led away. "Send themhome, Westley. Now, Mr. Crane, we'll drive back to the house an' have abit of lunch. "

As they drove along Crane brought up the subject of the trial. 

"The colt must be extra good, Langdon, or the Black is--well, as he wasrepresented to be, not much account. "

"I guess Diablo's about good enough to win a big handicap, if hehappened to be in one at a light weight. "

"He didn't win to-day. "

"He came pretty near it. "

"But where would he have been carrying his proper weight?"

"About where he was, I guess. "

"You said as a four-year-old he should have had up a hundred andtwenty-six, and he carried a hundred and twelve; and, besides, had thebest boy by seven pounds on his back. "

"Just pass me that saddle, Mr. Crane, " said Langdon, by way of answer. "No; not that--the one I took off Diablo. "

Crane reached down his hand, but the saddle didn't come quite as freelyas it should have. "What's it caught in?" he asked, fretfully. 

"In itself, I reckon--lift it. " "Gad! it's heavy. Did Diablo carry that?What's in it?"

"Lead-built into it; it's my old fiddle, you know. You're the first manthat's had his hand on that saddle for some time, I can tell you. "

"Then Diablo did carry his full weight, " commented Crane, a lightbreaking in upon him. 

"Just about, and carried it like a stake horse, too. "

"And you--"

"Yes; I changed the saddles after Westley weighed. He's a good boy, anddon't shoot off his mouth much, but all the same things will out whileridin' boys have the power of speech. "

"It looks as though Diablo had something in him, " said Crane, meditatively. 

"He's got the Brooklyn in him. Fancy The Dutchman in at seventy pounds;that's what it comes to. Diablo's got ninety to carry, an' he gave theother twenty pounds to-day. You've got the greatest thing on earth rightin your hands now--"

Langdon hesitated for a minute, and then added: "But I guess you knewthis all before, or you wouldn't have sent him here. "

"I bought him for a bad horse, " answered Crane, quietly; "but if heturns out well, that's so much to the good. But it's a bit of luckPorter's not having declared him out to save nearly a hundred. He seemsto have raced pretty loose. "

"I wonder if he thinks I'm taking in that fairy tale?" thought Langdon. Aloud, he said: "But you'll back him now, sir, won't you? He must be along price in the winter books. "

"Yes; I'll arrange that, " answered the other, "and I'll take care ofyou, too. I suppose Westley will take the mount?"

"Surely. "

"Well, you can just give him to understand that he'll be looked after ifthe horse wins. "

"It's the Brooklyn, sir, is it?"

"Seems like it. "

"I won't say anything about the race to Westley, though. "

"I'll leave all that to you. I'll attend to getting the money on; you dothe rest. "

When Crane had gone, Langdon paid further mental tribute to his master'sastuteness. "Now I see it all, " he muttered; "the old man just thoughtto keep me quiet; throw me of the scent till he duplicated the othertrial, whenever they pulled it off. Now he's got a sure line on theBlack, an' he'll make such a killin' that the books'll remember him formany a day. But why does he keep throwin' that fairy tale into meabout buyin' a bad horse to oblige somebody? A man would be a sucker tobelieve that of Crane; he's not the sort. But one sure thing, he saidhe'd look after me, an' he will. He'd break a man quick enough, but whenhe gives his word it stands. Mr. Jakey Faust can look after himself:I'm not goin' to take chances of losin' a big stable of bread-winners bydoublin' on the Boss. "

Langdon's mental analysis of Crane's motives was the outcome ofconsiderable experience. The Banker's past life was not compatible withgenerous dealing. His act of buying Diablo had been prompted by newbornfeelings of regard for the Porters, chiefly Allis; but no man, much lessLangdon, would have given him credit for other than the most selfishmotives. 

True to his resolve, Langdon utterly refused to share his confidenceswith Jakey Faust. 

"We've tried the horses, " he said, "and the Dutchman won, but Craneknows more about the whole business than I do. You go to him, Jake, orwait till he sends for you, an' you'll find out all about it. My game'sto run straight with one man, anyway, an' I'm goin' to do it. "

That was all Faust could learn. When an occasion offered he slipped aten-dollar note into Shandy's hand, for he knew the lad was full open toa bribe, but Shandy knew no more than did the Bookmaker. The Dutchman, had won the trial from the Black quite easily, was the extent of hisknowledge. As to Diablo himself, Shandy gave him a very bad characterindeed. 

XXI

Faust was in a quandary. First Crane had confided in him over Diablo, but now his silence seemed to indicate that he meant to have this goodthing all to himself. 

Then Langdon had promised to cooperate, now he, too, had closed up likea clam; he was as mute as an oyster. 

"Crane is dealin' the cards all the time, " thought Faust; "but there'ssome game on, sure. "

He determined to back Diablo for himself at the long odds, and chanceit. 

Two days later Crane received a very illiterate epistle, evidently froma stable-boy; it was unsigned:

"DERE Boss, Yous is gittin it in the neck. De big blak hors he didn'tcarre the sadel you think the blak hors had on his bak. Yous got deduble cros that time. Der bokie hes axin me wot de blak is good fer derbokie is playin fer to trow yous downe. 

"No moar at presen. "

This was the wholly ambiguous communication that Crane had found underhis door. There was no stamp, neither place nor date written in theletter; nothing but an evident warning from some one, who, no doubt, hoped to get into his good graces by putting him on his guard. 

As it happened, Crane had just made up his mind to make his plunge onDiablo while the odds were long enough to make it possible with theoutlay of very little capital. He smoked a heavy Manuel Garcia overthis new contingency. It did not matter about the saddles. Langdon hadconfided in him fully. But how had the writer of the ill-spelled missiveknown of that matter?

Yes, he had better make his bet before these whisperings came to otherears. 

But the bookmaker mentioned? That must be Faust. Why was he prowlingabout among stable lads?

He sent for Faust. When the latter had come, Crane asked Diablo's pricefor the Brooklyn. 

"It's thirty to one now, " replied the Bookmaker; "somebody's backin'him. "

Faust's small baby eyes were fixed furtively on Crane's pale, sallowface, as he imparted this information; but he might as well have studiedthe ingrain paper on the wall; its unfigured surface was not moreplacid, more devoid of indication, than the smooth countenance he wassearching. 

Crane remained tantalizingly silent for a full minute; evidently histhoughts had drifted away to some other subject. 

"Yes, " said Faust, speaking again to break the trying quiet, "some one'snibblin' at Diablo in the books. I wonder if it's Porter; did he thinkhim a good horse?"

"It can't be Porter, nor any one else who knows Diablo. It's somefoolish outsider, tempted by the long odds. I suppose, however, itdoesn't matter; in fact, it's all the better. You took that fivethousand to fifty for me, didn't you?"

"Yes. "

"Well, just lay it off. You can do so now at a profit. "

"You don't want to back Diablo, then? Shall I lay against him further?"

"If you like--in your own book. I don't want to have anything to dowith him, one way or the other. I always thought he was a bad horse, and--and--well, never mind, just lay that bet off. I shall probably wantto back The Dutchman again shortly. "

When Faust had gone, Crane opened the little drawer which held hisbetting book, took it out, and drew a pencil through the entry he hadmade opposite Allis's name. 

"That's off for a few days, thanks to Mr. Faust, " he thought. Thenhe ran his eye back over several other entries. "Ah, that's theman--Hummel; he'll do. "

Next he consulted his telephone book; tracing his finger down the "H"column he came to "Ike Hummel, commission broker, Madison 71184. "

Over the 'phone he made an appointment for the next day at eleveno'clock with Hummel; and the result of that interview was that Cranebacked Diablo to win him a matter of seventy-five thousand dollars atthe liberal odds of seventy-five to one; for Jakey Faust, feeling thathe had made a mistake in backing the Black, had laid off all his ownbets and sent the horse back in the market to the longer odds. Crane hadcompletely thrown him of his guard. 

No sooner had Faust congratulated himself upon having slipped out of hisDiablo bets than he heard that a big commission had been most skillfullyworked on this outsider for the Brooklyn. In his new dilemma he went toCrane, feeling very much at sea. 

"They're backin' your horse again, sir, " he said. 

"Are they?"

"Yes; heavy. "

"If he's worth backing at all I suppose he's worth backing heavily. "

This aphorism seemed to merit a new cigar on Crane's part, so he lightedone. 

"He's travelin' up and down in the market, " continues Faust. "He droppedto thirty, then went back to seventy-five; now he's at twenty; I can'tmake it out. "

"I shouldn't try, " advised Crane, soothingly. "Too much knowledge iseven as great a danger as a lesser amount sometimes. "

Faust started guiltily and looked with quick inquiry at the speaker, but, as usual, there was nothing in his presence beyond the words tohang a conjecture on. 

"I thought for your sake that I'd better find out. "

"Oh, don't worry about me; that is, too much, you know. I go down toGravesend once in a while myself, and no doubt know all that's doing. "

A great fear fell upon Faust. Evidently this was an intimation to himto keep away from the stables. How did Crane know--who had split on him?Was it Langdon, or Shandy, or Colley? Some one had evidently arousedCrane's suspicion, and this man of a great cleverness had put him awaywhile he worked a big commission through some one else. The thoughtwas none the less bitter to Faust that it was all his own fault; hissuper-cleverness. 

"An' you don't want me to work a commission for you on Diablo?" heasked, desperately. 

"No; I sha'n't bet on him at present. And say, Faust, in future when Iwant you to do any betting on my horses, on my account, you know, I'lltell you. Understand? You needn't worry, that is--other people. I'lltell you myself. "

"I didn't mean--" Faust had started to try a plausible explanation, butCrane stopped him. 

"Never mind; the matter is closed out now. "

"But, sir, " persisted Faust, "if you've got your money all on, can Itake a bit now? Is it good business? We've worked together a good dealwithout misunderstanding before. "

"Yes, we have, " commented Crane. 

"Yes; an' I'd like to be in on this now. I didn't mean to forestallyou. "

Crane raised his hand in an attitude of supplication for the other manto desist, but Faust was not to be stopped. 

"I made a mistake, an' I'm sorry; an' if you will tell me whetherDiablo's good business for the Brooklyn, I'll back him now at theshorter price. There's no use of us bein' bad friends. "

"I think Diablo's a fairly good bet, " said Crane, quietly, entirelyignoring the question of friendship. 

"It won't be poachin' if I have a bet, then?" asked the Cherub, moresolicitous than he had appeared at an earlier stage of the game. 

"Poachers don't worry me, " remarked Diablo's owner. "I'm my own gamekeeper, and they usually get the worst of it. But you go ahead and haveyour bet. "

"Thank you, there won't be no more bad breaks made by me; but I didn'tmean to give you none the worst of it. Good day, sir, " and he was gone. 

"Faust has had his lesson, " thought Crane, as he took from a drawer thestable-boy's ill-favored note. 

"I wonder who sent me this scrawl? It gave me a pointer, though. Isuppose the writer will turn up for his reward; but the devil of it ishe'll sell information of this sort to anyone who'll buy. Must weed himout when I've discovered the imp. At any rate Faust will go straight, now he's been scorched. I'll just re-enter that bet to the Little Womanwhile I think of it. 'Three thousand seven hundred and fifty to fifty, Diablo for the Brooklyn, laid to Miss Allis Porter. '" Then he datedit. "She loses by this transaction, but that won't matter; it will bea pretty good win if it comes off. She may even refuse this, though sheshouldn't, for it's a part of the bargain that I was to have a bet onfor her, a small bet, of course. Yes, yes; I remember, a small bet. But this is a small bet. There was nothing said about the size of thewinnings. She was probably thinking of gloves. Jingo, she has a lovelyhand, I've noticed it; long slim fingers, even the palm is long; sinewyI'll warrant; nothing pudgy about that hand. Hey, Crane, you're silly!"he cried, half audibly, taking himself to task; "doing business in bigmoneys--a cool seventy-five thousand, if it materializes, perhaps evenmore--and then slipping off into a mooney dream, vaporing about a girl'sslim hand. I suppose that's the love symptom. But at forty! it's hardlymy normal condition, I fancy. "

The slim hand beckoned him off into a disjointed reverie. Was he thebetter for it? What would the end be? Before the new emotion he couldlook back upon his past struggles with sordid satisfaction. Men inbattle were not given to uneasy qualms of compunction, nor questioningsas to the method that had led to victory. His life had been onelong-drawn-out battle; the financial soldiers that had fallen by thewayside because of his sword play did not interest him; they weredead; being dead, their memory harrassed him not at all. If there werecommercial blood stains upon his hand, they were hidden by the gloveof success. After a manner he had had peace; now all was disquiet; theturmoil of an awakened gentler feeling clashing with the polemics ofself-satisfying selfishness. And all because of a girl! To him that wasthe peculiar feature of the disturbance in his nature. He, PhilipCrane, the strong man of strong men, to be shorn of his indifference toeverything but success by a girl unskilled in managing anything but ahorse. 

"It's all very fine to argue it out with one's self, " he thought, "butI simply can't help it. " He was astonished to find that he was pacing upand down the floor of his apartment. Undoubtedly he was possessed of atremendous regard for the girl Allis. But why not put it from him; whynot conquer himself as he had always done? To let it master him meantthe giving up of things that were almost second nature. He could notlove the girl as a good woman should be loved, and--and--well, the grayeyes that had their strength because of supreme honesty would surelybring him disquietude. It would indeed be difficult to change his naturemuch; his habits were almost like leopard's spots; they were grown intothe woof of his existence. Even if he won her it must be almost entirelybecause of a superior diplomacy. Everything told him that his love wasnot returned. It seemed almost impossible that it should be; there wasnot more disparity in their years than in their two selves. "All veryfine again, " he muttered, somewhat savagely; "I want her, I want her, not because of anything but love. What she is, or what I am counts fornothing; love is all compelling; my first master, I salute thee, " thisin sarcastic sincerity. 

In his strength he relied upon his power to bring forth an answeringlove, at least regard, should he win Allis. Yes, it would surely come. He had not even a young rival to combat. Yes, he would win, first Allis, and afterward her love. 

"I'm quite silly, " he ejaculated; "but I can't help it. But I can go outand get some fresh air, and I will. "

XXII

It was the middle of May. Down in the earth the strong heart ofreawakened nature throbbed with a pulsating force that sent new lifeforth on its errand of rejuvenation. The apple trees had peeped out withpink eyes, and seeing the summer maiden stalking through the land, hadthrown off their timid coyness and shaken loose a drapery of white, allrose-tinted and green-shaded, that turned their broad-acred homes intofairy ball rooms. And for music the bees, and the birds, and shrillfife-playing frogs volunteered out of sheer joyousness of life. 

Tiny shavings of green wag, the gentle spring grass, lay strewn aboutthe ballroom floor, and glistened in the warm light that was of onehigh-hung chandelier, the sun. 

But all the newborn awakening, all the sweet strength of soul and lifethat was borne to the waiting land on the wings of soft winds, broughtnot the hoped-for allotment to John Porter. 

At Ringwood they had waited for the springtime. That would work the curethe doctor's skill had failed of. A man of outdoors, it was the housecaging that was killing him, keeping him back. 

These things were said; but Doctor Rathbone only shook his wise, oldhead, with its world of good sense, and answered: "It is none of thesethings. The trouble is in his mind; he is fretting. A sensitive man, well in body, may be brought to illness by anticipated disaster. Thatcould not have been the case with John Porter well, but John Porter illis quite a different matter. It's as I have said before, give him hope, win him races. "

So Allis was really glad at the near approach of the time of her trial. The day was coming fast, soon, when She was to go forth with herlittle band of horses, as a man almost in everything, to strive for thefulfillment of that which had been put upon her. 

The nearness of the not-to-be-shirked responsibility drove into herveins an unlooked-for exhilaration of strength. She had thought that shewould look with dread upon the going away from Ringwood; that a feelingmuch akin to stage fright would quite unnerve her at the very last. Theriding at home, the horse lore, and the almost constant companionshipwith her father, always among horses and horsemen, though it appearedsomewhat dreadful to the village folks had been as nothing to her. Nowthat she needed strength for the newer, stranger endeavor, it came toher, even as the blossoms came to the swaying apple trees, great andsmall. 

What wouldn't she do? she asked herself many times, to bring astrength-giving peace to her father's troubled mind. Even Mrs. Porter, implacably bitter against racing, must condone what was so evidentlyAllis's study, if it tended to their happiness; the mother had softenedsomewhat in the austerity of her opposition. 

Evening after evening they had discussed the gloomy outlook, with, always from Allis's side, a glimmer of hopeful light. The girl's patientresolve had worn down the mother's pessimistic dread of anticipatedevil. 

"You know, Allis, " she had said, "how I look upon this thoroughlyunchristian pursuit. Nothing can justify it from a true woman's point ofview, absolutely nothing--not even poverty. I would willingly suffer theloss of all we possess--that it is so little is due to this dreadful, immoral horse racing--but I would sacrifice even what remains, ifyour father were well and willing to start afresh in some occupationbefitting his noble character. I would help him, to endure everyhardship, even deprivation, without a murmur. "

"But, mother, " interrupted Allis, "it's impossible now; I think italways was, for, as you know, father knew nothing of other business. Nothing would tempt him to be dishonest in racing, and he always enjoyedit because of his love for horses. But with all that, mother, if he hadbeen in a position to please you, if he had felt that we--you, and Alan, and I--would not have suffered, I am sure he would have listened toyour pleadings and given it up. He might perhaps have gone on breedinghorses, for you wouldn't have objected to that, would you, mother?"

"No, it's the wicked associations of the race course which I feltdegraded a man of your father's character. But I'm not going todishearten you, Allis, nor hamper you now in your brave acceptanceof the task that has come to you, because of wrong done before. It isdistasteful to me, of course; it would be to any right-minded mother, to have her daughter in a position so repellant; but, strange as it mayseem I'd rather you went with the horses than Alan. "

"Alan couldn't go, mother; he couldn't give up his place in the bank;besides, father has purposely kept him from racing. "

"I know it, Allis; I wasn't thinking of that, though. Alan has thegambling spirit born in him; it's not his fault; it's the visitation ofthe sins of the father upon the son. It came to your father in just thesame way. No, I'm not even blaming your father for it; it has come downfrom generation to generation; but there has never been dishonor, thankGod--there has never been a dishonest Porter in my husband's family, and, please God, there never may be. That would be too much! It wouldkill me. And it's better that you go, Allis, for Alan is but a boy, and the temptations to a young man at the race course must be almostimpossible to resist. Besides, your going may bring new life to yourfather; the doctor is so hopeful--he says it will. He was afraid thathe had shocked me, when he said you were to win races for your father'sgood. It displeased the pastor; I know it did, but perhaps he doesn'tquite understand how much we have at stake. "

"He's so narrow, mother. "

"The Reverend Mr. Dolman thinks only of our souls, daughter; naturally, too, and one can hardly be a Christian and race horses. But we have gotso much to consider. I hope I am not wrong in feeling glad that you areable to look after our interests. I should like to pray for your successeven, Allis. It might be wrong; I might feel guilty; but if it makesyour father better, don't you think I'd be forgiven?"

"I'm sure you would, mother, and it would make me stronger. I'm so glad. I didn't want to displease you. I wanted you to feel that I was doingright. It will be lighter now; I sha'n't mind what anybody says ifyou're with me, mother. Now everything will come out right; I know itwill. And if it does, if father gets strong, just out of thankfulness, I'll coax him to try something else, for your sake, mother. "

"No, for his own, Allis. I think only of him in this matter. " Theprospective commencement of the racing campaign seemed to foreshadow acomplete fulfillment of the doctor's prophecy should success smile uponthis modern Joan of Arc; for the bustle of preparation was music tothe ears of the stricken man, and he fought the lethargic fever ofdiscontent that was over him until his eyes brightened and his face tookon a hopeful look of interest. 

"Brave little woman, " he said to Allis, "it's a shame for a great hulkas I am to lie up here, while you fight the sharks that were almost toomuch for your father. "

Then he spoke a little lower, as a man utters unfamiliar words for thefirst time. "Your mother said that Providence would look after you. Sounds strange, doesn't it, girl? But I'm glad. Your mother was sobitter--I don't blame her--now she's turned right around. And, Allis, I believe with a little tempting, a little coaxing, she'd almost havea bet on Lucretia in your hands. Funny, isn't it?" And he gave a littlechuckle. 

Allis hadn't heard her father laugh for a long time. It wasn't much ofa laugh, very dry, and very short lived, hardly lighting up his face atall, but still it was the feeble pulsation of humor which showed thatthe old John Porter spirit was not quite broken. 

"About the betting, Allis, you must have Dixon come down here to see me, for the horses are to go to his stable again, aren't they?"

"Yes, father. "

"That's right. I thought we had arranged it that way, but I seem toforget things since that bad tumble. "

"You don't forget much now, father; you're getting stronger in everyway. "

"Blarney, girl. But I don't mind; your blarney is like the sunshine, that comes through the window every day at ten. Ah, I know to the veryminute when to look for it. But about Dixon. Have him come down, for wemust arrange to back Lucretia--she's worth it. She's been doing well, hasn't she, girl? O God! why can't I go out into the open and see thelittle mare do just one gallop? And then I'd like to sit and look atthe trees sway back and forth in the wind. Their swing is like the freegallop of a good horse. "

He dropped the brief, fretful remonstrance against fate with anapologetic turning away of his head, and continued about the Trainer. 

"Lucretia's in the Brooklyn, Allis; you know that, of course. If Dixonstarts her, the stake alone will be about enough to run for, for athree-year-old has a tough job ahead in that mob of picked horses. But you'll get a line on her there--I think she'll win with ninety-twopounds up; but if she shows good form, then she'll have to be backed forthe Brooklyn Derby. Lucretia's the best three-year-old in the land, Iknow. We'll have to arrange for that money. There will be a couple ofthousand to be had if it seems safe business. You and Dixon will judgeof that. You're taking Lauzanne, girl. Is it worth while?"

"Lauzanne is going to do great things for us, father. I'm sure of it. "

"Still young, Allis. I talked like that when I was your age. Fancy andhorse racing go arm in arm always, and they're like an experienced manof forty hobnobbing with the little love god; they're just about as wellmated. "

Porter's irrelevant simile caused Allis to start, and Crane's relentlesseyes came and peeped at her through the narrow-slitted lids. 

"All right, though, little girl; your faith may make Lauzanne win, and Ithink Lucretia's speed will carry her to the front, so you may strike abit of luck at last. "

XXIII

A few days later Mike Gaynor took the stable up to Gravesend. Dixon hada cottage there, which he occupied with his wife, and Allis was to stopwith them. 

On the 20th of May the horses were settled in their racing quarters. Only four days remained for introducing Lucretia to the Gravesend track;on the 24th she would take up her ninety-two pounds and be tested to theutmost in the great Brooklyn Handicap. 

Dixon felt that several things were in her favor. She was as quiet asan old cow at the post; many false starts would improve rather thandiminish her chances, for nothing seemed to excite the gallant littlebrown mare. Her great burst of speed would enable the jockey to get outof the ruck and steal a good place to lie handy at the leader's heels. She could be nursed to the last furlong of the stretch, for the sight ofhorses in front would not daunt her brave spirit. 

Against the mare were two or three rather important factors; she wasslight of build, not overstrong, and the crush of contending horsesmight knock her out of her stride, should they close in. Then therewas just a suspicion of lack of staying power in the Assassin strain;Lucretia might not quite last the mile and a quarter so early in theseason, being a mare. However, she had a chance. 

"But I'd hardly call it a betting chance, " Dixon said, speaking toAllis; "there's never been a three-year-old won the Brooklyn yet. There'll be openings enough to put down the money later on--in theDerby, if the mare pans out well. "

Andy Dixon was first of all 'a careful man. "There are risks enough inracin' without lookin' for them, " he said. "When one has got an absolutelead-pipe cinch, it's two to one against its coming off. " That wasanother of his conservative aphorisms. 

Andy made no big wins, had never been booked as a successful plunger, had never skinned the ring; on the other hand, bringing the scales ofequity to a dead level, he had never been forced to ask any man to payhis feed bills for him, nor let an account stand over for a time. 

Allis was in good hands, and, what added to the value of the situation, she knew it, and would take Dixon's advice. The Trainer's opinion wasborne out by the betting market; Lucretia stood a long way down in thelist. Even Diablo, bad horse as he was supposed to be, was at a shorterprice; the heavy outlay of his owner, and some intangible rumors havingcaused the bookmakers to feel inclined to hold him close up againsttheir chests. His work since his trial with The Dutchman had been quitesatisfactory. He looked upon Westley, the jockey, as a friend, andstrode along in his gallops as though he had never sulked or showntemper in his life. 

Favoritism for the Brooklyn was divided between The King, afive-year-old that had won it the year before, and White Moth, athree-year-old, winner of the last year's Futurity. Jockey Redpath hadbeen riding Lucretia in her gallops since she had come to Gravesend. At last Dixon had been singularly fortunate in the matter of jockeys. Redpath was just making his reputation, making it as all jockeyreputations are made, by winning races. 

This somewhat unstudied factor in racing had loomed large on hismental vision. It might be possible to acquire a reputation in otherprofessions by good fortune or favor. As a jockey, a light weight mightpossibly make money by dishonest methods, though that itself seemeddoubtful, but there was no way to rise to the top of the tree except byriding winners; verily there was one royal road to fame in the field. Knowing all this, Redpath rode to win. 

On the 22d Dixon gave Lucretia a good strong three-quarter gallop overthe handicap course; on the 23d she had a quiet canter; and on themorning of the 24th, the eventful day, she poked her mouse-brown nozzleover the bar of her stall when Allis came to look at her and seemed tosay, "I'll do my part to-day. "

Nothing could have been wished for in Lucretia's appearance that wasn'tthere, except just the faint suspicion of a sacrifice of strength tospeed. But if the frame wasn't there, the good strong heart was; thecourage and the gentleness, and the wisdom, and the full glow of perfecthealth. 

For hours the trains had borne to Long Island crowd after crowd ofeager, impatient New Yorkers. Lovers of horses, lovers of gambling, pureand simple; holiday makers, and those who wished to see the Brooklynrun out of sheer curiosity; train after train whirled these atoms ofhumanity to the huge gates of the Gravesend arena, wherein were tobattle that day the picked thoroughbreds, old and young. 

Even like bees, black-coated and buzzing, the eager ones swarmed fromthe cars and rehived in the great stand. Betting ring, and paddock, andlawn became alive because of their buzz; tier after tier, from stepto roof, the serrated line of whitefaced humanity waited for the grandstruggle. 

The first race was but a race, that was all. Horses galloped, but didthey not gallop other days? It was not the Brooklyn. And also the secondwas but another race. How slow, and of what little interest were thehorses! Verily, neither was it the Brooklyn, and it was the Brooklynforty thousand pairs of eyes had come to see. 

Down in the betting ring men of strong voices bellowed words of moneyodds, and full-muscled shoulders pushed and carried heads about thatwere intent on financial businesses. But what of that? It was not theBrooklyn, it was gambling. 

Out in the paddock a small brown mare of gentle aspect, with big softeyes, full of a dreamy memory of fresh-shooting grass, walked with easystride an elliptical circle. Her fetlocks fair kissed the short grass inan unstable manner, as though the joints were all too supple. Insideof the circle stood Allis Porter and a man square of jaw and square ofshoulder, that was Andy Dixon. Presently to them came Mike Gaynor. 

"We're gittin' next it now, Miss Allis; we'll soon know all about it. "

"We're all ready, Mike, " said Dixon, with square solemnity. "Whenthey've beat the little mare they'll be catchin' the judge's eye. "

"There's nothing left now, Mike, but just a hope for a little luck, "added the girl. 

"Ye'r talking now, Miss Allis. Luck's the trick from this out. Thelittle mare'll have a straight run this trip. Here's the b'y comin' now, and a good b'y he is. "

A little man in blue jacket and white stars joined them, saluting MissAllis with his riding whip. "Are you going to win, Redpath?" asked thegirl. 

"I'm going to try, Miss. She's a sweet mare to ride, but it's a bigfield. There's some boys riding that ought to be in the stable rubbinghorses. "

"You'll have to get out in front, " said Dixon, speaking low; "yourmare's too light to stand crowdin', an' even if you have to take herback for a breather after you've gone half the journey, she'll comeagain, for she's game. "

"Them Langdon fellows thinks they've got a great chance wit' ourcast-off, Diablo, " volunteered Mike. "I had a peep at him in the stall, an' he's lookin' purty fit. "

"He never was no class, " objected Dixon. 

"If ye'd see him gallop the day he run away, ye'd think he had class, "said Mike. "Bot' tumbs up! ye'd a t'ought it was the flyin' Salvator. "

"Well, we'll soon know all about it, " declared Dixon. "There's thesaddlin' bell. Have you weighed out, Redpath? Weight all right, ninety-two pounds?"

"All right, sir. It was a close call to make it, though; there was a fewounces over. "

"All the better; it's a hot day, an' if they're long at the post it'lltake them spare ounces out of you, I fancy. "

Dixon held up his finger to the boy that was leading Lucretia, andnodding his head toward the stall led the way. 

"We're number seven, Mike, " said Allis, looking at the leather tag whichcarried the figure on Jockey Redpath's right arm. 

"'There's luck in odd numbers, said Rory O'Moore, '" quoted Mike. 

"I've a superstitious dread of seven, " the girl said; "it's the onenumber that I always associate with disaster--I don't mind thirteen abit. "

"We'll break the bad luck seven to-day, " asserted little Redpath, bravely. 

"I hope so, " answered Allis. "Let me put my finger on the number forgood luck, " and she touched the badge on his arm. "Now I'm going up toget a good seat in the stand, " she continued; "I'll leave Lucretia toyou, Redpath. "

XXIV

As the slight figure, looking slighter still in a long trailing racecoat, passed through the paddock gate to the stand enclosure, MikeGaynor spoke to the jockey. 

"Redpath, me b'y, it's up to ye to put yer best leg for'ard to-day. Ye'rridin' for the greatest little woman in this big country. In all thestand up there, wit' their flounces and jewels, there isn't a lady likeher. Not wan av them judys kin touch her as a rale proper lady. Godbless me, she's de sweetest--" then he checked himself; he was going tosay the sweetest filly, but even to his rough-hewn mind, tutored only byhorse lore, it seemed sacrilege to speak of Miss Porter as anything buta lady. 

"You're right, Mike, " concurred the little man; "I'd rather ride themare for her than White Moth, or The King, or any of the favorites fortheir owners. "

"An' the ould man lyin' there at home on his back, eh, Redpath? He's asgood as gold hisself; that's where the girl gets it; not sayin' a wordag'in Mrs. Porter; she don't understand, that's all. But ye'll put upthe ride of your life, me b'y, won't ye?"

"I'll do that, old chap. "

"Mike'll stand by ye, " affirmed Gaynor. "Say, b'y, " and he turned andlooked squarely into the eyes of the little man, "I know if they beatsye to-day, 'twon't be yer fault 'cause why?"--and he put his hand onRedpath's shoulder-="'cause ye'r like many another man, sweet on theyoung Missis. Now, now, now stop that!" and he held up his fingerwarningly, as the other raised his voice in mild protest; "it's toyer credit. It'll do ye no good in wan way, av coorse, for, as yesay, she'll never know it. " Redpath had not made the statement Mikeattributed to him, but the latter was giving him a kindly pointer. "Butit'll do ye no harm. The likin' av a good woman will sometimes makea man av a scoundrel, but ye'r a long way from bein' that, me b'y; soit'll do ye tons av good. There's the bugle; go an' mount, an' I'llwatch how ye get on; an' good luck to ye. "

Regally, one after another, in stately file, the turf kings, decked outwith the silken jackets that rested a-top--crimson, and gold, and blue, and white, and magpie, passed through the paddock gate to the newlysmoothed course. Very modest and demure number seven, the little brownmare, looked beside the strong-muscled giants, bright bay, goldenchestnut, and raven-wing black, that overshadowed her in the processionthat caught the forty thousand pairs of eyes. Something of this thoughtcame to Allis, sitting in the stand. What a frail little pair they were, both of them, and to be there battling for this rich prize that wasso hardly fought for, by strong men athirst for gold, and great horsesa-keen for the gallop!

Ah, there was Diablo, the very number Allis had said carried no dreadfor her, thirteen. What a strange coincidence! What a cruel twistof fate it would be if he were to win!--he looked equal to it. A mansitting at Allis's elbow suddenly cried in a voice enthused into thejoyous treble of a boy's: "Look at that big Black; isn't he a beaut?Number thirteen. That's a hoodoo number, if you like; it's enough togive a backer cold feet. "

"I thought you weren't superstitious, Rex;" this was a woman's voice. 

"I'm not, an' I'm going straight down to back that Black, thirteen andall. "

On Allis's other side one of the party was ticking off the horses bytheir numbers as they passed; "One, two, that's White Moth; they sayshe'll win; three, Red Rover; four, what's that? that's George L. ; five, six, seven; just look at that little runt. What is it? Oh, Lucretia. Might as well run a big calf, I should think. "

"She's just lovely, " declared a lady in the party. "She's as graceful asa deer, and I'm sure she'll run as fast as any of them. "

"Can't live in that mob; they'll smother a little thing like her, "declared the man, emphatically. "Where are we--ten, eleven, The King, that's the winner for a hundred. Look at him. He carries my money. It's all over now; they can't beat him. That's a fine looker, though, thirteen, --Diabo, eh? What's that horse Diablo, George?" turning to oneof the men. 

"No good--a maiden; I looked them all up in the dope book; how theyexpect to win the Brooklyn with a maiden gets beyond me. "

Somewhat tortured, Allis listened to the voluble man on her left, whowas short and fat, and red of face, as he graded, with egotisticalself-sufficiency, the thirteen competitors for the big Handicap. Lucretia he had passed over in disdain. Crude as his judgment seemed, arrogantly insufficient, it affected Allis disagreeably. Now thateverything had been done, that the last minute of suspense was on, shewas depressed. The exhilaration of preparation had gone from her, andthe words of the captious man on her left, "that little runt, " hung withpersistent heaviness on her soul. All the vast theater of the standwas a buzz of eager chatter. Verily it was a race; it was the BrooklynHandicap. Lips that smiled gave a mocking lie to drawn, strained faces, and nervous, shifting eyes, that told of the acceptance of too deep ahazard. The weeks and months of mental speculation embodied in heavybets would have their fruit ripened and plucked within a brief halfhour. 

Allis's gaze dropped to the grass lawn in front of the stand for aminute, her eyes seeking repose from the strain of watching the horsesas they went down to the starting post. How fretfully erratic were themen who dotted its green sward with gray and solemn black! The deeperinterest Allis had over there on the course where was the little mare, seemed to lift her to a great height above them. How like ants theywere, crossing and recrossing each other's paths, twisting and turningwithout semblance of an objective point, creatures of an impulse almostlower than instinct, devoid of this well-directed governing motive. Yes, they were like an army of ants that had been suddenly throwninto confusion. She saw one of them come hurriedly out of the paddock, talking impetuously with bended head--for he was tall--to a short manin gray tweed, beyond doubt a trainer. Suddenly the tall man broke away, hurried to the rail which separated the lawn from the course, leaned farover its top to take a last look at the horses, and then with a queershuffling trot he hurried to the mob that was surging and pushing aboutthe bookmakers. Allis noted with minute observance each little act inthis pantomime of the last-minute plunge. Just beneath where she sattwo men were having a most energetic duel of words. A slim, darkskinnedyouth, across whose fox-like face was written in large letters the word"Tout, " was hammering into his obdurate companion the impossibility ofsome certain horse being defeated. Presently the other man's hand wentinto his pocket, and when it came forth again five ten-dollar bills werecounted with nervous reluctance and hesitatingly made over to the Tout. Tight clutching his prize this pilot of the race course slipped fromAllis's sight and became lost in the animated mass that heaved andswayed like full-topped grain in a harvest breeze. 

Within all that enclosure there seemed no one possessed of any calm. Tothe quiet girl it was a strange revelation; no one could have as much atstake as she had, and yet over her spirit there was nothing beyondthe lethargy of depression. No; no one is calm, she thought. Ah, theassertion was too sweeping. Coming up the steps, just at her right, wasa man who might have been walking in a quiet meadow, or a full-leafedforest, for all there was of agitation in his presence. A sudden newthought came to Allis; she had never seen that face distraught but once. The collected man was Philip Crane. A tinge of almost admiration tingledthe girl's mind. To be possessed of calm where all was nervous strainwas something. 

Suddenly the unimpassioned face lighted up; the narrow-lidded eyesgleamed with brightened interest. As eagerly as a boy their owner, Crane, came forward and saluted Allis. At that instant the man of manywords on her left rose from his seat to chase through the interminablecrowd on the lawn a new victim. 

Allis had sought to be alone in this short time of trial; she was hardlysure of herself. If Lucretia failed she might break down; for what wouldcome to her father should the message home be one of disaster? Even ifthe little mare won her joy might lead her to commit strange pranks; shefelt that her heart would burst out of sheer joy, if she did not shoutin exultation, or caper madly, as she had seen others do in the hour ofvictory. She was sorry that Crane had come. 

"I was looking for you, " he said; "I want to see you win this race;that is, if--I mean, like every other man here, I have harked back to mynatural instinct of covetous acquisition and had a bet on. "

"Not Lucretia?"

"No--I've bet on Diablo. Langdon thinks he'll win. Do you remember theagreement about his purchase?"

"What was that? I've half forgotten it. "

"Just a little bet on your account, you know. "

"Oh, I remember; but that was only in fun, wasn't it?"

"It was part of the bargain, and it's on. You'll take it, won't you, ifhe wins--"

"They're off!" Some one had shouted the magic words from the head of thesteps. In a second every voice of the thousands was stilled, and therewas only the noise of shuffling feet, as eager watchers stood up to seethe horses. 

"It's a false start, " said Crane, quietly, turning toward the girl. "Itwould have been well for you, Miss Allis, had the starter let them go. Lucretia was well out in the lead; it was Diablo's fault, too, that theyhad to go back--he was left standing. "

Crane's voice was Fate's voice. Would there never be anything butLucretia and Diablo, seven and thirteen, thirteen and seven?

"Diablo's a bad horse at the post, sure, " ejaculated Crane, lettinghis field glass rest for an instant on his knee; "he just backs up andshakes his head viciously; evidently he doesn't like the idea of so muchcompany. "

"How is Lucretia acting, Mr. Crane?"

"Perfectly. You must have instilled some of your own patience into her. "

The girl hardly heard the implied compliment. 

Would the patience be rewarded? Or would thirteen, that was symbolicalof evil, and its bearer, Diablo, who was an agent of evil, togethersnatch from her this prize that meant so much? It was strange that sheshould not think of the other horses at all. It was as though therewere but two in the race--Lucretia and Diablo--and yet they were bothoutsiders. 

"The Starter is having a bad time of it; that makes six false breaks, "said Allis's companion; "it will end by his losing patience with theboys, I fear, and let them go with something off in a long lead. Butthey say this Fitzpatrick is a cool hand, and gives no man the best ofit. He'll probably fine Diablo's rider a hundred dollars; I believe it'scustomary to do that when a jockey persistently refuses to come upwith his horses. Just look at that!--the black fiend has lashed out andnearly crippled something. "

"Not Lucretia, Mr. Crane!" gasped Allis. 

"No, it's a chestnut--there they go! Good boy, Westley. I mean Diablo'sjockey has done a fiendish clever thing. He came through his horses onthe jump, carried them off their feet, they all broke--yes, the flag'sdown, and he's out with a clean lead. "

Down in front a bell was clanging viciously; people were rushing withfrenzied haste from the betting ring, and clambering up the steps of thestand; in the stand itself the whole vast mob had risen to its feet, andeven now the rolling beat of eager hoofs was in the aid, hushed of themob's clamor. 

Yes, Crane had spoken truly; a great striding black, along whose neckhung close a tiny figure in yellow and red, was leading the oncominghorses. Allis strained her eyes trying to discover the little mare, butshe was swallowed up in the struggling mob that hung at Diablo's heels. As they opened a little, swinging around the first turn, Allis caughtsight of the white-starred blue jacket. Its wearer was quite fifth orsixth. 

"Lucretia is doing well, " said Crane; "she's holding her own; she'slapped on White Moth. "

It seemed strange to Allis that any other thought should come into hermind at that time other than just concern for Lucretia, but she caughtherself wondering at Crane's professional words of description. Forthe time he was changed; the quick brevity of his utterance tokened aninterested excitement. He was not at all like the Crane she knew, thecold, collected banker. 

"Lucretia's doing better, " her companion added a few seconds later. "IfI were given to sentiment, I should say her gallop was the poetry ofmotion. She deserves to win. But honestly, Miss Allis, I think she'llnever catch the Black; he's running like a good horse. "

Allis could not answer; the strain was too great for words. It would beall over in a minute or so; then she would talk. 

"Your mare is creeping up, Miss Allis; she's second to the Black now, and they've still a good three furlongs to go. You may win yet. It takesa good horse to make all his own running for a mile and a quarter andthen in. His light weight may land him first past the post. There areonly four in it now, the rest are beaten off, sure. Diablo is still inthe lead; White Moth and Lucretia are a length back; and The King isnext, running strong. It's the same into the stretch. Now the boys areriding; Lucretia is drawing away from White Moth--she's pressing Diablo. You'll win yet!"

His voice was drowned by the clamor that went up from every side. "Diablo! White Moth! Lucretia!" What a babel of yells! "He's beat! Comeon!" It was deafening. All the conjecture of months, all the hopes andfears of thousands, compressed into a few brief seconds of strugglingendeavor. 

Allis had sat down. There was less frenzied excitement thus. 

"God of Justice!" it was Crane's voice, close to her ear; his hot breathwas on her cheek; he had leaned down, so that she might hear him. "Yourjockey has sold you, or else Lucretia quit. I thought I saw him pull heroff. I'm sorry, Miss Allis, God knows I am, though I've won--for Diablois winning easily. " Then he straightened up for an instant, only to benddown again and say, "Yes, Diablo has won, and Lucretia is beaten off. Perhaps it wasn't the boy, after all, for it's a long journey for athree-year-old mare. Can I do anything for you? Let me see you down tothe paddock. "

"Thank you, " the girl answered, struggling with her voice. "Yes, I mustgo, for Dixon will be terribly disappointed. I must go and put a braveface on, I suppose. It's all over, and it can't be helped. But you'vewon, and I congratulate you. "

"Poor old dad!" she muttered to herself, "to have fairly given awayDiablo just when he was ready to win a big race. " With a tinge ofbitterness the girl thought how much her mother's opposition was toblame for this narrow missing of a great victory. She was glad to getaway from the cataract of voices that smothered her like great fallingwaters. There was little exultation. If it had been any solace to her, she had much companionship in her dashed hopes; for Diablo, the winner, had not been backed by the general public; the favorite, White Moth, hadbeen beaten. 

After the first outburst a sullen anger took possession of therace-goers. They had been wronged, deceived; another coup had been madeby that trick manipulator, Langdon. How carefully he had kept thegood thing bottled up. If the mob could have put into execution itshalf-muttered thoughts, every post about the Gravesend track would havebeen decorated with a fragment of Langdon's anatomy. 

Even the bookmakers were less jubilant than usual over this winning ofan outsider, for Crane, and Langdon, and Faust, and two or three otherswho had either received a hint or stumbled upon the good thing, hadtaken out of the ring a tidy amount of lawful currency. 

XXV

Crane accompanied Allis to the paddock gate; and she continued on tothe fatal number seven stall. Lucretia had just been brought in, lookingvery distressed after her hard race. For an instant the girl forgot herown trouble at sight of the gallant little mare's condition. Two boyswere busy rubbing the white-crusted perspiration and dust from hersides; little dark rivulets of wet trickled down the lean head that hungwearily. 

"Well, we lost!" It was Dixon's voice at Allis's elbow. "That'll do, " tothe boys; "here, put this cooler on, and walk her about. "

Then he turned to Allis again. "She was well up with the leaders halfway in the stretch; I tho't she was goin' to win. "

"Was it too far for her, Dixon?"

The Trainer did not answer at once; with him at all times questionswere things to be pondered over. His knitted brows and air of hesitatingabstraction showed plainly that this question of Allis's was one hewould prefer to answer days later, if he answered it at all. 

"Didn't she stop suddenly?" Allis asked, again. 

"I couldn't just see from where I was what happened, " he replied, evasively; "and I haven't asked the boy yet. She may have got shut in. Ah, here he comes now, " as the jockey returned from the weighing scales. 

Redpath seemed to think that some explanation was necessary, as he cameup to Allis and the Trainer, so he said: "The little mare seemed to havea chance when I turned into the stretch, an' I thought once I was goin'to win; but that big Black just kept galloping, galloping, an' I nevercould get to his head; I'd a been in the money, though, if somethin'hadn't bumped me; an' then my mount just died away--she just seemed todie away. " He repeated this is a falling decadence, as though it bestexpressed his reason for finishing in the ruck. 

"Well, we're beat, an' that's all there is to it, " declared Dixon, halfsavagely; then he added, "an' by a cast-off out of your father's stable, too, Miss Allis. If there's any more bad luck owin' John Porter, hangedif I wouldn't like to shoulder it myself, an' give him a breather. "Then, with ponderous gentleness for a big, rough-throwntogether man, hecontinued: "Don't you fret, Miss; the little mare's all right; she'llpull your father through all this; you just cheer up. I've got to go nowan' look after her. "

When the Trainer had gone the jockey turned to Allis, hesitatingly, and said: "Dixon's correct about the little mare; she's all right. Iwouldn't speak even afore him, though he's all right too, but" and helooked about carefully to see that nobody was within ear-shot. Two menwere talking a little farther out in the paddock, and Redpath, motioningto Allis, stepped close to the stall that was next to the one Lucretiahad occupied, "I could a-been in the money. "

The girl started. Crane had said that the jockey had stopped riding. 

"Yes, Miss; you mustn't blame me, for I took chances of bein' had upafore the Stewards. "

"You did wrong if you didn't try to win, " exclaimed Allis, angrily. 

"I did try to win, but I couldn't. I saw that I'd never catch that bigBlack; he was going too strong; his long stride was just breaking thelittle mare's heart. She's the gamest piece of horseflesh--say, MissPorter, believe me, it just hurt me to take it out of her, keeping upwith that long-legged devil. If I could a-headed him once, just got tohim once--I tried it when we turned into the straight--he'd have quit. But it was no use--the mare couldn't do it. With him out of the race I'dhave won; I could a-been second or third as it was, but it might havedone the little mare up so she wouldn't be any good all season. Ithought a bit over this when I was galloping. I knew she was in theBrooklyn Derby, an' when I had the others beat at a mile, thinks I, ifthe public don't get onto it, Mr. Porter can get all his losses back inthe Brooklyn Derby. That's why I eased up on the little mare. You don'tthink I could do anything crooked against you, Miss? Give me the mountin the Derby, an' your father can bet his last dollar 'that Lucretia'llwin. "

As he finished speaking Mike Gaynor shuffled moodily up to them. UsuallyMike's clothes suggested a general despondency; his wiry body, devoid ofroundness as a rat trap, seemed inadequate to the proper expression oftheir original design. The habitual air of endeavorless decay had beenaccentuated by the failure of Lucretia to win the Brooklyn. Mike hadshrunken into his allenveloping coat with pathetic moroseness. Thelook of pity in his eye when it lighted upon Allis gave place to oneof rebellious accusation as he turned his head slowly and glared atRedpath. 

"Ye put up a bad ride there, b'y, " he commenced, speaking in a hard, dry, defiant tone; "a bad ride, an' no mistake. Mind I'm not sayin' yecould a-won, but ye might a-tried, " and he waited for Redpath's defense. 

"She was all out, Mike, beat; what was the use of driving her to deathwhen she hadn't the ghost of a chance?"

"You're a little too hard on Redpath, " remonstrated Allis; "he's justbeen telling me that he didn't wish to punish the mare unnecessarily. "

"His business was to win if he could, Miss, " answered Mike, not at allwon over. "It was a big stake, an' he ought to've put up a big finish. The Black would've quit if ye'd ever got to his throat-latch; he's soft, that's what he is. An' just where ye could have won the race, p'r'aps, ye quit ridin' an' let him come home alone. It's queer b'ys that'sridin' now, Miss, " Gaynor added, fiercely, nodding his head in greatdecision, and, turning away abruptly, the petulant moroseness showingdeeper than ever in his wrinkled face. 

"You mustn't mind Mike, Redpath, " said Allis; "he's a good friend of ourfamily, and is upset over the race, that's all. "

"I don't blame him, " answered the jockey; "he would have rode it out andspoiled your chance with the mare--that would have done no good. "

"Still, I hardly like it, " answered the girl. "I know you did it formy sake, but it doesn't seem quite right. Don't do anything like thisagain. Of course, I don't want Lucretia pushed beyond her strength, norcut up with the whip, but she ought to get the place if she can. Peoplemight have backed her for the place, and we've thrown away their money. "

"The bettors will look after their own interests, Miss Porter, and theywouldn't help you a little bit if you needed it; they'd be more like todo you a bad turn. If I'd driven the mare to death, an' been beatenfor the place, as I might have, the papers would have slated me forcruelty. You must believe that I did it for the best, Miss. "

"I do, and I suppose I must thank you, but don't do it again. I'd ratheryou didn't carry your whip at all on Lucretia; she doesn't need it;but don't ease her up if you've got a chance till you pass the winningpost. "

As the two finished speaking, and moved away, a thin, freckled facepeered furtively from the door of stall number six. Just the ferret-likeeyes and a knife-thin nose showed past the woodwork, but there could beno mistaking the animal. It was Shandy. 

"I've got you again, " he muttered. "Blast the whole tribe of you! I'lljust pip you on that dirty work, blowed if I don't. "

XXVI

The Brooklyn had been run and won; won by Langdon's stable, and lost byJohn Porter's. That night Allis spent hours trying to put into a letterto her mother their defeat and their hopes in such a way as to savedistress to her father. She wound up by simply asking her mother to getDr. Rathbone to impart as much information as he deemed advisable to hispatient. 

They were a very depressed lot at Dixon's cottage that evening. Dixonwas never anything else but taciturn, and the disappointment of the daywas simply revolving in his mind with the monotonous regularity of agrindstone. They had lost, and that's all there was about it. Why talkit over? It could do no good. He would nurse up Lucretia, and work backinto her by mile gallops a fitting strength for the Brooklyn Derby. Withincessant weariness he rocked back and forth, back and forth in the bigBoston rocker; while Allis, at a little table in a corner of the room, sought to compose the letter she wished to send home. 

With apathetic indifference the girl heard a constrained knock at thecottage door; she barely looked up as Dixon opened to a visitor. It wasCrane who entered. 

At almost any other time his visit would have been unpleasant. Inhis presence even the most trivial conversation seemed shrouded in abackground of interested intentions; but to-night Dixon's constraineddepression weighed heavy on her spirits and irritated her. 

"Luck was against you to-day, Dixon, " exclaimed the visitor. 

"They were too strong for the little mare, " answered the Trainer, curtly. "Our cast-off won, of course, but there were a half dozen in therace that would have beaten Lucretia, I fancy. "

Allis looked inquiringly at the Trainer; he had not talked that way toher. Then a light dawned upon the girl. She had not associated Dixonwith diplomacy in her mind, she knew that he could maintain a goldensilence, but here he was, actually throwing out to the caller adisparaging estimate of Lucretia's powers. This perpetual atmosphere ofduplicity was positively distasteful. In the free gallop of the horsesthere was nothing but an inspiration to honest endeavor; but in thissubtle diplomacy Allis detected the touch of defilement which hermother so strongly resented. Perhaps to-night she was more sensitiveto depressing influences; at any rate she felt a great weariness ofthe whole business. Then the spirit of resolve rose in open rebellionagainst these questionings; almost Jesuitical she became at once. Whatmattered the ways or means, so that she did no wrong? Was not the savingof her father's health and spirit, and his and her mother's welfareabove all these trivial questionings; did not the end justify the means;might not her success, if the fates in pity gave her any, save herfrom--from--she did not even formulate in thought the contingency, for there stood the living embodiment of it-Crane; everything seemedcrowding her into the narrow confines of her sacrificial crypt. 

Crane had spoken to her on his entry. As she was writing he hadcontinued his discussion of the race with Dixon; perhaps, even--it was ahopeful thought, born of desire--he had come to see the Trainer. Crane'snext words dispelled that illusion. It was in answer to an observationfrom Dixon that he was forced to go to the stables, that Crane said:"If Miss Porter has no objection I'll remain a little longer; I want todiscuss a matter concerning her father. "

Allis felt quite like fleeing to the stables with Dixon; she dreadedthat Crane was going to bring up again the subject of his affection forher. But the Trainer had passed out before she could muster sufficientmoral courage to put in execution her half-formed resolve. 

"I wanted to speak about that wager on Diablo, " began Crane. A thrillof relief shot through the girl's heart. Why had be troubled himself tocome to her over such a trifling matter--a pair of gloves, perhaps halfa dozen pairs even. 

"I put the bet on some time ago, " he continued, "when Diablo was at along price. It was only a trifle, as we agreed upon--" Allis noticedthat he laid particular stress upon "agreed. " "But it has netted youquite a nice sum, three thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars. "

Crane said this in a quiet voice, without unction; but it startled thegirl--she stared in blank amazement. Her companion was evidently waitingfor her to say something; seemed to expect an exclamation of joyousapproval. She noticed that the gray eyes she so distrusted had taken onthat distasteful peeping expression, as though he were watching her walkinto a trap. 

"I cannot take it, " answered Allis, decisively, after a pause. 

Crane raised his hand in mild protest. 

"It was good of you, kind; but how could I accept a large sum of moneylike that when I am not entitled to it?"

"You are--it's yours. The bet was made in your name I entered it at thetime in my book, and the bookmaker is ready to pay the money over. "

"I can't take it--I won't. No, no, no!"

"Don't be foolishly sensitive, Miss Allis. Think what your father lostwhen he parted with Diablo for a trivial thousand dollars; and it wasmy fault, for I arranged the sale. Your father's needs--pardon me, but Iknow his position, being his banker--yes, he needs this money badly. "

"My father needs a good many things, Mr. Crane, which he would notaccept as a gift; he would be the last man to do so. We must just goon doing the best we can, and if we can't succeed, that's all. We can'taccept help, just yet, anyway. "

She was bitter; the reference to her father's troubles, though meantpartly in kindness, angered her. It caused her to feel the meshes of thenet drawing closer about her, and binding her free will. The fight wasindeed on. More than ever she determined to struggle to the bitter end. Almost indefinably she knew that to accept this money, plausible as theoffering was, meant an advantage to Crane. 

"You can't leave this large sum with the bookmaker, " he objected. "Hewould like nothing better; he would laugh in his sleeve. I can't takeit; it isn't mine. "

"I won't touch it. "

"Perhaps I had better speak to your father about it, " said Crane, tentatively; "he can have no objection to accepting this money that hasbeen won. "

"Father won't take it, either, " answered the girl; "I know his ideasabout such matters. He won't take it. "

Crane brought all his fine reasoning powers to bear on Allis, but failedsignally in his object. He was unaccustomed to being balked, but thegirl's firm determination was more than a match for his adaptablesophistry. He had made no headway, was quite beaten, when Dixon'sopportune return prevented absolute discomfiture. Crane left shortly, saying to Allis as he bade them good night: "I'm sorry you look uponthe matter in this light. My object in coming to-night was to give you alittle hope for brightness in your gloomy hour of bad luck; but perhapsI had better speak to your father. "

"I'd rather you didn't, " she answered, somewhat pleadingly. "Dr. Rathbone has cautioned us all against worrying father, and this couldhave no other result than but to distress him. "

Allis's letter had been completed, but she now added a postscript, telling her mother briefly of Crane's insistence over the bet, andbeseeching her to devise some plan for keeping this new disturbingelement from her father. 

Crane was remaining over night in Gravesend, and, going back to hisquarters, he reviewed the evening's campaign. He had expected oppositionfrom Allis, but had hoped to overcome the anticipated objections; he hadfailed in this, but it was only a check, not defeat. 

He smiled complacently over his power of self-control in having allowedno hint of his absorbing passion to escape him. 

Acceptance of this money by Allis, the money which was the outcome ofan isolated generous thought, would have given him a real advantage. To have spoken, though never so briefly of his hopes for proprietaryrights, would have accentuated the girl's sensitive alarm. He was tooperfect a tactician to indulge in such poor sword play; he had reallyleft the question open. A little thought, influenced by the desperatecondition of Porter's fortunes, might make Allis amenable to what wasevidently her best interest, should she be approached from a differentquarter. 

Crane had made the first move, and met checkmate; the second move wouldbe through Allis's mother; he determined upon that course. All his oldcunning must have surely departed from him if he could not win thisgirl. Fate was backing him up most strenuously. Diablo had been castinto his hands--thrust upon him by the good fortune that so steadilybefriended him. He was not in the habit of attributing unlooked-forsuccess to Providence; he rarely went beyond fate for a deity. Unmistakably then it was fate that had cast the horoscope of his andAllis's life together. Never mind what means he might use to carry outthis decree; once accomplished, he would more than make amends to thegirl. 

He drew most delightful pictures of the Utopian existence his wealthwould make possible for Allis. For the father he would provide a racingstable that would bring profit in place of disaster. Crane smiledsomewhat grimly as he thought that under those changed circumstanceseven Allis's mother might be brought to condone her husband'scontinuance in the nefarious profession. If for no other reason thanthe great success he had made in the Brooklyn Handicap with Diablo, his spirits were that evening impossible of the reception of even aforeshadowing of failure. A suppressed exhilaration rose-tinted everyprojected scheme. He would win Allis, and he would win the BrooklynDerby with his good colt, The Dutchman. 

He went to sleep in this happy glamour of assured success, and, by theinevitable contrariness of things, dreamed that he was falling over asteep precipice on The Dutchman's back, and that at the bottom Mortimerand Allis were holding a blanket to catch him in his fall. Even in hisimaginative sleep, he was saved from a dependence upon this totallyinadequate receptacle for a horse and rider, for he woke with a gaspafter he had traveled with frightful velocity for an age through theair. 

Crane was a man not given to superstitious enthrallment; his convictionswere usually founded on basic manifestations rather than fancifulvisions; but somehow the night's dream fastened upon his mind as helingered over a breakfast of coffee and rolls. Even three cups ofcoffee, ferociously strong, failed to drown the rehearsal of hisuncomfortable night's gallop. Why had he linked Mortimer and Allistogether? Had it been fate again, prompting him in his sleep, giving himwarning of a rival that stood closer to the girl than he?

More than once he had thought of Mortimer as a possible rival. Mortimerwas not handsome, but he was young, tall, and square-shouldered--evenhis somewhat plain face seemed to reflect a tall, square-shoulderedcharacter. 

Subconsciously Crane turned his head and scanned critically thereflection of his own face in a somewhat disconsolate mirror thatmisdecorated a panel of the breakfast room. Old as the glass was, somewhat bereaved of its quicksilver lining at the edge, it had not gotover its habit of telling the truth. Ordinarily little exceptioncould have been taken to the mirrored face; it was intellectual; nosign-manual of cardinal sin had been placed upon it; it was neitherlow, nor brutal, nor wolfishly cunning in expression. Its pallor ratherloaned an air of distingue, but--and the examination was being conductedfor the benefit of a girl of twenty--it was the full-aged visage of aman of forty. 

More than ever a conviction fixed itself in Crane's mind that, no matterhow strong or disinterested his love for Allis might be, he would winher only by diplomacy. After all, he was better versed in that form oflove-making, if it might be so called. 

Crane was expecting Langdon at ten o'clock. He heard a step in thebreakfast room, and, turning his head, saw that it was the Trainer. Mechanically Crane pulled his watch from his pocket; he had thought itearlier; it was ten. Langdon was on time to a minute. Nominallywhat there was to discuss, though of large import, required littleexpression. With matters going so smoothly there was little butassurances and congratulations to be exchanged. Diablo's showing in thebig Handicap confirmed Langdon's opinion that both the Black and TheDutchman had given them a great trial; probably they would duplicatetheir success with The Dutchman in the Brooklyn Derby. It was only amatter of a few days, and the son of Hanover had steadily improved; hewas in grand fettle. 

Langdon's appreciation of Crane's cleverness had been enhanced by thesuccessful termination of what he still believed was a brilliantlyplanned coup. He had never for an instant thought that Crane purchasedthe horse out of kindness to anyone. It was still a matter of mystery tohim, however, why his principal should wish to keep dark just how he hadlearned Diablo's handicap qualities. 

Accustomed to reading Langdon's mind, Crane surmised from the Trainer'smanner that the latter had something that he had not yet broached. Theirtalk had been somewhat desultory, much like the conversation of men whohave striven and succeeded and are flushed with the full enjoyment oftheir success. Suddenly the Trainer drew himself together, as if for aplunge, and said: "Did you notice Porter's mare in the Brooklyn, sir?"

"Yes; she ran a pretty good race for a three-year-old. "

"She did, an' I suppose they'll start her in the Derby. Do you happen toknow, sir?"

"I fancy they will, " answered Crane, carelessly. 

"She stopped bad yesterday; but I've heard somethin'. "

Crane remembered his own suspicion as to Lucretia's rider, but he onlysaid, "Well?"

"After the race yesterday the jockey, Redpath, was talkin'--to thePorter gal--"

Crane started. It jarred him to hear this horseman refer to Allis as"the Porter gal. "

"Redpath told her, " proceeded Langdon, "that when he saw he couldn'tquite win he pulled his mount off to keep her dark for the Derby. "

"How do you know this?"

"A boy in my stable happened to be in the stall an' heard 'em. "

"Who's the boy? Can you believe him?"

"It's Shandy. He used to be with the Porters. "

Like a flash it came to Crane that the spy must be the one who hadwritten him the note about Faust and the change of saddles. 

"Well, that doesn't affect us, that I can see, " commented Crane. "I'mnot backing their mare. "

"It means, " declared Langdon, with great earnestness, "that if Lucretiacould have beat all the others but Diablo, she has a rosy chance for theDerby; that's what it means. The Black got away with a flyin' start, and she wore him down, almost beat him; I doubt if The Dutchman could dothat much. She was givin' him a little weight, too. "

"Well, we can't help it. I've backed The Dutchman to win a smallfortune, and I'm going to stand by it. You're in it to the extent of tenthousand, as you know, and we've just got to try and beat her with ourcolt; that's all there is to it. "

"I don't like it, " muttered Langdon, surlily. "She's a mighty goodthree-year-old to put up a race like that. "

"She may go off before Derby day, " suggested Crane; "mares are uncertainat this time of year. "

"That's just it; if she would go off we'd feel pretty sure then. I thinkthe race is between them. "

"Well, we'll know race day; if she goes to the post, judging from whatyou say, it'll be a pretty tight fit. "

"She didn't cut much figure last year when Lauzanne beat her. " Langdonsaid this with a drawling significance; it was a direct intimation thatif Lucretia's present jockey could be got at, as her last year's riderhad been--well, an important rival would be removed. 

Crane had not been responsible for the bribing of Lucretia's jockey, though he was well aware what had occurred; had even profited by it. 

"There'll be no crooked work this time, " he said; "nobody will interferewith the mare's rider, I hope, " and he looked significantly at Langdon. 

"I don't think they will, " and the Trainer gave a disagreeable laugh. "From what Shandy tells me, I fancy it would be a bad game. The truth ofthe matter is that gosling Redpath is stuck on the gal. "

Crane's pale face flushed hot. 

"I believe that Shandy you speak of is a lying little scoundrel. I havean idea that he wrote me a note, a wretched scrawl, once. Wait, I've gotit in my pocket; I meant to speak to you about it before. "

Crane drew from the inner pocket of his coat a leather case, and aftera search found Shandy's unsigned letter, and passed it over to theTrainer. 

"It's dollars to doughnuts Shandy wrote it. Let me keep this, sir. "

"You're welcome to it, " answered Crane; "you can settle with him. Butabout the Derby, I have reasons for wishing to win that race, reasonsother than the money. I want to win it, bad. Do you understand?"

"I think I do. When you say you want to win a race, you generally wantto win it. "

"Yes, I do. But see here, Langdon, just leave their jockey to takeorders from his own master, see?"

"I wasn't goin' to put up no game with him, sir. "

"Of course not, of course not. It wouldn't do. He's a straight boy, Ithink, and just leave him to ride the best he knows how. We've got abetter jockey in Westley. Besides, the Brooklyn Handicap has taken a lotout of their mare; they may find that she'll go back after it. I thinkyou'd better get rid of that Shandy serpent; he seems ripe for anydeviltry. You can't tell but what he might get at The Dutchman ifsomebody paid him. If I'm any judge of outlawed human nature, he'd doit. I've got to run down to Brookfield on a matter of business, but shall be back again in a day or so. Just keep an eye on TheDutchman--but I needn't tell you that, of course. "

"That two-year-old I bought at Morris Park is coughin' an' runnin'at the nose; I blistered his throat last night; he's got influenza, "volunteered the Trainer. 

"Keep him away from The Dutchman, then. "

"I've got him in another barn; that stuff's as catchin' as measles. "

"If The Dutchman were to get a touch of it, Porter would land the Derbywith Lucretia, I fancy. "

"Or if they got it in their stable we'd be on Easy Street. "

"I suppose so. But Dixon's pretty sharp; he'll look out if he hears it'sabout. However, we've got to watch our own horse and let them do thesame. "

XXVII

That evening Langdon and Jakey Faust were closeted together in a roomof the former's cottage. An A1 piece of villainy was on, and they wereconversing in low tones. 

"It's a cinch for The Dutchman if it wasn't for that damn mareLucretia, " Langdon observed, in an injured tone, as though somehow themare's excellence was an unwarranted interference with his rights. 

"What about the jock?" asked Faust. 

"No good--can't be done. He's mooney on the gal. "

"Huh!" commented the Cherub. "Did you talk it over with the Boss? He'snot a bad guy gettin' next a good thing. "

"He gave me the straight tip to give Redpath the go-by. "

"What's his little game? Is he going to hedge on the mare?"

"No; he'll stand his bet flat-footed. Say, he's the slickest! If hedidn't give me the straight office that the mare might get sick, thenI'm a Dutchman. "

"We're both Dutchmen. " The Cherub laughed immoderately at his stupidjoke. "See, we're both standin' for The Dutchman, ain't we?"

Langdon frowned at the other's levity. "You'll laugh out the other sideyour mouth if Lucretia puts up a race in the Derby like she did in theHandicap. "

"But ain't she goin' to get sick? We could whip-saw them both waysthen, that's if we knew it first. I could lay against her an' back yourhorse. "

"I wish the old man wasn't so devilish deep; he makes me tiredsometimes; gives it to me straight in one breath that he's got reasonsfor wantin' to win the race, an' then he pulls that preacher mug ofhis down a peg an' says, solemn like: 'But don't interfere with theirjockey. ' Then he talks about The Dutchman or Lucretia gettin' theinfluenza, an' that Andy Dixon is pretty fly about watchin' the mare. Now what do you make of all that, Jake?"

"Well, you area mug. It don't need no makin' up. That book's all roundedto. He wants the mare stopped, an' don't want no muddlin' about with thejockey, see? Wasn't there a row over stoppin' Lucretia last year? Wasn'tthe boy set down for the meetin'? You ought to know; you had to paythrough the nose for shuttin' his mouth. But what made the old man talkabout the mare gettin' sick?"

Langdon searched his memory; just how was that subject started? "Damnit! yes, of course; I told him about the two-year-old havin' theinfluenza. "

"Well, Dick, my boy, you've guessed it, though you weren't trying. Cranewould like to see the Porter mare coughin'. "

"But you can't take a strange horse into their stable, an' him sick, "objected the Trainer. 

"Right you are, Dick. But you could take the sickness there, if you hada boy with the sabe. "

"I was thinkin' of that, " said Langdon, reflectively; "I was wonderin'if that's what the Boss meant. "

"Sure thing--that's his way; he never wants to stand in for none of theblame, but he likes to feel sure that he's goin' to win. "

"It looks a bit like it, damn me if it don't; an' I believe he wasgivin' me a pointer about the proper boy for the job, too. He saidShandy would get at a horse quick enough if he was paid for it. "

"There you are; what more do you want? Would you have Crane get out onthe housetop an' shout to you to go an' cruel Porter's mare? He's slick, he is, an' if it can be done you've got a great chance. "

"I'm a poor man, " whined Langdon, "an' I can't take no chances onloosin' ten thousand, if it can be helped. "

"It's got to be done right away, 'cause it'll take a couple of days toget the mare coughin'. "

"I told Shandy to come here, " said the Trainer; "he ought to be turnin'up soon. When you hear him knock, just slip into that other room, an'leave the door open a little so that you can hear what takes place. Godknows what that young imp wouldn't swear if a fellow had no witnesses. I think he's comin' here to-night to ask me to pay him to do some dirtyjob, an' I won't do it, see?" and he winked at Faust. "He's a bad boy, "said the Bookmaker, in a tone of mock condemnation. 

"There he is now, " declared Langdon. "I hear a step on the gravel. Quick, slip into the room; he'll be peepin' through the windows; he'slike a fox. "

There was a knock at the door. When Langdon opened it Shandy shuffledinto the room with a peculiar little rocking-horse sort of gait, justlike the trot of a skunk. His whole appearance somehow suggested thisdespised animal. 

"Have you heard anything from the Porter stable?" Langdon asked, whenthe boy had taken a seat. 

"The little mare's well, " the boy answered, laconically. 

"That's bad luck for us, Shandy. We'll be poorer by the matter of a fewthousand if they win the Derby. "

"Who's we?" questioned Shandy, with saucy directness. 

"The whole stable. A man has played The Dutchman to win a hundredthousand, an' he's goin' to give the boys, one or two of them, fivehundred if it comes off. "

The small imp's weak, red-lidded eyes took on a hungry, famished look. "What're you givin' us is that straight goods?" he demanded, doubtingly. 

Langdon didn't answer the question direct; he said: "My man's afraidsomebody'll get at The Dutchman. There's a lot of horse sickness about, an' if anyone was to take some of the poison from a sick horse's noseand put it in The Dutchman's nostrils at night, why he'd never start inthe Derby, I reckon. "

A look of deep cunning crept into the boy's thin freckled face; his eyescontracted and blinked nervously. 

"What th' 'ell's the difference? If the Porter mare starts Redpaththinks he's got a lead-pipe cinch. "

"You'd lose your five hundred; that's the difference, " retorted Langdon. 

"An' if she doesn't start, an' our horse wins, I get five hundred? Isthat dead to rights?"

"If The Dutchan wins you get the money, " replied the Trainer, circumspectly. "You mustn't come to me, Shandy, with no game abouttakin' the horse sickness from, our two-year-old an' fixin' Porter'smare, 'cause I can't stand for that, see?"

The boy would have interrupted, but Langdon motioned him to keep silent, and proceeded:

"You see, if it leaked out an' we'd won a lot of money over TheDutchman, damn fools would say that I'd been at the bottom of it; an'if they had me up in front of the Stewards I couldn't swear that I'd hadnothing to do with it. "

He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket, held it in front of Shandy'seyes, and said: "What did you write that letter for?"

The boy stared in blank amazement. He trembled with fear; it was thewarning note he had sent to Crane. 

"Now if I was to show that to Faust he'd put a pug on to do you up, see?I wouldn't give three cents for your carcass after they'd finished withyou. "

"I didn't mean nothin', s' help me God, I didn't, " pleaded the boy;"give it back to me, sir. "

"You can take it, only don't play me the double cross no more. If you'redoin' anything crooked, don't mix me up in it. You couldn't get intoPorter's stable, anyway, if you tried to fix the mare. "

"I didn't say I was goin' to do no bloomin' job; but I could get inright enough. "

"Well, I ain't puttin' you next no dirty work, but if you hear that themare gets this horse sickness that's goin' about, let me know at once, see? Come here quick. If Faust got a chance to lay against the mare heprobably wouldn't say anythin' about that note, if he did know. "

"I'll give you the office, sir, when she's took sick. "

"That's right. You ain't got any too many friends, Shandy, an' you'dbetter stick to them that'll help you. "

"Do I get that five hundred, sure?"

"If Lucretia don't beat The Dutchman, you get it. "

When the boy had gone Faust came forth from his hiding like a badger. 

"That's a bad boy--a wicked boy!" he said, pulling a solemn face. "You're a good man, Langdon, to steer him in the straight an' narrerpath. He'll take good care of The Dutchman for that five hundred. "

"Yes, if you don't pay these kids well they'll throw you down; an' Iain't takin' no chances, Faust. "

"The Porter mare might catch the influenza, eh, Dick?"

"If she does, I'll let you know at once, Jake. But I ain't in it. Ithreatened to kick that kid out when he hinted at something crooked. "

"I heard you, Langdon, I'll take my oath to that. But I must be off now. You know where to find me if there's anything doin'. "

XXVIII

The next day, intent on persuading Porter to accept the money won overDiablo, Crane took a run down to Ringwood farm. 

As Allis had foreshadowed, his visit was of no avail, so far as Porter'sacceptance of the winnings was concerned. 

With natural forethought Crane first talked it over with Mrs. Porter, but that good lady would have felt a sort of moral defilement inhandling any betting money, much less this that seemed obscured inuncertainty as to its rightful ownership. She believed very much inCrane's bona fides, and had no doubt whatever but his statement of thecase was absolutely truthful. But Allis had refused to accept the money;it would never do for her to go beyond her daughter's judgment. She eventhought it unadvisable for Crane to discuss the matter with her husband;it would only worry him, and she was positive that, in his pride ofindependence, he would refuse to touch a penny that was not actually duehim. 

"But there's a payment on Ringwood due in a few days, " Crane argued, "and we must arrange for that at all events. If this money, which isrightfully your family's, could be applied on that, it would make adifference, don't you think?"

"I suppose John must settle it, " she said, resignedly; "perhaps you hadbetter see him. I can't interfere one way or the other. I have no headfor business, " she added, apologetically; "I'm not sure that any of ushave except Allis. We just seem to drift, drift, drift. "

Crane stated the facts very plausibly, very seductively, to John Porter. Porter almost unreasonably scented charity in Crane's proposal. Hebelieved that the bet was a myth; Crane was trying to present him withthis sum as a compensation for having lost Diablo. It wasn't evena loan; it was a gift, pure and simple. His very helplessness, hispoverty, made him decline the offer with unnecessary fierceness. IfAllis had refused it, if she were strong enough to stand without thischarity, surely he, a man, battered though he was, could pass it by. Hehad received a hopeful message from Allis as to Lucretia's chances inthe Derby; they felt confident of winning. That win would relieve themof all obligations. 

"I can't take it, " Porter said to Crane. "Allis is more familiar withthe circumstances of the bet--if there was one--than I. It must justrest with her; she's the man now, you know, " he added, plaintively; "I'mbut a broken wreck, and what she says goes. "

"But there's a payment on Ringwood falling due in a few days, " Craneremonstrated, even as he had to Mrs. Porter. 

Porter collapsed, fretfully. He could stand out against prospectivefinancial stringency, but actual obligations for which he had no meansquite broke down his weakened energy. He had forgotten about thisliability, that is, had thought the time of payment more distant. He would be forced to recall the money he had given Dixon to bet onLucretia for the Derby, to meet this payment to the bank. 

Quite despondently he answered the other man. "I had forgotten all aboutit; this shake-up has tangled my memory. I can pay the money, though, "he added, half defiantly; "it will hamper me, but I can do it. "

A sudden thought came to Crane, an inspiration. "I've got it!" heexclaimed. 

Porter brightened up; there was such a world of confidence in theother's manner. 

"We'll just let this Diablo money stand against the payment which isabout due on Ringwood; put it in the bank to cover it, so to speak;later we can settle to whom it belongs. At present it seems to benobody's money; it's seldom one sees a few thousand going abegging foran owner, " he added, jocularly. "You say it isn't yours; I know it isn'tmine; and most certainly it doesn't belong to the bookmaker, for he'slost it fair and square. We can't let him keep it; they win enough ofthe public's money. "

Reluctantly, Porter gave a half-hearted acquiescence. He would havesacrificed tangible interests to leave the money that was in Dixon'shands with him to bet on Lucretia. It would be like not taking the tideat its flood to let her run unbacked when her chances of winning were sogood, and the odds against her great enough to insure a big return. 

It was after banking hours, quite toward evening, by the time Crane hadobtained this concession. He had brought the winnings for John Porter'sacceptance, should the latter prove amenable to reason. Now it occurredto him that he might leave the money with one of the bank staff, whocould deposit it the next day. 

Crane drove back to the village and went at once to the cashier, Mr. Lane's house. He was not at home; his wife thought perhaps he was stillin the bank. Crane went there in search of him. He found only Mortimer, who had remained late over his accounts. From the latter Crane learnedthat the cashier had driven over to a neighboring town. 

"It doesn't matter, " remarked Crane; "I can leave this money with you. It's to meet a payment of three thousand due from John Porter about themiddle of June. You can put it in a safe place in the vault till thenote falls due, and then transfer it to Porter's credit. "

"I'll attend to it, sir, " replied Mortimer. "I'll attach the money tothe note, and put them away together. "

On his way to the station Crane met Alan Porter. 

"I suppose you'd like a holiday to see your father's mare run for theDerby, wouldn't you, Alan?" he said. 

"I should very much, sir; but Mr. Lane is set against racing. "

"Oh, I think he'll let you off that day. I'll tell him he may. But, like your mother, I don't approve of young men betting--I know what itmeans. "

He was thinking, with bitterness, of his own youthful indiscretions. 

"If you go, don't bet. You might be tempted, naturally, to back yourfather's mare Lucretia, but you would stand a very good chance oflosing. "

"Don't you think she'll win, sir?" Alan asked, emboldened by hisemployer's freedom of speech. 

"I do not. My horse, The Dutchman, is almost certain to win, my trainertells me. " Then he added, apologetic of his confidential mood, "I tellyou this, lest through loyalty to your own people you should lose yourmoney. Racing, I fancy, is very uncertain, even when it seems mostcertain. "

Again Crane had cause to congratulate himself upon the somewhat clevermanipulation of a difficult situation. He had scored again in hisdiplomatic love endeavor. He knew quite well that Allis's determinedstand was only made possible by her expectation of gaining financialrelief for her father through Lucretia's winning the Derby. Should shefail, they would be almost forced to turn to him in their difficulties. That was what he wanted. He knew that the money won over Diablo, ifaccepted, must always be considered as coming from him. The gradualpersistent dropping of water would wear away the hardest stone; he wouldattain to his wishes yet. 

He was no bungler to attempt other than the most gently delicatemethods. 

XXIX

Encouraged by Jockey Redpath's explanation of his ride on Lucretia, Allis was anxious that Dixon should take the money her father had setaside for that purpose and back their mare for the Brooklyn Derby. 

"We had better wait a day or two, " Dixon had advised, "until we see theeffect the hard gallop in the Handicap has had on the little mare. Sheain't cleanin' up her oats just as well as she might; she's a bit offher feed, but it's only natural, though; a gallop like that takes it outof them a bit. "

It was the day after Crane's visit to Ringwood that Dixon advised Allisthat Lucretia seemed none the worse for her exertion. 

"Perhaps we'd better put the money on right away, " he said. "She's sureto keep well, and we'll be forced to take a much shorter price raceday. "

"Back the stable, " advised Allis, "then if anything happens Lucretia wecan start Lauzanne. "

The Trainer laughed in good-natured derision. "That wouldn't do muchgood; we'd be out of the frying pan into the fire; we'd be just thatmuch more money out for jockey an' startin' fees; he'd oughter beenstruck out on the first of January to save fifty dollars, but I guessyou all had your troubles about that time an' wasn't thinkin' ofdeclarations. "

"It may have been luck; if Lauzanne would only try, something tells mehe'd win, " contended the girl. 

"And somethin' tells me he wouldn't try a yard, " answered Dixon, ingood-humored opposition. "But I don't think it'll make no difference inthe odds we get whether we back the stable or Lucretia alone; they won'ttake no stock in the Chestnut's prospects. "

So Dixon made a little pilgrimage among the pencilers. He was somewhatdismayed and greatly astonished that these gentry also had a somewhatrosy opinion of Lucretia's chances. Her good gallop in the BrooklynHandicap had been observed by other eyes than Crane's. Ten to one wasthe best offer he could get. 

Dixon was remonstrating with a bookmaker, Ulmer, when the latteranswered, "Ten's the best I'll lay--I'd rather take it myself; in fact, I have backed your mare because I think she's got a great chance; she'llbe at fours race day. But I'll give you a tip--it's my game to see theowner's money on, " and he winked at the Trainer as much as to say, "I'llfeel happier about it if we're both in the same boat. "

"It'll be on, sure thing, if I can get a decent price. "

"Well, you go to Cherub Faust; he'll lay you longer odds. I put my biton with him at twelve, see? If I didn't know that you an' Porter wasalways on the straight I'd a-thought there was somethin' doin', an'Faust was next it, stretchin' the odds that way. How's the mare doin--isshe none the worse?" Ullmer asked, a suspicious thought crossing hismind. 

"We're backin' her--an' money talks, " said Dixon, with quiet assurance. 

"Well, Faust is wise to somethin'--he stands in with Langdon, an' Isuppose they think they've got a cinch in The Dutchman. Yes, that mustbe it, " he added, reflectively; "they made a killin' over Diablo, an'likely they got a good line on The Dutchman through him in a trial. But a three-year-old mare that runs as prominent in the big Handicapas Lucretia did, will take a lot of beatin. She's good enough for mymoney. "

Thanking him, Dixon found Faust, and asked of him a quotation againstPorter's stable. 

"Twelve is the best I can do, " answered the Cherub. 

"I'll take fifteen to one, " declared Dixon. 

"Can't lay it; some of the talent--men as doesn't make no mistake, istakin' twelve to one in my book fast as I open my mouth. "

"I want fifteen, " replied Dixon, doggedly. "Surely the owner is entitledto a shade the best of it. "

"What's the size of your bet?" queried the Cherub. 

"If you lay me fifteen, I'll take it to a thousand. "

"But you want it ag'in' the stable, an' you've two in; with two horsestwelve is a long price. "

"I'm takin' it against the stable just because it's the usual thingto couple it in the bettin. It's a million to one against Lauzanne'sstarting if Lucretia keeps well. "

Faust gave a little start and searched Dixon's face, furtively. TheTrainer's stolid look reassured him, and in a most sudden burst ofgenerosity he said: "Well, I'll stretch a point for you, Dixon. Yourboss is up ag'in' a frost good and hard. I'll lay you fifteen thousandto one ag'in' the stable, an' if Lauzanne wins you'll buy me a nicetiepin. "

His round, fat sides heaved spasmodically with suppressed merriment atthe idea of Lauzanne in the Brooklyn Derby. 

"They must have a pretty good opinion of The Dutchman, " Dixon thought, as he moved away after concluding the bet. "I'm naturally suspicious ofthat gang, when they get frisky with their money. It's a bit like I'veheard about the Sultan of Turkey always givin' a present to a man beforecutting his head off. "

The Trainer told Allis what he had done. He even spoke of his distrustat finding Faust laying longer odds against their mare than the otherbookmakers. "But I don't see what they can do, " he said, reflectively, studying the grass at his feet, his brow quite wrinkled in deep thought. "The mare's well, and we can trust the boy this time, I think. "

"Yes, you can trust Redpath, " affirmed Allis, decisively. "If Faust isin with Langdon, as you say, it just means that they're goin' on theirluck, and think their colt, The Dutchman, can't lose. "

"It must be that, " concurred the Trainer, but in a hesitating tone thatshowed he was not more than half satisfied. 

"You backed the stable?" queried Allis, as an afterthought. 

"Yes, an' Lauzanne'll have a chance to-day to show whether he's worththe pencil that wrote his name beside Lucretia's. "

"You are starting him to-day? I had almost forgotten that he wasentered. "

"Yes, it'll give him a fair trial--it's a mile, an' there ain't no goodhorses, that is, stake horses, in the race. I'll put Redpath up onhim, an' you might have a talk with the boy, if you like. You're ontoLauzanne's notions better'n I am. "

Allis gave Jockey Redpath the benefit of her knowledge of Lauzanne'speculiarities. 

"I'm afraid he won't take kindly to you, " she said, regretfully; "he'sas notional as most of his sire's line. But if he won't try he won't, and the more you fight him the sulkier he'll get. I wish I could ridehim myself, " she added, playfully; then fearing that she had hurt theboy's feelings by discounting his ability, added, hastily: "I'm afraidI've spoiled Lauzanne; he has taken a liking to me, and I've learned howto make him think he's having his own way when he's really doing justwhat I want him to do. "

Redpath's admiration for Allis Porter was limited to his admirationfor her as a young lady. Being young, and a jockey, he naturally hadnotions; and a very prominent, all-absorbing notion was that he couldmanage his mount in a race much better than most boys. Constrained tosilent acquiescence by respect for Allis, he assured himself, mentally, that, in the race his experience and readiness of judgment would renderhim far better service than orders--perhaps prompted by a sentimentalregard for Lauzanne. 

The Chestnut was a slow beginner; that was a trait which even Allis'sseductive handling had failed to eradicate. 

When the starter sent Lauzanne off trailing behind the other sevenrunners in the race that afternoon, Redpath made a faint essay, experimentally, to hold to Allis's orders, by patiently nestling overthe Chestnut's strong withers in a vain hope that his mount wouldspeedily seek to overtake the leaders. But evidently Lauzanne had nosuch intention; he seemed quite satisfied with things as they were. Thatthe horses galloping so frantically in front interested him slightly wasevidenced by his cocked ears; but beyond that he might as well have beenthe starter's hack bringing that gentleman along placidly in the rear. 

"Just as I thought, " muttered the boy; "this skate's kiddin' me just ashe does the gal. He's a lazy brute--it's the bud he wants. "

Convinced that he was right, and that his orders were all wrong, the jockey asserted himself. He proceeded to ride Lauzanne mostenergetically. 

In the horse's mind this sort of thing was associated with unlimitedpunishment. It had always been that way in his two-year-old days; first, the general hustle--small legs and arms working with concentric swing;then the impatient admonishment of fierce-jabbing spurs; and finallythe welt-raising cut of a vicious, unreasoning whip. It was not apleasurable prospect; and at the first shake-up, Lauzanne pictured itcoming. All thoughts of overtaking the horses in front fled fromhis mind; it was the dreaded punishment that interested him most;figuratively, he humped his back against the anticipated onslaught. 

Redpath felt the unmistakable sign of his horse sulking; and he promptlyhad recourse to the jockey's usual argument. 

Sitting in the stand Allis saw, with a cry of dismay, Redpath'swhip-hand go up. That Lauzanne had been trailing six lengths behind theothers had not bothered her in the slightest--it was his true method;his work would be done in the stretch when the others were tiring, if atall. 

"If the boy will only sit still--only have patience, " she had beensaying to herself, just before she saw the flash of a whip in thesunlight; and then she just moaned. "It's all over; we are beaten again. Everything is against us--everybody is against us, " she cried, bitterly;"will good fortune never come father's way?"

By the time the horses had swung into the stretch, and Lauzanne had notin the slightest improved his position, it dawned upon Redpath that hisefforts were productive of no good, so he desisted. But his move hadcost the Porters whatever chance they might have had. Left to himself, Lauzanne undertook an investigating gallop on his own account. Too muchground had been lost to be made up at that late stage, but he cameup the straight in gallant style, wearing down the leaders until hefinished close up among the unplaced horses. 

Allis allowed no word of reproach to escape her when Redpath spoke ofLauzanne's sulky temper. It would do no good--it would be like cryingover spilt milk. The boy was to ride Lucretia in the Derby; he was ongood terms with the mare; and to chide him for the ride on Lauzannewould but destroy his confidence in himself for the other race. 

"I'm afraid the Chestnut's a bad actor, " Dixon said to Allis, after therace. "We'll never do no good with him. If he couldn't beat that lothe's not worth his feed bill. "

"He would have won had I been on his back, " declared the girl, loyally. 

"That's no good, Miss; you can't ride him, you see. We've just got onepeg to hang our hat on--that's Lucretia. "

Lauzanne's showing in this race was a great disappointment to Allis; shehad hoped that his confidence in humanity had been restored. Physicallyhe had undoubtedly improved; his legs had hardened and smoothed down. Infact, his whole condition was perfect. 

She still felt that if Redpath had followed her advice and allowedLauzanne to run his own race he would have won. The race did not shakeher confidence in the horse so much as in the possibility of gettingany jockey to ride him in a quiescent manner. When it was impossible ofRedpath, who was eager to please her, whom else could they look to? Theymight experiment, but while they were experimenting Lauzanne would bedriven back into his old bad habits. 

The next morning brought them fresh disaster; all that had gone beforewas as nothing compared with this new development in their run ofthwarted endeavor. 

Ned Carter had given Lucretia a vigorous exercise gallop over the Derbycourse. As Dixon led the mare through the paddock to a stall he suddenlybent down his head and took a sharp look at her nostrils; another strideand they were in the stall. The Trainer felt Lucretia's throat and ears;he put his hand over her heart, a look of anxious dismay on his usuallystolid face. 

"She coughed a little, sir, when I pulled her up, " volunteered Carter, seeing Dixon's investigation. 

"I'm afraid she's took cold, " muttered Dixon. "Have you had her nearany horses that's got the influenza?" he asked, looking inquiringly atCarter. 

"She ain't been near nothing; I kept her away from everything, for fearshe'd get a kick, or get run into. "

"I hope to God it's nothin', " said the Trainer; and his voice wasquite different from his usual rough tone. Then a sudden suspicion tookpossession of him. Faust's readiness to lay long odds against the marehad haunted him like a foolish nightmare. Had there been foul play? Themare couldn't have taken a cold--they had been so careful of her; therehad been no rain for ten days; she hadn't got wet. No, it couldn't becold. But she undoubtedly had fever. A sickening conviction came that itwas the dreaded influenza. 

That morning was the first time she had coughed, so Faust could not haveknown of her approaching illness, unless he had been the cause of it. 

The Trainer pursued his investigation among the stable lads. When heasked Finn if he had noticed anything unusual about the mare, the boydeclared most emphatically that he had not. Then, suddenly rememberingan incident he had taken at the time to be of little import, he said:"Two mornin's ago when I opened her stall and she poked her head out, Inoticed a little scum in her nose; but I thought it was dust. I wiped itout, and there was nuthin' more come that I could see. "

"What's the row?" asked Mike Gaynor, as he joined Dixon. 

When the details were explained to him Mike declared, emphatically, thatsome one had got at the mare. Taking Dixon to one side, he said: "It'sthat divil on wheels, Shandy; ye can bet yer sweet loife on that. I'vebeen layin' for that crook; he cut Diablo's bridle an' t'rew th' ouldman; an' he done this job, too. "

"But how could he get at her?" queried the Trainer. "The stable's beenlocked; an' Finn and Carter was sleepin' in the saddle room. "

"That divil could go where a sparrer could. How did he git in to cut th'bridle rein--t'rough a manure window no bigger'n your hat. He done that, as I know. "

"Well, if the mare's got it we're in the soup. Have you seen Miss Porterabout, Mike?"

"I did a minute ago; I'll pass the word ye want to see her--here shecomes now. I'll skip. Damn if I want to see them gray eyes when ye tellabout the little mare. It'll just break her heart; that's what it'll do. An' maybe I wouldn't break the back av the devil as put up this dirtyjob. It isn't Shandy that's as much to blame as the blackguard thatworked him. "

Dixon ran over in his mind many contorted ways of breaking the newsto Allis, and finished up by blurting out: "The mare's coughin' thismornin', Miss; I hope it ain't nothin', but I'm afraid she's in for asick spell. "

Coming to the course, the girl had allowed rosy hope to tint the graygloom of the many defeats until she had worked herself into a happymood. Lucretia's win would put everything right; even her father, relieved of financial worry, would improve. The bright morning seemedto whisper of victory; Lucretia would surely win. It was not within thelaws of fate that they should go on forever and ever having bad luck. She had come to have a reassuring look at the grand little mare that wasto turn the tide of all their evil fortune. The Trainer's words, "Themare's coughin', " struck a chill to her heart. She could not speak--themisery was too great--but stood dejectedly listening while Dixon spokeof his suspicions of foul play. 

What villains there were in the world, the girl thought; for a man tolay them odds against their horse, knowing that she had been poisoned, was a hundred times worse than stealing the money from their Dockets. 

"I don't suppose we'll ever be able to prove it, " declared Dixon, regretfully; "but that doesn't matter so much as the mare being donefor; we're out of it now good and strong. If we'd known it two days agowe might a-saved the money, but we've burned up a thousand. "

"We'll have to start Lauzanne, " said Allis, taking a brave pull atherself, and speaking with decision. 

"We might send him to the post, but that's all the good it'll do us, I'mfeared. "

"I've seen him do a great gallop, " contended Allis. 

"He did it for you, but he won't do it for nobody else. There ain't noboy ridin' can make him go fast enough for a live funeral. But we'llstart him, an' I'll speak to Redpath about takin' the mount. "

Allis was thinking very fast; her head, with its great wealth of blackhair, drooped low in heavy meditation. 

"Don't engage him just yet, Dixon, " she said, looking up suddenly, theshadow of a new resolve in her gray eyes; "I'll talk it over with youwhen we go back to the house. I'm thinking of something, but I don'twant to speak of it just now--let me think it over a little. "

Dixon was deep in thought, too, as he went back to his own stables. "Wehaven't got a million to one chance, " he was muttering; "the money'sburned up, an' the race is dead to the world, as far as we'reconcerned. "

That Allis could evolve any plan to lift them out of their Slough ofDespond he felt was quite impossible; but at any rate he got a distinctshock when, a little later, a slight-formed girl, with gray eyes, setlarge and full in a dark face, declared to him that she was going toride Lauzanne in the Derby herself. 

"My God, Miss!" the Trainer exclaimed, "you can't do it. What wouldpeople say--what would your mother say?"

"People will say the race was well ridden if I'm any judge, and motherwon't be interested enough to know whether Lucretia was hitched to abuggy in the Derby or not. "

"But the Judge would never allow a girl--"

"There'll be no girl in it;". And Allis explained, in minute detail theresult of her deep cogitation. 

"It won't work; you never could do it, " objected Dixon, with despondentconviction. "That big head of hair would give you dead away. "

"The head of hair won't be in evidence; it will be lying in my trunk, waiting to be made up into a wig after we've won. "

"No, no; it won't do, " the Trainer reiterated; "everybody'd know you, an' there'd be a fine shindy. I believe you could ride the horse rightenough, an' if he has a chance on earth you'd get it out of him. Butgive up the idea, everybody'd know you. "

The girl pleaded, but Dixon was obdurate. He did not contend for aninstant that she was not capable of riding the horse, --only in a racewith many jockeys she would find it different from riding a trialgallop, --but his main objection was that she'd be known. Allis closedthe discussion by saying that she was going home to encourage her fathera little over the mare's defeat in the Handicap, and made Dixon promisenot to engage Redpath for Lauzanne till her return next morning. 

"He can't take another mount, " she said, "because he's retained forLucretia, and we haven't declared her out yet. "

"I'm hopin' we may not have to, " remarked Dixon. "Anyway, there's nohurry about switchin' the boy onto Lauzanne, so we'll settle that whenyou come back. "

XXX

Allis's visit to Ringwood was a flying one. Filial devotion to herfather had been one motive, but not the only one. Her brother Alan'swardrobe received a visitation from hands not too well acquainted withthe 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. Toprepare him gradually for further reverses Allis intimated, rather thanasserted, that Lucretia might possibly have a slight cold--Digon wasn'tsure; but they were going to run Lauzanne also. Like the Trainer, herfather had but a very poor opinion of the Chestnut's powers in any otherhands but in that of the girl's. 

"Who'll ride him?" he asked, petulantly. "It seems you can't trust anyof the boys now-a-days. If they're not pin-headed, they're crooked as acorkscrew. Crane tells me that Redpath didn't ride Lucretia out inthe Handicap, and whether he rides the mare or Lauzanne it seems allone--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 ajockey 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 asmuch. 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 himinto a petulant mood. "Is Lucretia that bad--is she sick?"

"She galloped to-day, " answered the girl, evasively. "But if anythinghappens 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 arebothering you, dad. "

She leaned over and kissed her father in a hopeful, pretty way. Thecontact of her brave lips drove a magnetic flow of confidence into theman. "You're a brick, little woman, if ever there was one. Just a tinybunch of pluck, ain't you, girl? And, Allis, " he continued, "if youdon'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 aworthless hulk, sitting here in the house a cripple while you fight thebattles. Perhaps Providence, as your mother says, will see you throughyour hard task. "

"I won't come and tell you that we've lost, dad; I'll come and tell youthat we've won; and then we'll all have the biggest kind of a blow-outright here in the house. We'll have a champagne supper, with cider forchampagne, eh, dad? Alan, and Dixon, and old Mike, and perhaps we'lleven 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 haddispelled 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 ofhope vanished from her lips, and in its place came one of firm, doggedresolve. Allis needed much determination before she had accomplished thetask she had set herself--before she stood in front of a mirror, arrayedin the purple and fine linen of her brother. She had thought Alansmall, and he was for a boy, but his clothes bore a terribly suggestiveimpression of misfit--they hung loose. 

Mentally thanking the fashion which condoned it, she turned the trousersup 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 wasnot so much bigger. A little thought given to this question of foreignapparel brought a possible solution. The undergarments she had tumbledabout in her search were much heavier than her own. Her crusade had itsside of comedy; she chuckled as, muttering, "In for a penny, in for apound, " she reincarnated herself completely, so far as outward adornmentwas concerned. Then she examined herself critically in the glass. Themirror declared she was a passable counterfeit of her brother; all butthe glorious crown of luxuriant hair. Perhaps she had better leave itas it was until she had met with the approval of Dixon--the terriblesacrifice might be for nothing. She wavered only for an instant--nohalf measure would do. "In for a penny, in for a pound. " The slightestweakness in carrying out her bold plan might cause it to fail. 

Twice she took up a pair of scissors, and each time laid them downagain, wondering if it were little short of a madcap freak; then, shrinking from the grinding hiss of the cutting blades, she clippedwith feverish haste the hair that had been her pride. It was a difficulttask, and but a rough job at best when finished, but the change inher appearance was marvelous; the metamorphosis, so successful, almostdrowned the lingering regret. She drew a cap over her shorn head, packedher own garments and a few of her brother's in a large bag, buttoned hernewmarket coat tight up to her throat, and once more surveyed herselfin the glass. From head to foot she was ready. Ah, the truthful glassbetrayed the weak point in her armor--the boots. In an instant shehad exchanged them for a pair of Alan's. Now she was ready to pass hermother as Allis in her own long cloak, and appear before Dixon withoutit as a boy. That was her clever little scheme. 

Before going up to her room she had asked that the stableman might beat 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 Thomasbring the bag down, please. "

"You're getting dreadfully mannish in your appearance, daughter; it'sthat 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 onyou. 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 thebuggy. 

XXXI

Some hours later Dixon, sitting in his cottage, oppressed by themisfortune that had come to his stable, heard a knock at the door. Whenhe opened it a neatly dressed, slim youth stepped into the uncertainlight that stretched out reluctantly from a rather unfit lamp on thecenter 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 somewhathesitatingly, "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 hescanned the little figure closely, "if I could get a decent lightweightthat hadn't the hands of a blacksmith, an' the morals of a burglar, Imight give him a trial. Did you ever do any ridin'--what stable was youin?"

"I've rode a good deal, " answered the little visitor, ignoring thesecond 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--canyou bring your father, so if I like your style we can have things fixedproper?"

The boy's face appealed to Dixon as being an honest one. Evidently thelad was not a street gamin, a tough. If he had hands--the head promisedwell--and could sit a horse, he might be a find. A good boy was rarerthan 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 fellowbroke 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 alittle--it might have been the nervous excitement, or thankfulness atthe 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 thekitchen; I'll bring her in. Perhaps she'd like to hire a help, " and hechuckled as he opened a door and called, "Come here for a minute. Thisis 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. Thegood lady, oblivious to the humorous side of her greeting, flushed inanger. "Appears to be mighty funny, " she said. "What's the joke?"

"Oh, nuthin', " replied the husband, speaking hastily. "Can you give thelad 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 anymore. I am Allis; but I'm glad you didn't know. "

"Oh, Miss Allis, where's your beautiful hair gone? Surely you didn't cutthat off just for a joke?"

Then she was taken fully into their confidence; and before Allis retiredDixon had been quite won over to the plan of Allis's endeavor. 

In the morning the Trainer asked the girl whether she would rideLauzanne 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 saddlethen. 

"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 losingthis 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 assoon as I've ridden the gallop. "

"Here's a boy's sweater, then, " said Dixon; "the collar'll half hideyour face. I'll get a pair of ridin' breeches an' boots for you bytomorrow. The little mare's in for it sure, " he added; "her legs areswellin', an' she's off her feed--just nibbles at a carrot. I feel asbad as if it was a child that was sick, she's that gentle. She can'tstart, an' I'll just tell Redpath that he can take another mount if hegets it. You're still bound to ride the Chestnut?" he asked, by way ofassurance. 

"Yes, I am. "

"Well, we'll get five pounds off the weight for 'prenticeallowance--that's somethin'. I'll arrange about a permit for you. Whatdid 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 atnine o'clock sharp; then you'd better come back here an' rest up allday--lay low. "

"A new boy, I'm tryin', " Dixon explained to Gaynor, after he lifteda little lad to Lauzanne's back at the paddock gate, and they stoodwatching the big Chestnut swing along with his usual sluggish stride. 

"He's got good hands, " said Mike, critically, "though he seems a bitawkward in the saddle. Ye couldn't have a better trial horse fer a newb'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 thepaddock, she slipped quietly from the horse, loitered carelessly aboutfor 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 wereas plentiful as sparrows; one more or less called for no comment, noinvestigation. Even Mike lost interest in the new boy in wondering whyMiss Allis had not made her usual appearance. 

"How did the horse like it?" Dixon asked of the girl when he returnedhome. 

"Oh, he knew. I whispered in his ear as we cantered along, and he'll beall right--he'll keep my secret. "

"Well, I think he's due for a pipe opener to-morrow. It's just threedays 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-morrowmornin' you had better canter him just slow around once, an' then sendhim 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 watchafter 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 rightin her prophetic hope that the despised Lauzanne would win the BrooklynDerby. 

"He can move; he surprised me, " the Trainer said to Allis as shedismounted. "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 awayhe 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 horsefoine. Don't run away, lad, " he added, hurrying after the retreatingAllis. 

Before she could escape him, he had her by the arm, and turned aboutface to face. Even then he didn't recognize her, for Allis had taken amost subtle precaution in her make-up. The delicate olive of her cheekswas hidden under a more than liberal allowance of good agriculturalcosmetique. It had been well rubbed in, too, made of a plastic adherenceby the addition of mucilage. 

"Lord, what a doirty face!" exclaimed Mike. "But ye kin ride, b'y; sodirt don't count; clean ridin's the thing. "

If Allis hadn't laughed in his face, being full of the happiness ofhope, Mike would not have recognized her--even then he didn't hit it offquite 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. ButI'm dahmned if I t'ought ye could roide like that. It's jus' in thebreed, that's what it is; ye take to it as natural as ducks--" Mike hada habit of springing half-finished sentences on his friends. "Yer fathercould roide afore ye; none better, an' Miss Allis can sit a horse foinernor any b'y as isn't a top-notcher. But this beats me, t'umbs up, if itdoesn't. I onderstand, " he continued, as Allis showed an inclinationto 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 theDerby. I'd give wan av me legs--an' I needs 'em bot'--to see ye beat outthat gang av highway robbers that got at the mare. They'll not git atthe 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 trustRedpath no more'n I do; palaver don't cut no ice wit' her. The b'ydidn't finish on Lucretia, an' that's all there is to it. But how's Alangoin' to turn the trick in a big field of rough ridin' b'ys? If it wasthe gurl herself" a sudden brilliant idea threw its strong light throughMike's brain pan. He took a dozen quick shuffling steps after Allis, thenstopped as suddenly as he had started. "Mother a' Moses! but I believeit's the gurl; that's why the Chestnut galloped as if he had her onhis back. Jasus! he had. Ph-e-e-w-w!" he whistled, a look of intenseadmiration sweeping over his leather-like face. "Bot' t'umbs! if thatisn't pluck. There isn't a soul but meself'll git ontil it, an' she allbut fooled me. "

XXXII

The news that Lucretia was sick had got about. The Porter's stabletraveled out in the betting for the Brooklyn Derby until a backer--ifthere had been one--could have written his own price, and got it. 

Langdon had informed Crane of this change in their favor, though he saidnothing about the deal with Shandy which had brought about the poisoningof the mare. 

"I'm sorry that Porter's mare has gone wrong, " Crane said. "I think wewould have won anyway, but it'll just about ruin them. "

Figuratively, Langdon closed one eye and winked to himself. Crane mustknow that it was his implied desires that had led up to the stopping ofLucretia. Langdon thought Crane just about the most complete hypocritehe'd ever met; that preacher face of his could look honorably piouswhile its owner raked in a cool forty thousand over the Trainer's dirtywork. However, that cut no figure, it was his ten thousand dollarsLangdon was after. 

Just as they thought they had destroyed the chances of their strongestopponent, came a new disturbing feature. Other eyes than Dixon's hasseen Lauzanne's strong gallop; other watchers than his had ticked of theextraordinary good time, 2:11 for the mile and a quarter, with thehorse seemingly running well within himself, never urged a foot ofthe journey, and finishing strong, was certainly almost good enough towarrant his winning. 

This information had been brought to Langdon, but he also had observedthe gallop. And the same boy was to ride Lauzanne in the race, heunderstood, for Redpath had been released, and was looking for anothermount. It wasn't in the natural order of things that one small stablewould have in it two horses good enough to win the Derby, especiallywhen one of them was a cast-off; but there was the gallop; time, likefigures, didn't lie, not often; and as he thought of it Langdon admittedthat he had never seen such an improvement in a horse as had been madein Lauzanne. Shandy had told him that it was Miss Porter's doing, thatshe had cured him of his sulky moods; the gallop Langdon had witnessedseemed to bear out the truth of this. What was he to do? They couldn'trepeat the trick they had played on Lucretia. The Dutchman might win; hehad worked the full Derby distance, a mile and a half, in 2:45, nearlyall 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 wasten thousand dollars at stake--for Langdon. He sought to discover theidentity of Lauzanne's rider; but nobody knew him--Dixon had picked himup somewhere. Perhaps he could be got at; that would simplify mattersgreatly. 

The morning after her fast work on Lauzanne, Allis, draped as she wasinto the personification of Al Mayne, arrived at the course before theirhorses. As she was leaning over the paddock rail waiting for Lauzanneto come, Langdon, who had evidently determined upon a course of action, sauntered up carelessly to the girl and commenced to talk. After a freepreliminary observation he said, "You're the boy that's ridin' for AndyDixon, ain't you?"

The small figure nodded its head. 

"I seen you gallop that Chestnut yesterday. Where you been ridin--you'rea 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 trusttoo much to speech. 

"He ain't no good--he's a bad horse. I guess I've got the winner of thatrace in my stable. If he wins, I'd like to sign you for a year. I likethe way you ride. I ain't got no good lightweight. I might give you athousand for a contract, an' losin' and winnin' mounts when you had aleg up. How do you like ridin' for Dixon?" he continued, the little chapnot answering his observations. 

"I ain't goin' to ride no more for him after this race, " answered theother, quite truthfully enough, but possessed of a curiosity to discoverthe 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 thewinnin' 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 wonthis race. That'll mean The Dutchman's a good horse, and we'll want agood light boy to ride him, see?"

Allis did see. Langdon was diplomatically giving her as A1 Mayne tounderstand that if she threw the race on Lauzanne, she would get a placein their stable at a retainer of a thousand dollars. 

"We can afford it if we win the race, " he continued, "for we stand a bigstake. 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 againaccosted; this time by Shandy. She trembled an instant, fearing that thesmall red-lidded ferret eyes would discover her identity. But the boywas too intent on trying to secure his ill-earned five hundred dollarsto 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. Didhe 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'sgot 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 gitnothin'. 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 Chestnutspoil the job?"

"Is that what you get the five hundred for?" asked Allis, a suddensuspicion 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 hundredout of my five, God bli' me if I don't. "

As he spoke Shandy looked hastily about to see that no one waslistening, then he continued: "If you give me the double cross an'peach, I'll split yer head open. " His small eyes blazed with venomousfury. "Besides, it won't do no good, my word's as good as yours. ButI'll give you the hundred, s'help me God! I will, if you don't ride theChestnut out. Mum's the word, " he added, bolting suddenly, for Dixon hadentered the paddock with his horses. 

With the horses also came Mike Gaynor. While their blankets were beingtaken off and saddles adjusted, he came over to Allis. There was asuppressed twinkle of subverted knowledge in his weatherbeaten eyes. 

"Good mornin', Al, " he said, nodding in a very dignified manner, andputting a strong accent on the name. 

Now Mike had determined to keep from the girl the fact that he hadpenetrated her disguise. With proper Irish gallantry, crude as it mightbe in its expression, but delicate enough in its motive, he reasonedthat his knowledge might make her uncomfortable. 

"I see that fly-by-night divil Shandy talkin' to ye as I come in. Whatnew 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 Langdonput 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; hecould have bitten off his unruly Irish tongue. The girl stared at himhelplessly, her cheeks, that were scarlet, tingling under the hot rushof blood. 

"There ye are, an' believe me, I didn't mean it. I was goin' to keep memouth 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 whinI t'ought wit' meself I knowed that Alan couldn't ride Lauzanne the wayye did; an' ye didn't deny ye was him, an' if ye wasn't him ye must beyerself, see?" which more or less lucid explanation seemed to relieveMike'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 theChestnut--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 yerhands; 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 tobother--they'll all be beat off. Now, it's a good thing that I do knowabout this, for I'll just kape close to ye an' kape any wan that'slikely to spot ye away, if I have to knock him down. "

Mike had worked himself up to a fine frenzy of projected endeavor; hecast about for further services he could render his admired mistress. 

"An' ye know Carson the starter; he's jes the loveliest Irishman; thereisn't a b'y on earth could git an inch the best av it from him on astart, 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 suntannedface vanished; his jaw drooped, and a pathetic look of sheepish apologyfollowed. 

"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'dknock 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 onlyconfirmed Mike's opinion that between them they had poisoned Lucretia. He felt that with a little more evidence he would be able to prove bothcrimes--the one with Diablo and the one with Lucretia. 

The Brooklyn Derby was to be run the next day. Allis was glad that itwas so near; she dreaded discovery. She was like a hunted hare, dodgingeveryone she fancied might discover her identity. She would have to runthe gauntlet of many eyes while weighing for the race, and at the timeof going out; even when she returned, especially if she won. But inthe excitement over the race, people would not have time to devote to astrange jockey's visage. She could quite smear her face with dirt, forthat seemed a natural condition where boys were riding perhaps severalraces in one afternoon. The jockey cap with its big peak well pulleddown over her head would add materially to her disguise. Mike wouldfetch and carry for her, so that she would be in evidence for veryfew minutes at most. Dixon even, opposed to the idea as he had been atfirst, now assured her quite confidently that nobody would make her out. 

"It's the horses they look at, " he said, "and the colors. An apprenticeboy doesn't cut much ice, I can tell you. Why, I've been racin' foryears, " he went on with the intent of giving her confidence, "an' many atime I see a boy up on a horse that must have rode on the tracks over ahundred times, an' I can't name him to save my neck. "

At any rate there was nothing more to do until she made the greatendeavor, until she went to the track at the time set for the BrooklynDerby, dressed in the blue jacket with the white stars of her father'sracing colors; that was the plan adopted. A buggy, with Mike driving, would take her straight to the paddock quite in time for the race. 

XXXIII

After Crane left the money for Porter's note with Mortimer the lattertook 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 banksafe, 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 touchedupon the subject of Porter's obligation, stating that he had left themoney with Mr. Mortimer to meet the note when it matured. 

The day before the Derby, the 12th of the month, Alan asked his day'sleave and got it. The cashier more readily granted Alan's request, asCrane had intimated in his letter that it would please him if the ladwere to have a holiday. 

Alan went up to New York that evening. Earlier in the day he somewhathesitatingly confided to Mortimer that he had backed Lucretia when shewas well and looked to have a good chance to win her race; now she wasscratched, and his money was lost. Bearing in mind what Crane had saidabout 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 hislosses. Alan explained all these racing matters very minutely and withgreat earnestness to Mortimer, for the latter was quite unfamiliarwith the science of race gambling. Having stated his predicament andhoped-for relief, as an excuse for so doing, he wound up by asking hiscompanion for a loan of two hundred dollars. 

Mortimer had little less horror of betting and its evil influence thanMrs. Porter, but under the circumstances he would perhaps have compliedwith the boy's request had he been provided with sufficient funds. As itwas, 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 lostit you'd feel uncomfortable owing me the money. At any rate, I haven'tgot it. I couldn't lend you two hundred, or half of it. I suppose Ihaven't got a hundred to my credit. "

"Oh, never mind then, " answered Alan, angrily, stiffening up, because ofMortimer'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'tbet at all; it'll only get you into trouble. "

"Thanks; I don't need your advice. I was a fool to ask you for themoney. "

"I say, Alan, " began Mortimer, in a coaxing tone. 

"Please don't 'Alan' me any more. I can get along without your money andwithout 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 allright 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 ofkeys in the latter's possession which unlocked some private drawers inthe vault. 

The next morning it suddenly occurred to Mortimer that Porter's notefell due that day--either that day or the next, he wasn't sure. Theeasiest 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, andas he handled the crisp papers a sudden shock of horror ran throughhis frame. One of the bills was gone; there were only twoone-thousand-dollar notes left. 

The discovery paralyzed him for an instant. He was responsible; themoney had been left in his charge. Then he looked at the note; itmatured the next day. All the money had been in the box the morningbefore, for he had looked at it. Only the cashier and Alan Porter knewthat it was in the vault. 

The whole dreadful truth came clearly to Mortimer's mind with absoluteconviction. Alan, infatuated with the prospect of winning a large sumover The Dutchman, and failing to borrow from him, had taken the money. 

The gravity of the situation calmed Mortimer, and his mind worked witha 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, andthat he was only borrowing family property. No doubt he had felt sureof winning, and that he would be back in time to replace the thousandbefore it was needed. This sophistical reasoning had, without doubt, tempted the lad to commit this--this--Mortimer felt a reluctance tobestow 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 himto give up the stolen money he could yet save the boy. But Alan had goneto Gravesend. 

Like an inspiration the thought came to Mortimer that he must go afterhim and get the money before it was lost. He shoved the box back in itsplace, 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 minuteseemed 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 hastyinspection showed that he still had a trifle more than this amount tohis credit. Why he took a hundred he hardly knew; fate seemed writingthe check. He had barely finished when the cashier appeared. At onceMortimer spoke to him. 

"I want leave of absence to-day, sir, " he said, speaking hurriedly. 

The cashier frowned in astonishment. "Impossible We are short-handedwith 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 hadnearly 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 wasnot 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 thathe got away in time to save Allis's brother from himself. At last he wasfree. He almost ran to the station. 

Looking from the window of the bank, the cashier seeing Mortimer's rapidpace, muttered: "I guess the poor man's mother is pretty bad; I'm glad Ilet 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 atthe station he had paced up and down the platform with nervous stride. Adozen times he looked at his watch--would he be too late? He had no ideahow long it would take to reach Gravesend; he knew nothing of the racetrack's location. As the train whirled him through Emerson, wherehis mother lived, he could see the little drab cottage, and wonderedpathetically what the good woman would say if she knew her son was goingto a race meeting. At twelve he was in New York. 

XXXIV

Mortimer found that he could take an "L" train to the Bridge, andtransfer there to another taking him direct to the course. At the Bridgehe was thrust into a motley crowd, eager, expectant, full of joyousanticipation of assured good luck. He was but a tiny unit of thismany-voiced throng; he drifted a speck on the bosom of the flood thatpoured into the waiting race train. He was tossed into a seat bythe swirling tide, and as the train moved he looked at hisfellow-passengers. There was a pleasant air of opulence all about him. Gold chains of fair prominence, diamonds of lustrous hue, decorated thealways rotund figures. He fell to wondering why the men were all of agross physique; why did the ladies wear dresses of such interminablevariety of color; from whence came the money for this plethora of richapparel?

The race literature that had come Mortimer's way had generally dealtwith the unfortunate part of racing. Somehow he had got the impressionthat everybody lost money at it. He was sure Alan Porter had, also thefather. 

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 theindustry of a student he pored over a disheveled sporting paper for halfan hour, then throwing it under the seat he cast a furtive look at hisneighbor, and presently said, "Dere'll be big fields to-day. "

"That's too bad, " Mortimer answered, through ignorance, thinking thatthe other referred to perhaps a considerable walk across country toreach the course. 

"I like it, " declared the man of sad drapery; "it means long odds ifyou're next somethin' good. "

Mortimer confined his remarks to a brief "Oh!" for the other man mightas 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 horseracing, 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 steeryou straight?"

Mortimer was growing weary; his mind, troubled by the frightful disasterthat threatened Allis's family, wanted to draw within itself and ponderdeeply over a proper course of action; so he answered: "My dear sir, I'mafraid you're mistaken. I never bet on races. But I thank you for yourkind offer. "

The unwashed face looked at him in blank amazement, then it wrinkled ina mirthful laugh of derision. "What d' 'ell you goin' to Gravesendfor, den? Blamed if I don't believe you dough--you look it. Say, is datstraight 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. WishI'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. Itsowner had been searching for a simile. He wanted to point a moral andhe 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 liketobacco, or drink, or stealin' money out of a bank--"

Mortimer shivered. He had felt a moral superiority in denying theimplied bad habits. 

"It's like any of 'em, " continued the ragged philosopher; "a guystarts simply as a kid, an' he gets de t'row-down. He takes a bracer athimself, and swears he'll give it de go-by, but he can't--not on yourlife. "

Mortimer had read much about confidence men, and half expected thathis self-imposed acquaintance would try to borrow money, but he wasdisillusionized presently. 

"But de ring ain't broke Ole Bill yet. I'll clean up a t'ousandto-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'tneed to divvy up, neither. Dere's a chestnut runnin' in de Derby whatdey 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 dugdown into the folds of his somewhat voluminous "pants" and drew forth afair-sized roll. "See? That wad goes to Larcen straight. I see him doa 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'llbe 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! Evenhere on the ferry boat, crowded with men of unchristian aspect, he heardthe 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'vegot it straight, stranger. Say, are you wise to anyt'in'?"

"Not about the horse; but I know the people--the young lady; and they'llwin if they can--that's sure. "

"Dere won't be many dead 'uns in de Derby. First money's good enough fermost 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 frontend. 

"I guess we're dere, " said his companion; "perhaps I'll see you onde course. If you make a break to-day, play Larcen; he'll win. Say, Ididn'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 ableto find Alan Porter without trouble. The true difficulty of his questsoon dawned upon him. Wedged into the pushing, shoving, hurrying crowd, in three minutes he had completely lost himself. A dozen times herearranged his bearings, taking a certain flight of steps leading upto the grand stand as the base of his peregrinations; a dozen timeshe returned to this point, having accomplished nothing but completebewilderment. 

He asked questions, but the men he addressed were too busy to botherwith him; some did not hear, others stared at him in distrust, and manytendered flippant remarks, such as "Ask a policeman;" "You'll find himin the bar;" "He's gone to Europe. "

Even Mortimer's unpracticed mind realized speedily that it would benothing short of a miracle if he were to find anyone in all thoseinpatient thousands who even knew the person he was seeking. One youngman he spoke to declared that he knew Alan Porter quite well; he was agreat friend of his; he'd find him in a minute. This obliging stranger'squest led them into the long race track bar room, which somehow or othersuggested to Mortimer a cattle shambles. 

Behind the bar young men in white coats, even some in their shirtsleeves, were setting forth on its top, with feverish haste, clinkingglasses that foamed and fretted much like the thirsty souls who calledvociferously for liquid refreshment. Everybody seemed on fire--burnt upby the thirst of a consuming fever, the fever of speculation. 

Mortimer's new friend suggested that they indulge in beer while waitingfor the sought one's appearance, and waxing confidential he assured hisquarry that he had a leadpipe cinch for the next race--it couldn'tlose. The trainer was a bosom friend of his; a sort of hybrid brother infriendship. He himself was no tipster, he was an owner; he even wentthe length of flashing a bright yellow badge, as occult evidence of hisstanding. 

These matters did not interest the searcher in the slightest; they onlywasted his precious time. If he did not find Alan Porter soon the stolenmoney 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--arare green one--and he felt indisposed to let his prey escape. Hisinsistence matured into insolence as Mortimer spoke somewhat sharply tohim. Ignorant of racing as the latter was, he was hardly a man to takeliberties with once he recognized the infringement. The enormity ofhis mission and the possibility that it might be frustrated by hisundesirable tormentor, made him savage. Raised to quick fury by avicious remark of the tout who held him in leash, he suddenly stretchedout a strong hand, and, seizing his insulter by the collar, gave hima quick twist that laid him on his back. Mortimer held him there, squirming for a full minute, while men gathered so close that the airbecame stifling. 

Presently a heavy hand was laid on Mortimer's shoulder and a gruffpoliceman's voice asked, "What's the matter here?"

"Nothing much, " Mortimer replied, releasing his hold and straighteningup; "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, turningto 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 wasdriven 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 standingsomewhat listlessly, self-absorbed, as though he were not a party to theincessant turmoil of the others, who were as men mad. 

With a faith born of limited experience, Mortimer risked anotherhazard. He would ask this complacent one for guidance. What he had to dojustified all chances of rebuke. 

"Pardon me, sir, " he began, "I am looking for a young friend of minewhose 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 thecomposed one. 

"Could you tell me where the paddock is?"

"To the right, " and sweeping his arm in that direction the stranger sankback into his inner consciousness, and blinked his eyes languidly, asthough the unusual exertion of answering his inquisitor's questions haddecidedly bored him. 

"That man is one in a thousand; yea, forty thousand, for he is astranger to excitement, " Mortimer said to himself, as he strode rapidlyacross the grass to a gate which opened in the direction the other hadindicated. His eagerness had almost carried him through the gatewaywhen a strong arm thrown across his chest, none too gently, barred hisfurther progress. 

"Show your badge, please, " cried a voice. 

Mortimer exposed the pasteboard he had acquired on his entry to thestand. 

"You can't pass in here, " said the guardian; "that's only good for thestand. "

"But, " began Mortimer. 

"Stand aside--make room, please!" from the gatekeeper, cut short hisconversation. 

Others were waiting to pass through. In despair he gave up his untenableplace, and once more was swallowed in the maelstrom of humanity thateddied about the stand enclosure. 

As he was heading for his rock of locality, the stairway, hurryingsomewhat recklessly, he ran with disturbing violence full tilt into aman who had erratically turned to his left, when according to all lawsof the road he should have kept straight on. 

"I beg pardon--" began Mortimer; then stared in blank amazement, cuttingshort his apology. The victim of his assault was Mr. Crane. The latter'sclose-lidded eyes had rounded open perceptibly in a look of surprise. 

"Mr. Mortimer!" he exclaimed, "You here? May I ask who's running thebank?"

Anxious about the stolen money the sudden advent of Crane on hisimmediate horizon threw the young man into momentary confusion. "Mymother was ill--I got leave--I had to see Alan Porter--I've come here tofind him. They'll manage all right at the bank without me. "

He fired his volley of explanation at his employer with the rapidity ofa Maxim gun. Truth and what he considered excusable falsehood came forthwith equal volubility. Crane, somewhat mollified, and feeling that atfirst he had spoken rather sharply, became more gracious. At sight ofMortimer he had concluded that it was to see Allis the young man hadcome, 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"--hewas going to say--"in the paddock with his sister, " but for reasons herefrained; "let me see, most likely sitting up in the grand stand. "

As Mortimer stood scanning the sea of faces that rose wave on wave abovehim, Mr. Crane said, "I hope you found your mother better. If I see AlanI'll tell him you are looking for him. "

When Mortimer turned around Crane had gone. He had meant to ask aboutthe race Porter's horse Lauzanne was in, but had hesitated for fear heshould 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 hestood, over the heads of many people he could see gaudy colored silkjackets coming swiftly up the broad straight boulevard of the racecourse; even as he looked they passed by with a peculiar bobbingup-and-down motion. The effect was grotesque, for he could not see thehorses, could not see the motive power which carried the bright-coloredriders 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 hehad, with misplaced confidence, wagered many dollars on a horse that waseven then prancing gaily in many yards behind the winner. 

"Do you know what race that was?" Mortimer repeated, thinking the silentone had not heard him. 

"Why don't you look at your race card?" retorted the jaundicedloser, transporting himself and his troubles to the haven of liquidconsolation. 

His answer, curt as it was, gave Mortimer an inspiration. He lookedabout and saw many men consulting small paper pamphlets; they were likepeople 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 answerto a question told him it was the third race he had just seen, and thenext 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 Dutchmanand Lauzanne. He had almost given up looking for Alan; it seemed sohopeless. 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 offate. He remembered what Alan had said about The Dutchman's certainchance of winning the coming race. He felt that if the horse won, Alanwould put back the stolen thousand dollars; if not, where would the boyget money to cover up his theft?

It had seemed to Mortimer a foolish, desperate thing to risk money onanything so uncertain as a horse race; but here was at stake the honorof a bright, splendid young man--even the happiness of his parents, which the poor, deluded boy had wagered on one horse's chance of winningagainst six others. It was terrible. Mortimer shuddered, and closed hiseyes when he thought of the misery, the shame, that would come to Allisand her mother when they knew, as they must, if Crane's horse werebeaten, that the son was a thief. Oh, God! why couldn't he find the boyand save him before it was too late? Probably Alan had already bettedthe money; but even if that were so, he had vain visions of forcing theman who had received the stolen thousand to disgorge. No one had a rightto receive stolen money; and if necessary, Mortimer would give him tounderstand that he was making himself a party to the crime. 

But the mere fact that he couldn't find Alan Porter rendered him ashelpless 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 hebut had it. For Allis's sake he would have beggared himself, would havesacrificed a hundred times that sum to save her from the unutterablemisery that must come if her brother were denounced as a felon. The lovethat was in him was overmastering him. 

He was roused from his despondent train of thought by speech that struckwith familiar jar upon his ear. It was the voice of the man who haddescanted on the pleasures of betting during their journey from NewYork. 

"What dye t'ink of it, pard?" was the first salutation. 

Mortimer stammered the weak information that he didn't know what tothink 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 treetimes, an' I'll make it four straight, sure. Larcen'll come home allalone; 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' forDe 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 atortured spirit had been sent him. Fate gave him the cue; it whisperedin his ear, "Put down a hundred--you have it--and win a thousand; thenyou can save Alan Porter--can keep this misery from the girl that is toyou as your own life. "

Mortimer listened eagerly; to the babbler at his side; to the whisper inhis ear; to himself, that spoke within himself. Even if it were notall true, if Lauzanne were beaten, what of it? He would lose a hundreddollars, but that would not ruin him; it would cause him to save andpinch 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 thesethoughts 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 thebetting 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 wasactually drawing from his pocket a roll of bills with which to bet on ahorse. 

He took a despairing look through the thicket of human beings that madea living forest all about, in a last endeavor to discover Alan Porter. Not three paces away a uniquely familiar figure was threading in and outthe changing maze-it was Mike Gaynor. 

Mortimer broke from his friend, and with quick steps reached thetrainer's side. 

"I want to find Alan Porter, " he said, in answer to Gaynor's surprisedsalutation. 

"He was in the paddock a bit ago, " answered Mike; "he moight be therestill. "

Almost involuntarily Mortimer, as he talked, had edged back toward hisfriend of disconsolate raggedness. 

"I wanted to go in there--I'd like to go now to find him, but they won'tlet me through the gate. "

"No more they will, " answered Mike, with untruthful readiness, for allat once it occurred to him that if Mortimer got to the paddock he mightrun 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 heanswered: "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 thebadge, for he had observed the wink, and held true to the masonry whichexists 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; seehere, " and he nodded his head sideways to Mortimer. The latter walked byhis 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' yefer?"

"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 grimvisage; it was moons since he had heard anybody talk of a horse "comingin first;" he was indeed a green bettor, this, young man of the countinghouse. What was he doing there betting at all, Mike wondered. It must bebecause 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' ifthe Chestnut doesn't sulk, does his best fer the young misthress that'llbe watchin' him here in the stand wit' tears in her eyes, he moightwin--d'ye onderstand?"

Yes, Mortimer understood; it seemed quite clear, for Mike had been tosome pains to cover up the slip he had made. 

"Now I must go, " he continued; "an' ye needn't come in the paddock--ifthe b'y is there, I'll sind him out. "

When Alan's seeker returned to Old Bill, he said, "Mr. Gaynor thinksyour 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 winkconvinced him that this was not the sole reason. 

They waited for young Porter's appearance, but he did not come. "Thegeezer yer waitin' fer is not in dere or he'd a-showed up, " said OldBill; "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 nothelp but think how like unto it was the betting ring with its horde ofpushing, struggling humans, as he wormed his way in, following close onOld Bill's heels. There was a sort of mechanical aptness in his leader'sway of displacing men in his path. Mortimer realized that but for hisguide he never would have penetrated beyond the outer shell of thebuzzing hive. Even then he hoped that he might, by the direction ofchance, see Alan Porter. The issue at stake, and the prospect of itssolution through his unwonted betting endeavor, was dispelling hisinherent antipathy to gambling; he was becoming like one drunken withthe glamour of a new delight; his continued desire to discover youngPorter was more a rendering of tithes to his former god of chastitywhich 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 beeagerly approved of. Their ingress, though strenuous, was devoid ofrapidity; so, beyond much bracing of muscles, there was little to takecognizance of except his own mental transformation. Once he had known aminister, a very good man indeed, who had been forced into a fight. Theclergyman had acted his unwilling part with such muscular enthusiasmthat his brutish opponent had been reduced to the lethargic condition ofinanimate pulp. Mortimer compared his present exploit with that of hisfriend, 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 congestedair; his companions of the betting ring were not men to tarry among inthe way of moral recreation. 

The mob agitated itself in waves; sometimes he and Old Bill were carriedalmost across the building by the wash of the living tide as it set inthat direction; then an undertow would sweep them back again closeto their starting point. The individual members of the throng werecertainly possessed of innumerable elbows, and large jointed knees, andboots that were forever raking at his heels or his corns. They seemedtaller, too, than men in the open; strive as he might he could seenothing--nothing but heads that topped him in every direction. Once theproud possessor of a dreadful cigar of unrivaled odor became sandwichedbetween him and his fellow-pilgrim; he was down wind from the weed andits worker, and the result was all but asphyxiation. 

At last they reached some sort of a harbor; it was evidently an inletfor which his pilot had been sailing. A much composed man in a tweedsuit, 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 acard on which was penciled the names of the Derby runners with theircommercial standing in the betting mart. 

Old Bill craned his neck over the shoulder of the sitting man, scannedthe 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 humanwaves; from time to time Old Bill anchored for a few seconds in the tinyharbor which surrounded each bookmaker; but it was as though they wereall in league--the same odds on every list. 

"It's same as a 'sociation book, " he grunted; "de cut holds in everyblasted one of 'em. Here's Jakey Faust, " he added, suddenly; "let's tryhim. "

"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 Englishthen; 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'smoney; "an' the number is--?"

"Twenty-five, tree-four-six!" answered Old Bill. "Pass him yer dust, " hecontinued, 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 stretchedout 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 theywere not plungers, more of the class that usually bet ten dollars atthe outside; they were evidently betting on information; twoone-hundred-dollar bets coming together on Lauzanne probably meantstable 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 showfor 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 crowdthey were soon out on the lawn. 

"Let's watch de parade, " Mortimer's adjutant suggested, and he led theway down to the course, where they stood against the rail, waiting. 

XXXV

During this time there was a bustle of much interest in the paddock. Allis, ready dressed in the Porter colors, had been driven to thecourse half an hour before the time set for the Derby. Her face was assatisfactorily disguised with dust as though she had ridden three races. 

Mike assiduously attended to every detail; even the weighing, thanks tohis officious care, was a matter of not more than one minute. The girl'sweight was one hundred and ten pounds, the saddle brought it up toone hundred and thirteen. She would have to ride at least two poundsoverweight, for the horse's impost was one hundred and eleven. Lauzannewas being led in a circle by a boy, so Allis shielded herself from thegeneral gaze in his empty stall. She felt quite sure that nobody therewould recognize her, unless, perhaps, Philip Crane. He was rarely seenin the paddock, but might this day come out to view The Dutchman. Thelatter horse came in for a great deal of attention, for he had beensteadily backed down to the position of equal favorite with White Moth. 

At last there was the summons to saddle, and Lauzanne was brought intothe stall by Dixon. Then the door was shrouded by an ever-changingsemicircle of curious observers. Allis gave a little start and turnedher head away as Crane, pushing through the others, stood just insidethe 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 headjusted the weight cloth. 

"Is Miss Porter here?" were Crane's next words, quite in the tone of acasually 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 theseoutsiders 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 Ihustled 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 arace in all his life; and at last everything was as perfect as it couldpossibly be made. Lauzanne's behavior gladdened the girl's heart; he wasas 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 hewere 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 inthe stall, curved his neck and stretched his golden nozzle toward thesmall figure in blue silk, as though he fain would make sure by scentthat one of his natural enemies, a man jockey, had not been thrust uponhim. Allis understood this questioning movement, and reaching out herhand rubbed the gray velvet of his nose. But for the restraining rein, tightened quickly by the boy who held him, Lauzanne would have snuggledhis 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. Thesharks'll get a knock this journey, that'll make 'em take a tumble tothemselves. "

Dixon stepped back to the corner where Allis was and said: "I guess Ican't give you no orders. He's a bit sluggish at the post, an' a fewfalse breaks won't hurt him none. Just don't be afraid, that's all. Amile an' a half's a long journey, an' you'll have plenty of time totake 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 slickas they make them, an' then come with a rattle at the finish an' noseyou 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 goodholt 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 amile 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 awhisper--"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 onthe rail if you can help it. They've put up Redpath, an' that beatsme, too, for I think he's straight. But the Indian hasn't a ghost of achance to win. You'd better take a whip. "

"I don't want either whip or spurs, " answered the girl. "Lauzanne willdo 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 anobjection I can make him quit. "

Over at The Dutchman's stall there was a very confident party. Theirhorse 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 hadbeen Crane would have discovered it and changed his executive officer. The tall son of Hanover was lean of flesh, but gross in muscle. He wasas though an Angelo had chiseled with sure hand from his neck, and ribs, and buttocks all the marble of useless waste, and left untouchedin sinewy beauty layer on layer, each muscle, and thew, and cord. Flat-boned and wide the black-glossed legs, and over the corded forma silken skin of dull fire-red. From the big eyes gleamed an expectantdelight 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'sthe greatest Hanover in the land. There's a dozen races bottled up inthat carcass"--and he slapped the big Bay lovingly on the rump"--but ifyou'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 hepassed. Kicking the loose dirt with his toes, and bending his head tobury his voice, Langdon continued in a subdued tone: "The Indian'll cutout the pace so fast that it'll choke off Lauzanne. The Chestnut's aplugger an' ain't no good when it comes to gallopin'. If you was to allloaf aroun' he might hang on an' finish in front; but the pace'll killhim--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. Justnurse 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 ofthem can last a mile an' a half. " Then he added, with a disagreeablechuckle--it was like the slobbering laugh of a hyena--"I miss my guessif the boy on Lauzanne kills himself tryin' to win anyway. He seems afair 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 theJudge's eye, " replied Westley. "It doesn't seem to stand for it that astable-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, sodon't make no mistake. I wasn't goin' to tell you this afore you wentout, fer fear it'd make you too eager. Many a race's been thrown awayby a boy bein' too keen, an' makin' his run too early in the game; butyou've a good head and might as well know what you're to have. There'sthe 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 byLangdon. 

In front strode White Moth; one by one the others, and last, seventh, Allis's fatal number, lagged Lauzanne, lazily loafing along as though heregretted leaving the stall. 

As the horses passed to the course, Crane, who had followed The Dutchmanto the gate, raised his eyes from scanning Lauzanne to the rider on hisback. It was just a look of languid interest in the apprentice boy Dixonhad put up instead of such a good jockey as Redpath. The face rivettedhis attention; something in the line of the cheek recalled a face he hadconstantly in view. 

"For an instant I thought that was Alan Porter on Lauzanne, " he saidto Langdon, who was at his elbow. "A strange fancy--I'm going up to thestand to watch the race:"

"It's all roight but the win now, " said Mike to Dixon. "I'm goin' in bethe Judges' box to watch the finish. You'll be helpin' the b'y pass thescales, 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 aneminence, lifted up in pitiless prominence; would anyone detect her atthe last moment? Hanging over the rail in the very front she saw a paleface 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 closescrutiny of all the others who were likely to recognize her, but there, within ten yards were eyes almost certain to penetrate her disguise. Thegirl turned her face away; she knew Mortimer well enough to think thatif he did recognize her he would make no sign. 

"That's our horse, " declared Old Bill, as Lauzanne passed. "He's allright, bet yer life; he's fit ter go all day. De geezer as trains himain'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'llblow you off to a bottle of de best; wine ain't none too good fer discoop. "

Altogether it was as though Destiny had found pleasant domicile in theancient clothing of Old Bill, and was using their unique wearer as aprotective agent to ward off evil from both Mortimer and the girl. Asthey jogged toward the starting post Allis allowed Lauzanne to lag;she wished to avoid Redpath. But the Indian was a horse of uncertaintemperament, and presently, with a foolish side rush, he cannoned fairinto Lauzanne. In the melee Redpath looked full into Allis's eyes atshort 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 setteeth, as he fought the Indian, who was nearly pulling him out of thesaddle. 

"It's because he'll gallop for you, isn't it? You didn't think I was awrong one--it wasn't because you couldn't trust me you took the mountaway, 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, " thegirl answered. 

The boy remained silent, thinking over why he was on the Indian. Therewas a moral obliquity about his present position; the new light of hisdiscovery showed him this strongly. His feelings had been played upon bythe owner of the Indian, at Langdon's instigation. 

He had been told that the Porters had not given him the mount onLauzanne because they distrusted him. He had been put on the horseto make running for The Dutchman. There was nothing really patentlydishonest about this arrangement, and Redpath's mind had been dulled tofine 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; thiscrock's got no license to win. Don't you bother about him--he'll comeback to the others fast enough when he's done. When you want an openingto 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 somethingto 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 gratefullyto Redpath's string of kindly directions. The presence of a friendin the race cheered her; the discovery she had dreaded had come as ablessing. 

XXXVI

Crane's words had started a train of thought in Langdon's mind. All atonce he remembered that the face of Lauzanne's rider had a dream-likefamiliarity. He had not given it much thought before; but his owner'ssuggestion that the boy was like Alan Porter echoed in his ears. He hadwondered where Dixon had got this new boy; why he was putting him up onLauzanne instead of Redpath; it seemed a foolish thing to give the mountto an apprentice when a good jockey was to be had. Could it be that itreally was Alan. The whole family were natural-born jockeys, father andson, even the girl, Allis. 

Langdon knew nothing of Alan Porter's movements--had not been interestedenough to know. He had heard derogatory remarks about Redpath'sriding of Lucretia in the Brooklyn Handicap; the Porters, no doubtdissatisfied--suspicious of the jockey--had put up Alan to insure anhonest ride. 

Langdon had thought these thoughts as he passed swiftly from the paddockto the stand inclosure, where he stood not far from the rail, tryingto get a good look at the lad on Lauzanne. Allis's persistently avertedface thwarted this. The boy was inscribed on the jockey board "AlMayne;" the permit to ride must be under that name. If it were reallyAlan Porter, why had he been called Mayne? But the boy had retained thename "Al"--that was a contraction of Alan, no doubt. 

While Langdon labored over the problem of Mayne's Identity he hadwatched the horses at the post through his glasses. The Dutchman wasbehaving well, his trifle of eagerness to break away was even betterthan Lauzanne's indolent indifference. The other five were acting asthree-year-olds are wont to act--with erratic indecision; one minuteviolent desire, and the next obstinate reluctance characterizing theirinterminable twistings, backings, and plungings. It was not for long;a neck or a length at the start meant little when a mile and a halfstretched its tiring length between them and the finish post. 

Langdon's perplexity was cut short by the cry, "They're off!" the jingleof a bell, and the scurrying of many feet, as eager men rushed forhigher points of observation in the stand. 

As the seven horses came thundering by, pulling double in eagerignorance of the long journey that lay before them, Langdon saw withevil satisfaction that the Indian was well out in the lead. 

The Dutchman was sixth, and behind, with a short awkward strength in hisgallop, 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 aroundthe first turn, mentally fingered the ten thousand dollars that wouldshortly be his. 

"That skate win!" he sneered, as Lauzanne followed; "he gallops like afat 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 trailedfarther and farther behind the others. Out in front galloped withunseeming haste the Indian--a brown blotch of swift-gliding color. Twolengths 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 mosaicof mottled hue against the drab-gray background of the course stablesbeyond. Then The Dutchman, with his powerful stride, full of easymotion--a tireless gallop that would surely land him the winner, Langdonthought, as he hung with breathless interest on every move of Westley'sbody. 

Up in the stand Old Bill was expressing in florid racetrack speech toMortimer 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 havebellows to mend when he tackles 'em. "

To Mortimer it appeared very much as though the other horses were toofast 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 twojocks 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 seeDutchy move up Larcen'll come away, or I'm a goat. "

Mike Gaynor had taken his place on the little platform at the top ofthe steps leading to the stand. He was watching the race with intenseinterest. 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 itdiscourage their horse. His judgment told him that this fast pace couldnot last, and that Lauzanne could gallop as he was going from end toend of the mile and a half; even faster if he so wished. Would his riderhave the patient steadiness of nerve to wait for this fulfillment of theinevitable or would she become rattled and urge the horse. Mike sethis teeth, and his nails were driven hard into his rough palms as hestrained in sympathy with the girl's quietude. 

How long the Indian held on in his mad lead! Perhaps even he might upsetall clever calculation and last long enough to win. Already the gray, White Moth, had drawn out from the bunch and was second; the other threewere dropping back in straggling order to The Dutchman, who was stillrunning as he had been, strong. That was at the mile. At the mile and aneighth, White Moth was at the Indian's heels; The Dutchman had moved upinto third place, two lengths away; and Lauzanne had become merged inthe three that were already beaten. At the mile and a quarter a halfthrill of hope came to Mike, for Lauzanne was clear of the ruck, andsurely gaining on the leaders. And still his rider was lying low on thewithers, 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, It'ink they'll win. "

At the bottom turn into the stretch Mike could see that White Moth andThe Dutchman had closed up on the Indian, so that they swung around thecorner as one horse. 

"Gad, she's shut off!" he muttered. It was a living wall, and throughlittle chinks in its quivering face he could see specks of blue close upwhere 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 alook of unholy joy as Lauzanne was blotted into oblivion by the horsesin front. 

"Pocketed, by God! Clever Mister Dixon to put up a kid like that ag'inWestley an' the others, " he sneered. 

Then a deafening roar went up from the stand. Somebody thrust a pairof broad shoulders in front of Mike's face; he leaned out far past theintruder, and saw the Indian sway drunkenly in his stride away from therail, carrying White Moth and The Dutchman out; and into the opening hehad 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 arace; but Lauzanne was trying, trying all by himself, for the rider wasas still as death. Already the clamor of many voices was splitting theair; 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 hadsaid to Allis before she went out, "If ye ever get level wit' 'em in thestraight, ye can win. "

And now Lauzanne's yellow head was even with the others; and soon itwas in front. And then there were only two battling--Lauzanne and TheDutchman; and on the Bay, Westley was riding with whip and spur. 

"In a walk--in a walk, I tell you!" fairly screamed Old Bill, clutchingat Mortimer's arm; "didn't I tell you? We're a tousand to de good. Lookat him, look at him!" He had climbed halfway up Mortimer's strong backin 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 ashrill scream of exultation. 

It was past all doubt. Lauzanne, a length in front of The Dutchman, wasopposite 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 frontwash. He took his stand close to the Judges' box; there he would behandy for whatever might be needed. He saw Langdon with a face dark andlowering, full of an evil discontent, standing there too. Back the sevenrunners cantered. Lauzanne's rider saluted the judge with whip, andslipping from the horse stripped him of the saddle with deft fingers, and passed quickly into the scales. The weight was right. One afteranother the boys weighed. 

Watching, Mike saw Langdon pass up to the Stewards. There was a shortconsultation, the hush of something wrong, and a murmur of an objection. 

"What's the matter?" a voice questioned in Mike's ear. It was AlanPorter that had spoken. 

Mike pushed his way to the small gate, even through it, that led up tothe Stewards' Stand. As he did so Langdon came back down the steps. Oneof the Stewards, following him with quick eyes, saw Mike and beckonedwith a finger. 

"There's an objection to the rider of Lauzanne, " said the official;"Trainer Langdon says Alan Porter rode the horse under a permitbelonging to a boy named Mayne. "

"He's mistook, sir. " answered Mike, respectfully; "there's Alan Porterstandin' down there in the crowd. I'll sind him up, sir, an' ye can askhim yerself. "

Gaynor passed hurriedly down the steps, seized Porter by the arm, andwhispered in his ear, "Tell the judge yer name--that a b'y named Maynerode Lauzanne. Quick now. "

Then he stepped up to Langdon. The latter had seen Alan Porter go upthe steps, and realized he had made a mistake. Mike drew him inside thelittle enclosure that surrounded the stand. 

"There's Alan Porter wit' the Stewards, " Gaynor whispered close to theman's face; "an' ye'll withdraw the objection at once. If ye don't ye'llhave to settle wit' the Stewards fer tryin' to bribe the b'y Mayne topull Lauzanne. And Shandy has owned up that he was to get five hundreddollars fer dosin' Lucretia. Ye'll withdraw now, or get ruled off ferlife; besides, p'isinin' a horse is jail business; an' I'll take me oathbefore God I can prove this, too. Now go an' withdraw quick. Ye're adamn blackguard. "

Mike had meant to restrict himself to diplomatic pressure, but his Irishwas up like a flash, and he couldn't resist the final expression ofwrath. 

A crowd of silent men had gathered about the box in a breathless wait. Fortunes depended upon the brief consultation that was being heldbetween 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 yourpermission I'll withdraw the objection. "

"Yes, it's better that way, " returned one of the Stewards; "the besthorse won, and that's what racing's for. It would be a pity to spoilsuch a grand race on a technicality. "

XXXVII

After his first burst of aboriginal glee, ecstatically uncouth as itwas, Old Bill's joy over the victory of Lauzanne took on a milder formof expression. 

"Let's line up fer a cash-in, " he exclaimed to Mortimer, making a breakdown the steps to the lawn. On the ground he stopped, his mind workingat fever heat, changing its methods quickly. 

"Let's wait till de kid's passed de scales; dere's no hurry. Dere won'tbe many drawin' down money over Larcen; he's an outsider. "

They were still waiting when the rumor of an objection floated like animpalpable shadow of evil through the enclosure. Old Bill's seamed faceshed its mask of juvenile hilarity, and furrowed back into its normalcondition of disgruntled bitterness. He had seen the slight mix-up whenthe Indian swerved in the straight. The objection must have to do withthat, he thought. "What th' 'ell's th, difference, " he said in fierce, imprecating anger; "de kid on Larcen didn't do no interferin', he jescome 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'tget 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 inhis life had flushed his breast hot; the back of his scalp had tickledin a creepy way as Lauzanne flashed first past the winning post. He hadfelt pride in the horse, in the boy on his back, in himself at havingovercome his scruples; he would be able to save Alan Porter fromdishonor. 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 itdangled as insecure as ever. It wasn't the money alone that teetered inthe balance, but the honor of Allis Porter's brother. 

He gave a sharp cry of astonishment, for going up the steps in front ofthem was the boy himself, Alan. Presently he came down again, his facelooking drawn and perplexed. In his ignorance of everything pertainingto racing Mortimer feared for an instant the theft of the thousanddollars had been discovered, and the present inquiry had something to dowith 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 hiswords; "Langdon has claimed that I rode Lauzanne. "

"Is dat it?" interposed Old Bill; "an' did you tell dem dey was wrong-destiffs! Dere's cutt'roat Langdon up again; here he comes back, lookingas tough he'd been fired fer splint--de crook! Hello! it's all rightHoo-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, tookhim by the arm and led him to one side. "I suppose you lost over TheDutchman, " 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 yourfather's back. "

The boy said nothing, and Mortimer fancied that his face flushedguiltily. 

"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 Iwas betting. "

"But what money?" began Alan. 

"I've won a thousand dollars on Lauzanne--"

"Come on, pard, " said Old Bill, impatiently interrupting them, "let'sget our rake off, an' den you kin buck to yer chum after. "

Mortimer yielded to the tattered one's command, for without his guidancehe 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 goaway. "

There was delay over the cashing in; being late, they found a line ofLauzanne men in front of them at the bookmaker's stand. 

When Mortimer returned to the lawn with eleven hundred dollars in hispocket Alan Porter had gone. He had dreaded that perhaps the boy mightdo something desperate, fearing discovery of the theft; he had thoughteven of taking Alan back to Brookfield with him; however, he had toldhim that the money would be replaced, the boy would understand thatnothing could happen him and would go back, Mortimer felt sure. He spenta short time searching for Alan, but his former fruitless quest hadshown him the hopelessness of trying to find a person in that immensethrong. He thought kindly of the enveloping mob that had kept him hiddenfrom Allis, as he thought. He had feared to meet her--something in hispresence might cause her to suspect that something was wrong. The wholeepisode 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 hislife--to replace the money the brother had stolen. 

All at once it occurred to him that some reward was due the instigatorof his success. The thousand he must keep intact. He had a few loosedollars in his pocket beyond his original hundred, quite sufficientto take him back to Brookfield. Taking the hundred from his pocket andturning to Old Bill, who was still with him, he said: "I'm goinghome, I've had enough horse racing for one day; you've done me a greatkindness--will you take this hundred--I need the thousand badly, socan't spare more than this. "

"Not on yer life, pard. I give you de tip first, but you got de officestraight from Irish, an' we're quits, see? I wasn't playin' you fera sucker, an' yer straight goods. Jes' shove de boodle in yer breastpocket, an' don't show it to no one. Dere's some here as would take itoff you quick enough. "

"But--"

"Dere ain't no buts in dis game--it's a straight deal, an' we've spliteven. If you'd been a crook, well, God knows how we'd a-panned out. Butyou ain't no geezer of dat sort--yer square, an' Old Bill wishes yougood luck till de robins nest again. Yer goin', eh? Say, pard, I'da-been wearin' diamon's if I could quit when I was 'head of de game. Yerdead 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 forthe other races, and took his way to Brookfield. A genuine admiration ofbuffeted Old Bill filled his mind. 

In the morning he would be at the bank bright and early, and replace thestolen thousand dollars; nobody would know that it had been taken. Thenarrow 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 evilpositive good would accrue. 

XXXVIII

After winning on Lauzanne Allis had dodged the admiring crowd of paddockregulars that followed her. As Lauzanne was being blanketed she hadkissed the horse's cheek and given him a mighty squeeze of thankfulness. How nobly he had done his part; good, dear old despised, misjudgedLauzanne. He had veritably saved her father from disaster; had saved herfrom--from many things. 

She had slipped into her long coat and stood waiting for Mike to driveher to Dixon's cottage when the rumor came of an objection. Then therehad been the misery of terrible suspense, a wait of uncertainty. Was hersacrifice of womanly instinct to go for nothing? Dixon had hurried tothe scene of investigation; then he had come back after a little withMike, and the good news that they had been given the race. If it had notbeen for prying eyes she would have knelt there at Lauzanne's feet andoffered 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 beatenDutchman and Langdon, had come, asking Dixon where Miss Porter was, that he might tender congratulations. He wanted to see the boy that hadridden Lauzanne, also--wanted to take his hand and tell him what a grandrace he had ridden. But Dixon had been ready with excuses; the boy wasdead beat after the race--he was only a kid--and had gone to Dixon'shome. Miss Porter was perhaps in the stand, or perhaps she had gone homealso. 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. AlanPorter, too, came into the paddock, asking for his sister; but faredpretty 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 shewould be home in the morning. 

Dr. Rathbone's prophecy as to the proper medication for John Porterstood a chance of being fulfilled in one day. Allis's telegram provedthat the doctor had understood the pathology of Porter's treatment, forhe 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 shewas glad; and small wonder. What she had done was as nothing; it shrankinto insignificance under the glamourous light of the change that hadcome over the home. What a magic wand was deserved success; how ittouched with fairy aspect all that drooped with the fearsome blight ofanticipated decay! And even then they did not know the full extent ofher endeavor. Mingled with her mother's gentle welcome, and her father'sfull-throated thanks, was praise for the, to him unknown, boy that hadridden Lauzanne so gallantly. 

The girl found tears of thankfulness glistening in her eyes as shelistened to the praise that was wholly hers, though given in part to thejockey. 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 himAl something. Her father, generous in his salvation, was most solicitousas to a fitting present; a thousand dollars, or perhaps two, or evenmore, if Dixon advised so. What had he promised the lad? But therewere so many things to talk over and settle, and laugh about, andcongratulate each other upon. Good fortune was a generous dame. Theywere all like children in their happiness. \ "Yes, Alan had been there, "the girl answered to a question from her father. Also it was a strangehappening, a distortion of fate that Crane had beaten them in theBrooklyn with Diablo, and now they had beaten his horse, The Dutchman, with Lauzanne the Despised. All was content after the turmoil ofendeavor. And of the horses, Lauzanne, who would gallop for no one butAllis, would be brought back to Ringwood, to be petted and spoiledof his young mistress for the good he had done. Lucretia, whenconvalescent, 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 anddoctor-like, with pretended pomposity, said: "I told you so. What didI say? Now Mrs. Porter, no more scolding over the ways of horses, a goodhorse is a delight, and a good daughter a joy forever. "

Dear old Dr. Rathbone, wise in his generation and big of heart!

XXXIX

At the bank down in the village--well, at nine o'clock Mortimer, feelingthe virtue of early effort, with the money of redemption in his pocket, entered into the resumption of his duties. At the earliest moment afterthe vault was opened he made his way to the box that containedthe Porter payment. One thing troubled him slightly. It was athousand-dollar bill that had been taken; the money he had to replacewas in hundreds and fifties. As he slipped them quietly into the box hethought it wouldn't really matter; he would transfer the three thousandto the account himself, and nobody would know of the change. Leaving thebox where it was for a little, in the way of subtle strategy, he cameout and busied himself over other matters. 

To Mortimer's slight astonishment, presently the cashier, Mr. Lane, came out from his office, and speaking somewhat carelessly, said: "Mr. Mortimer, you have that Porter note and money in charge. It is duetoday, isn't it?"

Looking up, Mortimer saw Lane's eye fixed upon his face with piercingintensity. He flushed out of sheer nervousness. 

"Yes, sir, " he stammered, "it is. I'll attend to it at once. "

"Ah!" there was a peculiar drawl in the cashier's voice as he spoke;"ah, I had a communication from Mr. Porter yesterday, asking if the notehad been paid. "

Mortimer felt his knees shake-something was choking hire. Had thedevil of mischance taken the salvation of Alan's good name out of hishands--had his work been for nothing. 

"I couldn't understand it, " went on the cashier. His voice sounded likethe clang of a fire bell to the listening man, though it was evenlymodulated, cold and steady in its methodical precision. "I thoughtPorter knew the money was here to meet the note, " said Lane, stillspeaking, "but my attention being called to the matter, I looked up thepapers. I found one thousand dollars missing!" He was looking steadilyat Mortimer; his eyes were searching the young man's very soul. Therewas accusation, denunciation, abhorrence in the cashier's gaze. 

Mortimer did not speak. He was trying to think. His brain worked inerratic futility. The slangy babble of Old Bill thrust itself upon him;the roar of the race course was in his ears, deadening his senses; nota sane, relevant word rose to his lips. He was like a child stricken byfear. In an indistinct way he felt the dishonor that was Alan Porter'sbeing given to him. The cashier waited for Mortimer to say something;then he spoke again, with reproach in his voice. 

"I at once sent a messenger to ask you to return from your home atEmerson to clear up this matter; he discovered that you had notbeen there; that your mother was not ill. May I ask where you wereyesterday?"

"I was at Gravesend, sir--at the races, " answered Mortimer, defiantly. 

This speech broke the lethargy that was over him; his mind cleared--hecommenced to think sanely. 

"Can you tell me, " proceeded Lane, "where the balance of Mr. Porter'sthree thousand dollars is?"

"It's in the box. "

"That's a--it is not. "

"It's in the box, " repeated Mortimer, firmly. 

"We can soon settle that point, " declared the cashier, going hurriedlyinto the vault and reappearing instantly with the box in his hand. 

He opened it and stared at the package of bills that rose up whenfreed from the pressure of the lid. With nervous fingers he counted thecontents. 

"I beg your pardon, " he exclaimed in a quick, jerky way. "The threethousand dollars is here, but these bills have been put in the box thismorning; they were not there last night. It is not the money that wastaken away, either. That was one bill, a thousand-dollar note; andhere are"--he counted them again--"six one hundreds and eight fifties, besides the original two of one thousand. You put those notes back, Mr. Mortimer, " he said, tapping the desk with two fingers of the right hand. 

"I did. "

"And you took the money yesterday or the day before?"

"I did not. "

"Ah!" Lane repeated in a drier, more severe tone than he had usedbefore. This "Ah" of the cashier's, with its many gradations of tone, had been a most useful weapon in his innumerable financial battles. Itcould be made to mean anything--everything; flung out at haphazard italways caught his opponent off guard; it was a subtle thrust, and whileone pondered over its possible meaning, Lane could formulate in his mindmore decisive expressions. 

"Ah, " he repeated, adding, "if you did not steal the money, who did? Andif you did not take it, why did you put it back?"

With an expressive sweep of the hand outward the cashier stood waiting, his tall, narrow head, topped by carefully brushed gray hair, thrustforward in the attitude of a parrot about to strike with its beak. 

"I can't answer those questions, " answered the man he was grilling. "Themoney to pay Mr. Porter's note is here; and I fancy that is all thebank needs to concern itself about. It was entrusted to me, and now I amprepared to turn it over. "

"Quite true; ah, yes, quite true; but it might have been vastlydifferent. That is the point that most concerns the bank. Whoever tookthe money"--and he bowed, deprecatingly, with ironical considerationto Mortimer--"must have needed a thousand dollars for--well, somespeculative purpose, perhaps. Good fortune has enabled the some one tomake good, and the money has been replaced. "

The cashier straightened up, threw his head back, and actually smiled. He had scored linguistically--by a clever manipulation of the sentencehe had made the some one who had stolen the money the some one who whohad replaced it. That was accusation by inference, if you like. As theother did not speak, Lane added: "I will wire for Mr. Crane to come atonce; this is a matter for investigation. "

Mortimer bowed his head in acquiesence; what could he say--what otherstand could the bank take?

"You might remain at your desk, " the cashier said, "if there is anymistake we'll discover it, no doubt. "

Mortimer felt like one dead, indeed as a dishonored man he were betterdead. The bank was like a mausoleum, and he a lost spirit hauntingits precincts in quest of the undefiled body that had been his butyesterday. Cass, the teller, certainly shunned him as he would a leper. Lane, vindictively pleased that he had unearthed the villain, drew hissmall soul into a shell of cold, studious politeness; much as a seaspider might house his unpleasant body in a discarded castle of pink andwhite. 

Alan Porter was late--he had not come yet. Mortimer waited in sufferingsuspense for his appearance. What would come of it all. Now that themoney was replaced, if the boy admitted his guilt to Crane, probably nofurther action would be taken, but he would be dishonored in the sightof his employer. Mortimer had sought to avert this; had not denouncedAlan in the first instance; by good fortune had been able to replacethe money; even now had refused to divulge the name of the thief. He waswell aware of the mass of circumstantial evidence, the outcome of hisown hurried actions, that pointed to himself as the guilty one. Betterthis than that he should denounce the boy. Dishonor to the lad mightkill his father; for Mortimer was well aware of the doctor's edict. AndAllis, the girl he loved as his life, would hang her head in shame forevermore. He was anxious to see Alan before the cashier did; he did notwant the boy to deny taking the money at first, as he might do if hewere unaware of the circumstances; it would place him in a wrong light. 

Just before twelve Alan Porter came hurriedly in. He had missed histrain the night before, he explained in a general way to all. Mortimerstepped up to him almost at once, speaking with low, earnest rapidity;the cashier was in his own office and Mr. Cass was not within earshot. 

"I put the money back, but its loss had been discovered yesterday. Ihave been accused of taking it, but have denied it, accusing no one. Iwant you to say that you borrowed it, thinking it no great harm, as itwas your father's money. "

Alan would have interrupted him, but Mortimer said, "Wait till Ifinish;" and then continued: "There will be nothing done to you, I feelsure, if you will take this stand, because of your father's connectionwith Crane. It will save me from dishonor--"

"Mr. Porter. "

It was the cashier's voice of Damascus steel cutting in on Mortimer'slow, pleading tones. 

Alan turned his head, and Mr. Lane, beckoning, said, "Will you step intomy office for a minute?"

The cashier's one minute drew its weary length into thirty; and whenAlan Porter came out again, Mortimer saw the boy sought to avoid him. Had he denied taking the money? My God! the full horror of Mortimer'shopeless position flashed upon him like the lurid light of a destroyingforest fire. He could read in every line of the boy's face an accusationof himself. He had trembled when it was a question of Alan's dishonor;now that the ignominy was being thrust upon him, the bravery that hepossessed in great part made him a hero. If through his endeavor tosave the boy he was to shoulder the guilt, not of his own volition, butwithout hope of escape, he would stand to it like a man. What would itprofit him to denounce the boy. 

Harking back with rapidity over his actions, and Alan's, he saw thateverything implicated him. Once he thought of his mother and wavered;but she would believe him if he said he had not committed this dreadfulcrime. But all the world of Brookfield would despise the name of herson if it were thought that he had sought to testify falsely against hisfriend. And was not Alan the brother of Allis?

Mentally his argument, his analysis of the proper course to pursue wastortuous, not definable, or to be explained in concise phraseology; butthe one thought that rose paramount over all others was, that he musttake his iniquitous punishment like a man. He had fought so stronglyto shield the brother of the girl he loved that the cause in all itsdegradation had accrued to him. 

At one o'clock the president, Crane, arrived from New York, and in himwas bitterness because of his yesterday's defeat. He had sat nearly thewhole night through mentally submerged in the double happening that hadswept many men from the chess board. Lauzanne, the despised, had keptfrom his hand a small fortune, even when his fingers seemed tighteningon the coin, too. That was one happening. John Porter had gained overtwenty thousand dollars. This made him quite independent of Crane'sfinancial bolstering. The Banker's diplomacy of love had been weakened. That was the other happening. 

Crane was closeted with the cashier not more than ten minutes whenMortimer was asked to join the two men who had so suddenly become deeplyinterested in his affairs. 

The cashier's hand had been strengthened by Crane's contribution ofevidence. Mortimer had told the same falsehood about his mother beingill to him at the race course. From Alan the cashier had learned thatMortimer had been betting heavily; he had admitted to the boy that hehad won enough to replace the thousand dollars he had stolen. Mortimer'swords had been contorted into that reading in their journey throughtwo personalities. He had even begged young Porter not to speak ofhis betting transactions. He had denied taking the money--that was butnatural; he had been forced to admit replacing it--that was conclusive. Indeed it seemed a waste of time to investigate further; it was utterlyimpossible to doubt his guilt. Mesh by mesh, like an enthralling net, all the different threads of convicting circumstances were drawn aboutthe accused man. 

"Let us question him?" said Crane; and in his heart was not sorrow, nor hate, nor compassion, nor anything but just joy. Greater than theinfluence of money in his love ambition would be this degradation, thisreducing to a felon a man he felt stood between him and Allis Porter. 

Yesterday they had won; to-day victory, almost, to him had come. Yes, bring the deliverer in; he would feast his eyes, the narrow-liddedeyes, upon the man whose young love might have conquered over all hisdiplomacy, and who would go forth from his hands branded as a felon. 

The probing of the already condemned man elicited nothing beyond arepeated denial of theft. With the precision of Mam'selle Guillotine, Cashier Lane lopped off everything that could possibly stand inMortimer's defense, grafting into the cleaved places individual factswhich confirmed his guilt. Mortimer contended nothing, threw suspicionupon no one. Was it Alan Porter? Was it Cass?--but that was impossible. Was it the cashier himself? Still more impossible. Mortimer answerednothing. He had not taken the money. Yes, he had replaced it--because hewas responsible for its custody. 

"Can't you see, " cried Crane, impatiently, "that this simple denialof yours is of no value as against so much that points to your--" hehesitated--"your implication?"

XL

While Mortimer was still in the cashier's improvised inquisition room, Allis Porter came into the bank to arrange the payment of her father'snote. 

The sunshine seemed to come with her into the counting house that wasall gloom. Her glorious success, the consequent improvement in herfather, the power to pay off his indebtedness--all these had turned thatday into a day of thankfulness. The happiness that was in her rippledher face into smiles. When the door creaked on its hinges as it swungopen, she laughed. It was a thriftless old door, such as bachelors kept, she murmured. Her brother's face, gloomy behind the iron screen, tickledher fancy. "You're like a caged bear, Alan, " she cried, with a smile ofimpertinence; "I should hate to be shut up a day like this--no wonderyou're cross, brother. "

"I'm busy, " he answered, curtly. "I'll see you after bank hours, Sis; Iwant to see you. "

"I've come to pay father's note, busy-man-of-importance, " she flungback, with the swagger of a capitalist. 

"It's paid, Allis. "

"Paid! I thought--"

"Wait, I'll come out;" and opening a door in the rail, he passed aroundto the girl. 

"Father's note is paid, " he resumed, "but there's fierce trouble overit. Crane left the money, three thousand dollars, with Mortimer, and hestole"--the boy's voice lowered to a hoarse whisper--"a thousand of itto bet at Gravesend. "

"That's not true, Alan; God knows it's not true. Mortimer wouldn'tsteal. "

"Yes, he did, " persisted the brother, "and he begged of me to take theblame. He said it would ruin him, but that Crane wouldn't do anything tome. He's a vile, sneaking thief, Allis!"

"Hush, Alan; don't say that. It's all some dreadful mistake. The moneywill be found somewhere. "

"It has been found; Mortimer put it back. Why should he replace themoney if he had not stolen it?"

"Where is Mr. Mortimer, Alan?"

The boy pointed with his thumb to the door of the cashier's office. "Crane's in there, too. I hope Mortimer owns up. He can't do anythingelse; they caught him putting the money back. "

Allis remembered that she had seen Mortimer on the race course. 

"Mr. Mortimer doesn't bet, " she said. 

"Yes, he does; he did yesterday, anyway; and when he saw that I knewabout it, he begged me to say nothing--practically admitted that he hadtaken the money, and was going to put it back. "

"Why should he tell you that, Alan?"

"I don't know, unless he feared it might be found out while he was away;or, perhaps he was so excited over winning a thousand dollars that hedidn't know what he was saying. At any rate, he took it right enough, Allis, and you ought to cut him. "

"I shan't do that. He's innocent, I know he is--I don't care what theysay. If he replaced the money, it was to shield the man who took it. "She was looking searchingly into her brother's eyes--not that she wasaccusing him of the theft, she was just searching for the truth. 

"Do you mean it was to shield me--that I took it? No one could havetaken the money except Mortimer or myself. "

"I don't know, " answered the girl, wearily; "it's all so terribly new; Ionly know that Mortimer did not steal it. "

While she was still speaking, the accused man came from the cashier'soffice, holding his head as erect as an Indian, not at all as ahalf-convicted felon should have slunk through the door; yet withal inhis face was a look of troubled gravity. 

When Mortimer saw Allis his face flushed, then went pale in an instant. He felt that she knew; he had seen her talking earnestly to her brother. Probably she, too, would think him a thief. He admitted to himself thatthe evidence was sufficient to destroy anyone's faith in his innocence, and he was helpless, quite helpless; he was limited to simple denial, unless he accused her brother; even had he been so disposed, there wasnothing to back up a denunciation of the boy. He felt a twinge of painover Alan's ingratitude; the latter must know that he had put his neckin a noose to save him. Now that one of them needs be dishonored, whydid not Alan prove himself a man, a Porter--they were a hero breed--andaccept the gage of equity. Even worse, Alan was shielding himself behindthis terrible bulwark of circumstantial evidence which topped him, theinnocent one, on every side. 

As he resumed his place at his desk close to the brother and sister, Alan looked defiantly at him. He could see in the boy's eyes malignantdetestation, a glimmer of triumph, as though he felt that Mortimerwas irrevocably in the toils. The lad was like a strippling Judas; hisattitude filled Mortimer with loathing. He stole a look into the girl'sface. Would she, too, say with her, eyes, "Behold, here is Barabbas!"

A thrill of ecstatic comfort warmed his being. In Allis's eyes was thefirst touch of kindness he had known in this hour of trial; faith, andsorrow, and cheer, and love were all there, striving for mastery;no furtive weakening, no uncertain questioning, no remonstrance ofreproval--nothing but just unlimited faith and love. If the boy's lookhad angered him, had caused him to waver, had made the self-sacrificeseem too great when repaid with ingratitude, all these thoughts vanishedin an instant, obliterated by that one look of unalterable love. In thehour of darkness the girl stood by him, and he would also stand firm. She would believe in him, and his sacrifice would be as nothing. He hadundertaken to avert the sorrow of dishonor from her, from her brother, from her parents, and he would continue to the end. He would tell noone on earth but his mother the full truth; she must know. Then with thefaith of the two women he loved, still his, he could brave the judgmentof all others. Perhaps not willingly in the first place would he havetaken upon himself the brand of Barrabas, but out of good motive he hadincurred it. 

Mortimer heard the brother say, "I think you had better not, " then thegirl's voice, clear and decisive, answering, "I will, I must. "

In anger Alan left his sister's side, and she, stepping up to thewicket, said, "Will you please come out for a minute, Mr. Mortimer, Iwant to speak with you. "

He passed around to her side. Crane and the cashier were still closetedin the latter's office. 

"Let us go out into the sunshine, " Allis said. "Can you--will it makeany difference?"

"I don't think it matters much, " he answered, despondently; "things areas bad as they can be, I suppose. "

He took it for granted that she knew everything; but he was possessed ofno shame, no diffidence, no reserve; he was innocent, and her eyes hadassured him that she knew it. As they passed through the door itcreaked again on its dry hinges. Before she had laughed at the weirdcomplaining; now it sounded like a moan of misery. Outside the villagestreet was deserted; there was no one to listen. 

"What is this dreadful thing all about?" and she laid her hand on hisarm in a gesture of amity, of association. Her touch thrilled him; shehad never gone that length in friendly demonstration before. He marveledat her generous faith. All but dishonored, the small, strong hand liftedhim to a pedestal-her eyes deified him. 

"A thousand dollars was stolen from the bank, and I am accused of takingit, " he answered, bitterly. 

"You didn't, did you? I know you didn't, but I want to hear you say so. "

He looked full into the girl's eye, and answered with deliberateearnestness, "I did not steal the money. "

"Some one took it?"

"Yes. "

"And you know who it was?"

"I do not. "

"But you suspect some one?"

He did not answer. 

"Did you put the money back?"

He nodded his head. 

"To protect somebody's good name?"

"Because it had been in my charge. I can't talk about it, " he broke in, vehemently; "all I can say is, that I am innocent. If you believe thatI don't care what they do. They'll be able to prove by circumstantialevidence that I took it, " he added, bitterly, "and nothing that I cansay will make any difference. My mother won't believe me guilty, and, thank God, you don't; and I am not; God knows I am not. Beyond thatI will say nothing; it is useless--worse than useless; it would becriminal--would only cast suspicion on others, perhaps innocent. Idon't know what they'll do about it; the money has been repaid. They mayarrest me as a felon--at any rate I shall be forced to leave the bankand go away. It won't make much difference. --I am as I was before, anhonest man, and I shall find other openings. It's not half so hard as Ithought it would be; I feared perhaps that you--"

She stopped him with an imploring gesture. 

"Let me finish, " he said. "I must go back to the office. I thought thatyou might believe me a thief, and that would have been too much. "

"You cared for my poor opinion?" she asked. The quiver in her voicecaused him to look into her face; he saw the gray eyes shrouded intears. He was a queer thief, trembling with joy because of his sin. 

"Yes, I care, " he answered; "and it seemed all so dark before youbrought the sunlight in with you; now I'm glad that they've accused me;somebody else might have suffered and had no one to believe in him. ButI must go back to--my prison it seems like now--when I leave you;" thiswith a weary attempt at brave mockery. 

Allis laid a detaining hand on his arm, the small gloved hand thathad guided Lauzanne to victory. "If anything happens, if you are goingaway--I think you are right to go if they distrust you--you will see mebefore you leave, won't you?"

"Will you care to see me if I stand branded as a thief?" The word camevery hard, but in his acridity he felt like not sparing himself; hewanted to get accustomed to the full obloquy. 

"Promise me to come to Ringwood before going away, " she answered. 

"Yes, I will; and I thank you. No matter how dark the shadow may make mylife your kindness will be a hope light. No man is utterly lost when agood woman believes in him. "

The creaking bank door wailed tremulously, irritably; somebody waspushing it open from the inside. With a whine of remonstrance it swungwider, and Crane stepped out on the sidewalk. He stared in astonishmentat Mortimer and Allis, his brow wrinkled in anger. Only for an instant;the forehead smoothed back into its normal placidity and his voice, well in hand, said, in even tones: "Good afternoon, Miss Porter. Are yougoing back to Ringwood?" and he nodded toward Allis's buggy. 

"Yes, I am. I'm going now. Good day, Mr. Mortimer, " and she held out herhand. 

Mortimer hesitated, and then, flushing, took the gloved fingers in hisown. Without speaking, he turned and passed into the bank. 

"May I go with you?" asked Crane; "I want to see your father. "

"Yes, I shall be glad to drive you over, " the girl answered. 

XLI

When they had passed the edge of the village the Banker said: "I doubtif you would have shaken hands with Mr. Mortimer if you knew--I mean, he is under strong suspicion, more than strong suspicion, for he ispractically self-accused of having stolen a sum of money from the bank. In fact, I'm not sure that it wasn't from your father he really stoleit. "

"I do know of this terrible thing, " she answered. "I shook hands withhim because I believe him innocent. "

"You know more than we do?" It was not a sneer; if so, too delicatelyveiled for detection; the words were uttered in a tone of hopefulinquiry. 

"Mr. Mortimer could not steal--it is impossible. "

"Have you sufficient grounds for your faith--do you happen to know whotook the money, for it was stolen?"

The girl did not answer at once. At first her stand had simply been oneof implicit faith in the man she had conjured into a hero of all thatwas good and noble. She had not cast about for extenuating evidence; shehad not asked herself who the guilty man was; her faith told her itwas morally impossible for Mortimer to become a thief. Now Crane'squestions, more material than the first deadening effects of Alan'saccusation, started her mind on a train of thought dealing with motivepossibilities. 

She knitted her small brows, and tapping the jogging horse's quarterwith the whip sat for many minutes silently absorbed. 

Her companion waited for an answer with his usual well-bred patience. Perhaps the girl had not heard him. Perhaps she did not wish to answer aquestion so unanswerable. He waited. 

Mortimer, being innocent, replaced the stolen money, Allis's mindtabulated--she tickled this thought off on the horse with her whip--itwas to shield some one. Her heart told her, his eyes had told her, thathe would have taken upon himself this great risk but for one person, her brother. Yes, Mortimer was a hero! The horse, lazily going, jumpeda little in the traces; she had struck him a harder tap with the whip. Allis continued her mental summing up. Why did Mortimer go to Gravesend?It must have been to see Alan--the boy was there. If he had discoveredthat the money was missing, and thought Alan had taken it, he woulddo this; if he had suspected some other person he would have made thematter known to the cashier. He did not replace the money at once, because he hadn't it. She knew that Mortimer was poor. He had failed tofind Alan until after Lauzanne's victory; her brother had told her thismuch, and that Mortimer had won a lot of money over the horse. Why hehad bet on Lauzanne she knew not; perhaps Providence had guided, hadhelped him that much. But surely that was the money, his winnings, withwhich he had replaced the thousand dollars. 

The girl's mind had worked methodically, following sequence of actionto sequence, until finally the conviction that Mortimer had sought toshield her brother, and chance or Providence working through herselfand Lauzanne had placed in his hands the necessary funds, came to her asfixedly as though the whole past panorama of events lay pictured beforeher eyes. 

She saw all this mentally; but would it avail anything in actuality? Ifthe boy disclaimed guilt, as he had; if Mortimer limited his defense toa simple denial, refusing to implicate her brother, what could she doexcept give her moral support? To her it seemed such a small reward forhis heroism; her faith would not save him from the brand of felony, andto follow out her convictions publicly she must denounce her brother, cast upon him the odium of theft. Truly her position was one of extremehopelessness. Two men she loved stood before her mentally, one accusedof others as a thief, and one--her own brother--charged by her reasonwith the crime. 

Under the continued silence Crane grew restless; the girl, almostoblivious of his presence, deep in the intricacies of the crime, gave nosign of a desire to pursue the discussion. 

"Of course I am anxious to clear the young man if he is innocent, "hazarded the banker, to draw her gently back into the influence that hefelt must be of profit to himself. This assertion of Crane's was onlyassimilatively truthful. As president of the bank, naturally he shouldwish to punish none other than the guilty man; as a rival to Mortimerfor the girl's affection, he could not but be pleased to see the youngerman removed from his path, and in a way which would forever preclude hisaspiring to Allis's hand. Believe in Mortimer as she might, he felt surethat she would not run counter to the inevitable wishes of her motherand marry a man who stood publicly branded as a thief. 

Allis answered his observation--he distinctly felt the vibration of painin her voice--with a startling depth of analytical discernment:--

"While I believe in Mortimer's innocence, and will always believe init, I am afraid that he has drawn such a web of circumstantial evidenceabout him, trying to shield some one else, that--that--it is tooterrible!" she broke off, passionately--"he is innocent. For God's sake, Mr. Crane"--she took the reins in her whip hand, and put her left on hisarm, pleadingly--"for God's sake, for his mother's sake, save him. Youcan do it--you can believe that he is innocent, and stop everything. Themoney has been paid back. "

"It isn't that, Miss Allis"--his voice was so cuttingly even afterthe erratic pump of her own--"in a bank one must not have a dishonestperson. We must investigate to the end, and if Mortimer can clearhimself by fastening the crime upon the perpetrator--"

"He will never do that; he cannot if he would. "

"What can I do then, Miss Allis? But why shouldn't he?"

"Can't you see--don't you understand the man? He commenced by shieldingsome one, and he will carry it through to the bitter end. "

"I am afraid there was no one to shield but himself--everything pointsto this conclusion. The money was locked up, he had the keys, no onetouched them--except your brother, and that but for a minute--but ifany suspicion could attach to your brother it is all dissipated byMortimer's subsequent actions. It's unpleasant to even hint at such acontingency, but if Mortimer is innocent, then your brother must be theguilty one. "

He expected the girl to denounce indignantly such a possibility; he wassurprised that she remained silent. Her non-refutation of this deductiontold him as conclusively as though she had uttered the accusation thatshe thought Alan had taken the money and Mortimer was shielding him. Itwas but a phase of blind love; it was the faith women place in men theylove, of which he had read and scoffed at. 

Against all evidence she was holding this man honest, believing herbrother the thief. 

Surely a love like that was worth winning; no price was too great topay. Her very faith in Mortimer, through which she sought to save himby inspiring Crane, determined the latter to crush utterly the man whostood between him and this great love. Intensity of hate, or love, orcupidity, never drew Crane out of his inherent diplomacy; he took refugebehind the brother of Allis. 

"You see, " he said, and his voice was modulated with kindness, "I can'tsave Mortimer except at the expense of Alan; you would not have medo that. Besides, it is impossible--the evidence shines as clear asnoonday. "

"If you bring this home to Mr. Mortimer you will punish him, arresthim?"

"That would be the usual course. "

She had taken her hand off his arm; now she replaced it, and he couldfeel the strong fingers press as though she would hold him to herwishes. 

"You will not do this, " she said, "for my sake you will not. "

"You ask this of me, and it is for your sake?"

"Yes, if there is no other way; if Mr. Mortimer, innocent, must takeupon himself this crime, then for my sake you will not punish him. "

The gray eyes were violet-black in their intensity. 

"If I promise--" He had been going to ask for reward, but she broke in, saying: "You will keep your word, and I will bless you. "

"Nothing more--is that all?"

The magnetism of the intense eyes broke down his reserve; he slippedback twenty years in a second. Love touched him with a fire-wand, andhis soul ignited. Cold, passionless Philip Crane spoke in a tongue, unfamiliar as it was to him, that carried conviction to the girl--justthe conviction that he was in earnest, that he was possessed of ahumanizing love. She listened patiently while he pleaded his cause withmuch mastery. It was beyond her understanding, that, though Mortimerthrough all time had spoken not at all of love to her--at least not inthe passionate words that came from this man's lips--yet she nowheard as though it were his voice and not Crane's. Love was a gloriousthing--with Mortimer. 

Crane's intensity availed nothing. When he asked why she held faith to aman who must be known for all time as a thief, her soul answered, "It isnothing--because he is innocent. "

Because of her Crane would do anything; the matter should be dropped asthough it were all a hideous mistake. Mortimer might remain in the bank;his employer would even try to believe him innocent, taking the girl'sprotestation m conclusive proof. Her mother, her father, everyonewould demand of her, however, that she give the dishonest one up as apossibility. Even in his vehemence he lost no delicacy of touch. Whyshould she chain herself to an impossibility? It would but ruin the manshe professed to regard. 

The banker made no threat, but Allis shuddered. She knew. Thenarrow-lidded eyes had closed perceptibly when their owner talked of thealternative. He, Crane, loved her--she felt that was true. He was rich;for her father, for her brother, for herself, even for Mortimer, hewould use his wealth. He pleaded his cause like a strong man, and whenhe spoke of failure because of her preference for Mortimer, an acriditycrept into his voice that meant relentless prosecution. 

She could not hold this full power over Crane without feeling its value. To pledge herself to him as wife was impossible; she could not do it;she would not. Fate played into his hands without doubt, but Fate wasnot Providence. A decree of this sort, iniquitous, was not a highercommand, else she would not feel utter abhorrence of the alliance. Paradoxically the more vehemently Crane's love obtruded itself the moreobnoxious it became; it was something quite distinct from the man's ownpersonality. She did not detest him individually, for the honesty ofhis love impressed her; mentally she separated Crane from his affection, anal while rejecting his love absolutely as a compelling factor, appealed to him as a man having regard for her, a woman he believed in. 

It was a most delicate cleavage, yet unerringly she attained to itsutmost point of discrimination. Perhaps it was the strength of herlove for Mortimer that enabled her to view so calmly this passionatedeclaration. A year before, unsophisticated as she had been, it wouldhave thrown her into an agitated confusion, but she was developingrapidly; responsibility had tempered fine the great will power which washers in such a marked degree. 

"I am sorry, Mr. Crane, " she began, conventionally enough, "I am, sorry;I couldn't marry a man without loving him. What you have just told memust win regard for you, because I know that you feel strongly, and Ithink any woman should take an offer of honest love as the greatest ofall compliments. "

"But I don't even ask for your love now, " he interrupted. 

"Ah, but you should. You shouldn't marry a woman unless she loves you. At any rate I feel that way about it. Of course, if there were a chanceof my coming to care for you in that way we could wait, but it would bedeceiving you to give hope. "

"Is it because you care for--Mortimer?" he asked. 

"I think it is. I suppose if I am to help him I must be quite honestwith you. I do not want to talk about it--it seems too sacred. I haveeven spoken less to Mr. Mortimer of love, " she added, with a painfulattempt at a smile. "You have said that you care for me, Mr. Crane, andI believe you; you have been generous to my father, also. Now won't youpromise me something, just for the sake of this regard? I suppose itis impossible to prove Mr. Mortimer's innocence"--she felt her ownhelplessness, and who else could or would care to accomplish it "but itis in your power to lessen the evil. Won't you take my word that heis innocent and stop everything? As you say, either he or Alan must besuspected, and if it were brought home to my brother it would crush me, and my mother and father. "

"What can I do?--"

"Just nothing. I know Mr. Mortimer has determined to accept thedisgrace, and he will go away. You can make his load as light aspossible, for my sake. "

The small hand on his arm was drawing him to acquiesence. He did notanswer at once, but sat moodily diagnosing his position. If he refusedand prosecuted Mortimer, the girl, more determined than many men, wouldchange from a state of possibility, from simply not loving him, to avigorous hate. If he hushed the matter up Mortimer would go away under acloud, and his removal from the presence of Allis might effect a changein her regard. He would accelerate this wished-for elision of love byprocuring absolutely indisputable proof of Mortimer's dishonesty. He sawhis opening to that end; he could do it under the guise of clearing theinnocent one of the suspected two; for Allis alone this would be. Tohim there was not the slightest ground for supposing Alan had taken themoney, but blinded by her love, evidently Allis thought Mortimer wasshielding her brother. Though it was to Crane's best interests, hepretended to consent out of pure chivalry. "What you ask, " he said, "isvery little; I would do a thousand times more for you. There is nothingyou could ask of me that would not give me more pleasure than anythingelse in my barren life. But I could not bear to see you wedded toMortimer; he is not worthy--you are too good for him. I don't say thisbecause he is more fortunate, but I love you and want to see you happy. "

The girl was like a slim poplar. The strong wind of Crane's cleverpleading and seeming generosity swayed her from her rigid attitude onlyto spring back again, to stand straight and beautiful, true to her loveand faith in Mortimer. 

"You are kind to me, " she said, simply; "I wish I could repay you. "

"Perhaps some day I may get a reward out of all proportion to this smallservice. "

She looked fair into his eyes, and on her lips hovered a weak, plaintive, wistful smile, as though she were wishing he could accept theinevitable and take her regard, her gratitude, her good opinion of himand not wed himself to a chimera which would bring only weariness ofspirit in return for his goodness. 

"You will be repaid some day, " she answered, "for I feel that Mr. Mortimer's name will be cleared, and you will be glad that you actedgenerously. "

"Well, this will give him a better chance, " he said, evasively; "it'snot good to crush a man when he's down. I will see that no one connectedwith the bank shows him the slightest disrespect. Of course he'll haveto go, he couldn't remain under the circumstances--he wouldn't. "

The horse had jogged slowly. Allis had purposely allowed the old Bay totake his time. Unused to such a tolerance he had scandalously abused theprivilege; once or twice he had even cast longing glances at a succulentbunch of grass growing by the roadside, as though it were a pure wasteof opportunity to neglect the delicacy for work when he had to do withsuch indifferent overseers. But now Ringwood was in sight, and there wasstill the matter of the money that had been paid on her father's note tospeak of. She asked Crane where it had come from. 

"You won it over Diablo in the Brooklyn Handicap, " he answered, bluntly. 

"You won it, " she corrected him; "I refused to accept it. "

"I remember that eccentricity, " he replied. "I'm a busy man, andhaving the money thrown back on my hands, as it was not mine, caused meconsiderable inconvenience. I deposited three thousand of it against thenote to save both your father and myself needless worry. There are stillsome hundreds due you, and I wish you would please tell me what I am todo with it. "

"I'd rather pay you back the three thousand now. "

"I can't accept it. I have enough money of my own to worry along on. "

"Well, I wash my hands of the whole affair. When father gets stronger hemust settle it. "

They had turned into the drive to Ringwood House. 

"We are home now, " she added, "and I want to say again that I'll neverforget your kind promise. I know you will not repent of your goodness. "

Mrs. Porter saw Allis and Crane together in the buggy; it pleased thegood woman vastly. Allis's success with Lauzanne had taken a load fromher spirits. She was not mercenary, but there had been so much at stake. Now in one day Providence had averted disaster, and she had awakenedfrom a terrible nightmare of debt. The sunshine of success had warmedher husband's being into hopeful activity, a brightness was over hisspirits that had not been there for months. It was like an augury ofcompleted desire that Crane should come the day of their good fortunewith Allis. If she would but marry him there would be little left toworry about. So it was that Crane, perplexed by his recent love check, and Allis, mired in gloom over her hero's misfortune, stepped into aradiancy of exotic cheerfulness. 

The girl bravely sought to shake off her gloom, chiding her heavyheart for its unfilial lack of response. Crane, accustomed to mentalathletics, tutored his mind into a seeming exuberance, and playfullyalluded to his own defeat at the hands of Allis and the erraticLausanne. There was no word of the bank episode, nothing but a paean ofvictory. 

Crane's statement to Allis that he was going out to Ringwood to seeher father was only an excuse. He soon took his departure, a stableboydriving him back to the village. There he had a talk with the cashier. Mortimer was to be asked to resign his position as soon as his place inthe bank could be filled. No further prosecution was to be taken againsthim unless Crane decided upon such a course, "In the meantime you caninvestigate cautiously, " he said, "and keep quite to yourself any newevidence that may turn up. So far as Mr. Mortimer is concerned, thematter is quite closed. "

The cashier had always considered his employer a hard man, and, intruth, who hadn't? He could scarcely understand this leniency; he hadexpected a vigorous prosecution of Mortimer; had almost dreaded itsseverity. Personally he had no taste for it; still, he would feelinsecure if the suspected man, undeniably guilty, were to remainpermanently in the bank. His dismissal from the staff was a wise move, tempered by unexpected clemency. If there were not something behindit all--this contingency always attached itself to Crane's acts--hisemployer had acted with fine, wise discrimination. 

XLII

Crane returned to New York, his mind working smoothly to the hum of thebusy wheels beneath his coach. 

This degrading humiliation of his rival must certainly be turned toaccount. With Allis Porter still believing in Mortimer's innocence thegain to him was very little; he must bring the crime absolutely home tothe accused man, but in a manner not savoring of persecution, elsethe girl's present friendly regard would be turned into abhorrence. Inaddition to this motive he felt an inclination to probe the matterto its utmost depths. It was not his nature to leave anythingto conjecture; in all his transactions each link in the chain ofpreparation for execution was welded whole. He felt that it would bebut a matter of manipulation to environ Mortimer completely with theelements of his folly. He firmly believed him guilty; Allis, misled byher infatuation, mentally attributed the peculation to her brother. 

The Banker would go quietly to work and settle this point beyonddispute. He might have hesitated, leaving well enough alone, had he beenpossessed of any doubts as to the ultimate results of his investigation, but he wasn't. He reasoned that Mortimer had taken the thousand-dollarnote thinking to win three or four thousand at least over his horse, TheDutchman, and then replace the abstracted money. Crane was aware thatAlan Porter had told Mortimer of The Dutchman's almost certain prospectof winning; in fact, the boy had suggested that Mortimer had taken itfor this purpose. Mortimer would not have changed the note; would havetaken it straight to the race course. He must have lost it to somebookmaker over The Dutchman. Crane knew the number of the stolen note. The three one-thousand-dollar bills were new, running in consecutivenumbers, B 67, 482-83-84; he had noticed that quite by chance at thetime; it was the middle one, B 67, 483, that was missing. So he had apossible means of identifying the man who had taken the money. Mentallyhe followed Mortimer during the day at Gravesend. From Alan he knew ofhis winnings over Lauzanne. 

Crane reasoned that Mortimer, having risked the thousand on his horse, had been told that Lauzanne might win. This had perhaps frightened him, and being unfamiliar with the folly of such a course had backed twohorses in the same race--had put a hundred on Lauzanne at ten to one tocover his risk on The Dutchman, feeling this made him more secure. Hewould either win a considerable stake or have sufficient in hand tocover up his defalcation. The first thing to do was to find the note ifpossible. Faust would be the man for this commission. 

Immediately upon his arrival in New York, Crane telephoned for Faust, asking him to bring his betting sheet for the second last day of theBrooklyn Meet. When Faust arrived at Crane's quarters the latter said, "I want to trace a thousand-dollar note, number B 67, 483. I think it wasbetted on the Brooklyn Derby, probably on my horse. "

Faust consulted his betting sheet, Crane looking over his shoulder. "Ididn't have no thousand in one bet on that race, " he said. 

"What are those flgures, " asked the other, pointing to two consecutivenumbers of one thousand each. 

"That was the other way about, " answered the Bookmaker; "that was pay. A thousand to one hundred twice over Lauzanne. I think it must have beenstable money, for one of the guys was like a big kid; he didn't know'nough to pick a winner in a thousand years. "

The coincidence of this amount with the win attributed to Mortimer, appealed to Crane's fancy. "You remember the man who made this bet, then?" he asked. 

"Yes, sure thing. There was two of 'em, as you see. I remember himbecause it took some explainin' to get the bet through his noddle. Hewas a soft mark for a bunco steerer. I've seen some fresh kids playin'the horses, but he had 'em all beat to a standstill. It must abeenfirst-time luck with him, for he cashed. "

"Can you describe him?"

The Cherub drew an ornate verbal picture, florid in its descriptivephraseology, but cognate enough to convince Crane it was Mortimer whohad made one of the bets. His preconceived plan of the suspected man'soperations was working out. 

"Now find this thousand-dollar note for me, " he said; "take trouble overit; get help if necessary; go to every bookmaker that was in line thatday. If you find the note, exchange other money for it and bring it tome. "

"There may be a chance, " commented Faust, scratching his fat pollmeditatively; "the fellows like to keep these big bills, they'reeasier in the pocket than a whole bundle of flimsies. The next day wasgetaway-day, an' they wouldn't be payin' out much. I'll make a play ferit. "

The next afternoon Faust reported at Crane's rooms with the rescuednote in his possession. He had been successful. "I give a dozen of 'em aturn, " he said, "before I run again' Jimmie Farrell. He had it snuggledaway next his chest among a lot of yellow-backs, good Dutchman money. "

"Does he know who bet it?"

"Not his name--some stranger; he'd know him if he saw him, he says. "

Crane grasped this new idea with avidity, the scent was indeed gettinghot. Why not take Farrell down to Brookfield to identify Mortimer. Hehad expected the searching for evidence would be a tedious matter; hisfortunate star was guiding him straight and with rapidity to the goal hesought. 

"I'm much obliged to you, " he said to Faust. "I won't trouble youfurther; I'll see Farrell myself. Give me his address. "

That evening the Banker saw Farrell. "There was a little crooked workover that thousand Faust got from you, " he said, "an' if you could findtime to go with me for an hour's run into the country, I think you couldidentify the guilty party. "

"I can go with you, " Farrell answered, "but it's just a chance in athousand. I should be on the block down at Sheepshead, but, to tell youthe truth, the hot pace the backers set me at Brooklyn knocked me out abit. I'm goin' to take a breather for a few days an' lay again' 'em nextweek. Yes, I'll go with you, Mr. Crane. "

In the morning the two journeyed to Brookfield. 

"I won't go to the bank with you, " Crane said; "I wish you would go inalone. You may make any excuse you like, or none at all. Just see if theman you got this note from is behind the rail. I'll wait at the hotel. "

In fifteen minutes he was rejoined by Farrell. 

"Well?" he asked. 

"He's there, right enough. "

"A short dark little chap?" questioned Crane, hesitatingly, putting AlanPorter forward as a feeler. 

"No. A tall fellow with a mustache. "

"You are sure?"

"Dead sure, unless he's got a double, or a twin brother. "

Crane felt that at last he had got indisputable proof; evidence thatwould satisfy even Allis Porter. He experienced little exhilaration overthe discovery--he had been so sure before--yet his hand was strengthenedvastly. Whatever might be the result of his suit with Allis, this mustconvince her that Mortimer was guilty, and unworthy of her love. Therewas also satisfaction in the thought that it quite cleared Alan of hissister's suspicion. 

How he would use this confirmation Crane hardly knew; it would come upin its own proper place at the right time, no doubt. 

"We can go back now, " he said to Farrell; "we may as well walk leisurelyto the station; we can get a train"--he pulled out his watch--"in twentyminutes. "

Crane had made up his mind not to show himself at the bank that day. Hewished to bold his discovery quite close within himself--plan hiscourse of action with habitual caution. It meant no increased aggressionagainst Mortimer's liberty; it was of value only in his pursuit of AllisPorter. 

As they walked slowly toward the station Crane met abruptly the girlwho was just then so much in his thoughts. Her sudden appearance quitestartled him, though it was quite accidental. She had gone in to do someshopping, she explained, after Crane's greeting. 

Farrell continued on when his companion stopped. A sudden determinationto tell the girl what he had unearthed took quick possession of Crane. His fine sense of reasoning told him that though she professed positivefaith in Mortimer, she must have moments of wavering; it seemed onlyhuman. Perhaps his presiding deity had put this new weapon in his handsto turn the battle. He began by assuring her that he had prosecuted theinquiry simply through a desire to establish the innocence of eitherMortimer or her brother, or, if possible, both. 

"You understand, " he said, quite simply, "that Alan is like a brother--"he was going to say "son, " but it struck him as being unadvisable, it aged him. He related how he had traced the stolen note, how he haddiscovered it, how he had brought the bookmaker down, and how, withoutguidance from him, Farrell had gone into the bank and identifiedMortimer as the man who had betted the money. 

"It clears Alan, " he said, seeking furtively for a look into thedrooping face. 

The bright sun struck a sparkle of light from something that shotdownward and splashed in the dust. The girl was crying. 

"I'm sorry, " he offered as atonement. "Perhaps I shouldn't have toldyou; it's too brutal. "

The head drooped still lower. 

"I shouldn't have spoken had it not been for your brother's sake. Ididn't mean to. It was chance drew you across my path just now. Thoughit is cruel, it is better that you should know. No man has a right todeceive you, you are too good. It is this very constancy and goodnessthat has taught me to love you. "

"Don't, " she pleaded; "I can't bear it just now. Please don't talk oflove, don't talk of anything. Can't you see--can't you understand?"

"Yes, I know--you are suffering, but it is unjust; you are not fair toyourself. If this man would steal money, what difference would yourlove make to him? He would be as unfaithful to you as he has been to histrust in the bank. You must consider yourself--you must give him up; youcan't link your young, beautiful life to a man who is only saved fromthe penitentiary because of your influence. "

"Don't talk that way, Mr. Crane, please don't. I know you think thatwhat you say is right, but what difference does it all make to me? Youknow what love is like, you say it has come to you now. My heart tellsme that Mortimer is guiltless. The time has been so short that he hashad no chance to clear himself. If I didn't believe in him I wouldn'tlove him; but I still love him, and so I believe in him. I can't helpit--I don't want to help it; I simply go on having faith in him, and mylove doesn't falter. Can't you understand what a terrible thing it wouldbe even if I were to consent to become your wife? I know it would pleasemy mother. But if afterward this other man was found to be innocent, wouldn't your life be embittered--wouldn't it be terrible for you to betied to a woman who loved another man?"

"But it is impossible that he is innocent, or will ever be thought so. "

"And I know that he is innocent. "

"Your judgment must tell you that this is only fancy. "

"My heart tells me that he is not guilty of this crime. My heart isstill true to him; so, shall I decide against myself? Don't--don't stabme to death with words of Mortimer's guilt; it has no effect, and onlygives me pain. I must wait--we must all wait, just wait. There is noharm in waiting, the truth will come out at last. But you will keep yourpromise?" she said, lifting her eyes to his face. 

"Yes, I meant no harm to Mortimer in searching for this evidence; it wasonly to clear your brother. "

They had come to the station by now. 

"Would you like to speak to Mr. Farrell?" Crane asked. "You are takingmy word. "

"No, it is useless. I can do nothing but wait; that I can and will do. "

"Don't think me cruel, " Crane said, "but the wait will be so long. "

"It may be forever, but I will wait. And I thank you again for your--foryour goodness to me. I'm sorry that I've given you trouble. If youcan--if you can--make it easier for Mortimer--I know he'll feel itif you could make him think that you didn't altogether believe himas--dishonest--will you, for my sake?"

It was generally supposed that Crane's heart had been mislaid at hisinception and the void filled with a piece of chiseled marble; for yearshe was a convert to this belief himself; but as he stood on the platformof the primitive little station and looked into the soft luminous grayeyes, swimming moist in the hard-restrained tears of the pleading girl, he became a child. What a wondrous thing love was! Mountains were asmole-hills before such faith. In the unlimited power of her magnetism, what a trifle she had asked of him! With an influence so great she hadsimply said, "Spare of censure this man for my sake. " In thankfulnessrather than in condescension he promised. 

Even in disgrace--a felon--how Mortimer was to be envied! Above all elsewas such abiding love. In his, Crane's, victory was the bitterness ofdefeat; the other, beaten down, triumphed in the gain of this pricelesslove. 

A sharp material whistle, screeching through its brass dome on theincoming train, cut short these fantastically chaotic thoughts. 

"Good-bye, and thank you, " said the girl, holding out her hand to Crane. 

"Good-bye, " he repeated, mechanically. 

What had he accomplished? He had beaten lower his rival and weddedfirmer to the beaten man the love he prized above all else. In his earsrang the girl's words, "Wait, wait, wait. " Irresponsibly he repeated tohimself, "All things come to them that wait. "

Seated in the car swift whirled toward the city, he was almost surprisedto find Farrell by his side. He was like a man in a dream. A visionof gray eyes, blurred in tears of regret, had obliterated all that wasmaterial. In defeat his adversary had the victory. He, Philip Crane, theman of calculation, was but a creature of emotion. Bah! At forty if aman chooses to assume the role of Orlando he does it to perfection. 

With an effort he swept away the cobweb of dreams and satupright--Philip Crane, the careful planner. 

"You nearly missed the train, " said Farrell. 

"Did I?" questioned Crane, perplexedly. "I thought I got on in plenty oftime. "

Farrell smiled knowingly, as befitted a man of his occupation--aNew Yorker, up to snuff. The veiled insinuation disgusted Crane. Was everything in the world vile? He had left a young life swimminghopelessly in the breakers of disaster, buoyed only by faith and love;and at his side sat a man who winked complacently, and beamed upon himwith senile admiration because of his supposed gallantry. 

Perhaps a year before this moral angularity would not have affectedhim; it would not have appealed to him as being either clever orobjectionable; he would simply not have noticed it at all. But AllisPorter had originated a revolution in his manner of thought. He evenfought against the softer awakening; it was like destroying the lifelonghabits of a man. His callousness had been a shield that had saved himtroublous misgivings; behind this shield, even in rapacity, he hadexperienced peace of mind, absence of remorse. If he could have putaway from him his love for the girl he would have done so willingly. Whyshould he battle and strive for an unattainable something as intangibleas a dream? It was so paradoxical that Allis's love for Mortimer seemedhopeless because of the latter's defeat, while his, Crane's love, wasequally hopeless in his hour of victory. 

Farrell's voice drew him from this psychological muddle in tones thatsounded harsh as the cawing of homing ravens at eventime. 

"Will it be a court case?" he queried. 

"What?" asked Crane, from his tangled elysium. 

"That high roller in the bank. "

"Oh! I can't say yet what it will lead to. " Crane's caution alwaysasserted itself first. 

"Well, I've been thinking it over. That's the guy, right enough, butwhen it comes to swearing to a man's identity in court, it's just a bitticklish. "

Crane frowned. He disliked men who hedged. He always planned first, then plunged; evidently his companion had plunged first, and was nowverifying his plans. 

Farrell continued, "You see what I mean?"

"I don't, " answered Crane, shortly. 

"You will if you wait, " advised Farrell, a tinge of asperity in histone. "I'm makin' a book, say. All the blazin' idiots in Christendom isclimbin' over me wantin' to know what I'll lay this and what I'll laythat. They're like a lot of blasted mosquitos. A rounder comes up an'makes a bet; if it's small p'r'aps I don't twig his mug at all, justgrabs the dough an' calls his number. He may be Rockefeller, or a toughfrom the Bowery, it don't make no difference to me; all I want is hisgoods an' his number, see? But a bettor of the right sort slips in an'taps me for odds to a thousand. Nat'rally I'm interested, because heparts with the thousand as though it was his heart's blood. I size himup. There ain't no time fer the writin' down of earmarks, though mostlike I could point him out in a crowd, an' say, 'That's the rooster. 'But sposin' a judge stood up another man that looked pretty much likehim, an' asked me to swear one of the guys into ten years in Sing Sing, pr'aps I'd weaken. Mistaken identity is like grabbin' up two kings an' ajack, an' playin' 'em fer threes. "

"Which means, if I understand it, that you're guessing at the man--thatI've given you all this trouble for nothing. "

Crane wished that Farrell had kept his doubts to himself; the case hadbeen made strong by his first decision, and now the devil of uncertaintywould destroy the value of identification. 

"Not by a jugful!" ejaculated Farrell. "I'm just tellin' you this toshow you that we've got to make it complete--we've got to get collateralto back up my pickin'. "

"You mean some one else to identify him also?"

"No, not just that; but that's not a bad thought. My clerk, Ned Hagen, must have noticed him too. I mean that the bettor's badge number will bein line with that bet, an' you can probably find out the number of thebadge this rooster wore. "

An inspiration came with Farrell's words--came to Crane. Why had henot thought of that before? Still it didn't matter. The badge number, Mortimer's number, would be in Faust's book where had been entered thehundred dollars Mortimer put on Lauzanne. He could compare this with thenumber in Farrell's book; no doubt they would agree; then, indeed, the chain would be completed to the last link. No man on earth couldquestion that evidence. 

"It's a good idea, Farrell, " he said. 

"Bet yer life, it's clear Pinkerton. You'd better come round to my placeto-morrow about ten, an' we'll look it up. "

"I will, " Crane answered. 

XLIII. 

The old bay horse that crawled back to Ringwood with Allis Porter afterher interview with Crane must have thought that the millennium fordriving horses had surely come. Even the ambition to urge the patriarchbeyond his complacent, irritating dog trot was crushed out of her by theterrible new evidence the banker had brought in testimony against herlover. 

"I didn't need this, " the girl moaned to herself. In her intensity ofgrief her thoughts became audible in expressed words. "Oh, God!" shepleaded to the fields that lay in the silent rapture of summer content, "strengthen me against all this falseness. You didn't do it, George--youcouldn't--you couldn't! And Alan! my poor, weak brother; why can't youhave courage and clear your friend?"

Her heart rose in angry rebellion against her brother, against Crane, against Providence, even against the man she loved. Why should hesacrifice both their lives, become an outcast himself to shield a boy, who in a moment of weakness had committed an act which might surely beforgiven if he would but admit his mistake? yes, it might even be calleda mistake. The punishment accepted in heroic silence by Mortimer wasout of all proportion to the wrong-doing. It meant the utter ruin of twolives. Firmly as she believed in his innocence, a conviction was forcedupon her that unless Alan stood forth and boldly proclaimed the truththe accumulated guilt--proof would cloud Mortimer's name, perhaps untilhis death. Even after that his memory might linger as that of a thief. 

The evening before Alan had been at Ringwood and Allis had made a finalendeavor to get him to clear the other's name by confessing the truthto Crane. On her knees she had pleaded with her brother. The boy hadfiercely disclaimed all complicity, protested his own innocence withvehemence, and denounced Mortimer as worse than a thief in havingpoisoned her mind against him. 

In anger Alan had disclosed Mortimer's treachery--as he called it--andcrime to their mother. Small wonder that Allis's hour of trial was adark one. The courage that had enabled her to carry Lauzanne to victorywas now tried a thousandfold more severely. It seemed all that was lefther, just her courage and faith; they had stood out successfully againstall denunciation of Lauzanne, and, with God's help, they would hold hertrue to the man she loved. 

Even the pace of a snail lands him somewhere finally, and the unassailedBay, with a premonition of supper hovering obscurely in his lazy mind, at last consented to arrive at Ringwood. 

Allis crept to her father like a fearsome child avoiding goblins. Providentially he had not been initiated into the moral crusade againstthe iniquitous Mortimer, so the girl clung to him as a drowning personmight to a plank of salvation. She longed to tell him everything--of herlove for Mortimer, perhaps he had guessed it, for he spoke brave wordsoften of the sturdy young man who had saved her from Diablo. Perhaps shewould tell him if she felt her spirit giving way--it was cruel to standquite alone--and beseech him, as he had faith in her, to believe in herlover. 

Allis went to the tea table by her father's side, fearing to get beyondhis hearing; she dreaded her mother's questioning eyes. What could besaid in the accused man's defense, or in her own? Nothing; she couldonly wait. 

A square old-fashioned wooden clock on the mantelpiece of the sittingroom had just droned off seven mellow hours, when the faint echo of itsmusic was drowned by the crunch of gravel; there was the quick step ofsomebody coming up the drive; then the wooden steps gave hollow notice. The visitor's advent was announced again by the brass knocker on thefront door. 

"I'll go, " said Allis, as her mother rose. The girl knew who it wasthat knocked, not because of any sane reason; she simply knew it wasMortimer. 

When she opened the door he stepped back hesitatingly. Was he not acriminal--was he not about to leave his position because of theft?

"Come in, " she said, quietly; "I am glad you have come. "

"Shall I? I just want to speak to you for a minute. I said I would come. But I can't see anybody--just you, alone. "

"I understand, " she answered. "Come inside. "

"I am going away, " he began; "I can't stand it here. "

"You have done nothing--nothing to clear yourself?"

"Nothing. "

"And you won't?"

"No. "

"Is this wise?"

"It is the inevitable. "

They were silent for a little; they were both standing. The girl brokethe stillness. 

"I am glad you have come, because I can tell you again that I know youare innocent. I know it, because my heart repeats it a thousand times aday. I listen to the small voice and I hear nothing else. "

"You never waver--you never doubt?"

"Never. "

"You never will?"

"Never. "

"Then I care not. Other men have had misfortune thrust upon them andhave borne it without complaint, have had less to solace them than youhave given me now, and I should be a coward if I faltered. Some dayperhaps, you will know that I am worthy of your faith: God grant thatthe knowledge brings you no fresh misery--there, forgive me, I have saidtoo much; I am even now a coward. If you will say good-bye I'll go. "

"Good-bye, my hero. " She raised her eyes, blurred with tears, andheld out her hand gropingly, as one searches in the dark, for the roomwhirled like a storm cloud, and just faintly she could see the man'sstrong face coming to her out of the gloom like the face of a god. Hetook her hand. "Good-bye, " his voice vibrated brokenly; "if--if Justicewills that my innocence be known some day, may I come back? Will youwait, believing in me for a little?"

"Forever. "

He drew her to him by the hand he still clasped, and put his strong armsabout her. What mattered it now that he had been falsely accused--whatmattered it to either of them that he must accept the grim penalty ofhis endeavor? With them in the soft gloom was nothing but love, andfaith, and innocence; and within the strong arms a sense of absolutesecurity, as though the false accusing world had been baffled, beatendown, and the victory theirs--love. 

He raised the girl's face and kissed her. "Let God witness that I pressyour brave lips in innocence, " he said; "and in this pledge I love youforever and ever. "

"Amen, " came from Allis involuntarily; it sounded to them both like thebenediction of a high priest. 

"Amen, --" he responded. To speak again would have been sacrilege. 

He put her from him gently, turned away and walked quickly from thehouse. 

The girl sat for a long time a gray shadow in the gathering darkness. He was gone from her. It seemed as though she had scarce spoken theencouragement she wished to give him. It had been a meeting almostwithout words; but she felt strangely satisfied. The accusing revelationthat had come from Crane in the afternoon had been a crushing blow. Itwas a mistake, of course; it wasn't true--somehow it wasn't true, butstill it had stunned. Now in the gloaming she sat with an angel ofpeace; big, steadfast, honest eyes, full of thankfulness, lookedlovingly at her from where he had stood. If she could sit there forever, with the echo of his deep "Amen" to their love lingering in her ears, she would ask no further gift of the gods. 

Mortimer, as with swinging stride he hurried toward the village, let hismind flit back to the room of gray shadows. How little he had said!Had there been aught spoken at all? The strong arms still tingled withtender warmth where the impress of an angel had set them thrillingecstatically. Yes, what mattered their speech? There had been littleof the future--no promise to send word of his well-being--but let thefuture look to itself. In the present he was king of a love realm thatwas greater than all the world. 

Field after field flitted by, studded here and there by square, grayspecters of ghost-like houses that blinked at him with red dragon eyes. Sub-consciously he knew the eyes were searching out the secret that madehim in all his misery of misfortune so happy. And he would answer to theeyes, dragon or human, without fear and without shame--because he wasinnocent--that it was love, the greatest thing in all the world, thelove and faith sublime of a good, true woman. Woman had he said?--anangel!

XLIV

As Farrell had suggested, Crane sought him at the office the next day atten o'clock. 

Farrell and his clerk were busy planning an enterprising campaignagainst men who had faith in fast horses for the coming week atSheepshead Bay. 

"Ah!" the Bookmaker exclaimed when Crane entered, "you want thatbadge number. Hagen, get the betting sheet for the second last day atGravesend, and look up a bet of one thousand dollars we roped in overMr. Crane's horse. I want the number to locate the man that parted--Iwish there'd been more like him. "

"Do you mean Billy Cass?" queried the clerk. 

"Who the devil's Billy Cass?"

"Why the stiff that played The Dutchman for a thou'. "

"You know him?" This query from Farrell. 

"I should say! He's a reg'lar. Used to bet in Mullen's book last yearwhen I penciled for him. "

The clerk brought the betting sheet and ran his finger down a long rowof figures. 

"That's the bet. A thousand calls three on The Dutchman. His badgenumber was 11, 785. Yes, that's the bet; I remember Billy Cass takin' it. You see, " he continued, explanatory of his vivid memory, "he's gen'rallya piker--plays a long shot--an' his limit's twenty dollars; so, when hecomes next a favorite that day with a cool thou' it give me stoppageof the heart. Damn'd if I didn't get cold feet. Bet yer life it wasn'tBilly's money--not a plunk of it; he had worked an angel, an' wasplayin' the farmer's stuff for him. "

"Are you sure, Mr. Hagen--did you know the man?" Crane asked. 

"Know him? All the way--tall, slim, blue eyes, light mustache, hand likea woman. "

"That's the man, " affirmed Farrell; "that's the man--I saw him yesterdayin your place. "

Crane stared. For once in his life the confusion of an unexpected eventmomentarily unsettled him. 

"I thought you identified--which man in the bank did you mean?"

"I saw three: a short, dark, hairless kid"--Alan Porter, mentally tickedoff Crane; "a tall, dark, heavy-shouldered chap, that, judged by hismug, would have made a fair record with the gloves--"

"Was not that the man you identified as having made the bet?"interrupted Crane, taking a step forward in his intense eagerness. 

"Not on your life; it was the slippery-looking cove with fishy eyes. "

"Cass, " muttered Crane to himself; "but that's impossible--he never leftthe bank that day; there's some devilish queer mistake here. " Farrellhad identified David Cass in the bank as the man who had bet with him, while the clerk asserted that one "Billy" Cass had made the same wager. Hagen's description of "Billy" Cass fitted David Cass in a general way. Again the badge number--11, 785--was not Mortimer's, as registered inFaust's book. 

Crane stood pondering over the complication. He saw that until furtherinvestigation disproved it there could be but one solution of thisintricate riddle. Billy Cass, the maker of the bet, was a race trackfrequenter; David Cass was not. They must be separate personalities;but they resembled each other; they were of the same name--they might bebrothers. Billy Cass had been in possession of the stolen note; he musthave got it from some one having access to it in the bank--Mortimer, Alan Porter, or Cass--the cashier was quite out of the question. 

The next move was to trace back through Billy Cass the man who haddelivered to him the stolen money. There was still a chance thatMortimer, unfamiliar with betting and possibly knowing of Billy Cassthrough his brother in the bank--if they were brothers--had used thispractical racing man as a commission agent. This seemed a plausiblededuction. It was practically impossible that David Cass could havegot possession of the bill, for it was locked in a compartment of whichMortimer had the key; the latter had admitted that the keys were not outof his possession. 

This far in his hurried mental retrospect Crane spoke to Farrell: "Ithink this is all we can do at present. I may find it necessary to askyou to identify this Cass, but I hope not to trouble you any further inthe matter. "

"Hang the trouble!" energetically responded Farrell, with hugedisclaiming of obligation; "I'll spend time and money to down a crookany day; I've no use for 'em; a few of that kidney gives the racin' gamea black eye. If you need me or Hagen, just squeak, an' we'll hop ontothe chap if he's a wrong one with both feet. "

Crane said nothing about the other number he had culled from Faust'sbook; he said nothing about his suspicions of a brotherhood; he wantedto go back to his quarters and think this new problem out. 

What if in seeking for conclusive evidence against Mortimer he shouldprove him innocent? He was treading upon dangerous ground, pushing outof his path with a firebrand a fuse closely attached to a mine thatmight explode and shatter the carefully constructed fabric. 

Sitting in his own chamber he once more went over the wholeextraordinary entanglement. Mistaken as it was, Farrell's identificationat Brookfield must have strongly affected the mind of Allis Porter. Atthe time Crane had played an honest part in recounting it to the girl. He had firmly believed that Farrell, owing to his ambiguous report, hadmeant Mortimer; in fact, Cass had not entered his mind at all. Even yetMortimer might be the guilty man--probably was. Why should he, Crane, pursue this investigation that might turn, boomerang-like, and actdisastrously. Mortimer was either a thief or a hero; there could be noquestion about that. As a hero, in this case, he was pretty much of afool in Crane's eyes; but Allis Porter would not look upon it in thatlight--she would deify him. Crane would commit diplomatic suicide indeveloping Mortimer's innocence. Again he asked himself why he shouldproceed. Mortimer was guilty in the strong, convicting light of theapparent evidence; better let it rest that happy way--happy for Crane. But still would he rest satisfied himself? He was not accustomed todoing things by halves. If Cass had stolen the money it would neverdo to retain him in a position of trust. Then the devil of subtlediplomacy, familiar at all times to Crane, whispered in his ear that heneed not blazen to the world the result of his further investigation; hemight satisfy himself, and then if Mortimer were found still deeper inthe toils it might be spoken of; but if he were found innocent--well, was Crane his brother's keeper? He could adopt one of two plans to getat the truth; he could trace out Billy Cass and extort from him the nameof his principal; but if startled, the latter might refuse todivulge anything. Police pressure meant publicity. There was a betterplan--Crane always found a better plan in everything. If David Cass hadstolen the money he must have sent it to his brother; if that fact wereestablished it would show a connection between the two. 

That afternoon Crane took a train to Brookfield. A visit to the villagepost office disclosed a hidden jewel. As far as Crane was concerned thefate of the two men was held in the hollow of the postmaster's hand. The latter, with little hesitation, allowed him to delve into officialsecrets. 

He learned that David Cass had sent a letter, with a quick-deliverystamp on it, to William Cass, at A B C, East Fourteenth Street, NewYork, at 3:30 p. M. , on June 12. So far as guilt or innocence wasconcerned there was nothing left to discover; the connection betweenthese two men was demonstrated. Farrell's misidentification establishedanother truth--they were brothers. The letter, hastening to itsdestination, had contained the stolen money. Mortimer would not give itto Cass to send away; even if he had done so he would not then have goneto Gravesend. Alan Porter had also gone to Gravesend; if he had stolenthe money he would have taken it with him. 

David Cass, the unsuspected, was the thief. Mortimer, condemned, having restored the money--having taken upon himself with almost silentresignation the disgrace--was innocent. And all this knowledge was inCrane's possession alone, to use as he wished. The fate of his rival wasgiven into his hands; and if he turned down his thumb, so, better forMortimer that he had been torn of wild beasts in a Roman arena than tobe cast, good name and all, to the wolves of righteous humanity. 

As a dog carries home a bone too large for immediate consumption, Cranetook back this new finding to his den of solitude in New York. At eighto'clock he turned the key in his door, and arm in arm with his nowconstant companion walked fitfully up and down, up and down, the floor. Sometimes he sat in a big chair that beckoned to him to rest; sometimeshe raced with swift speed; once he threw himself upon his bed, and laystaring wide-eyed at the ceiling for hours. What mockery--hours! on themantelpiece the clock told him that he had ceased his strides for a barefive minutes. 

Then he thrust himself back into a chair, and across the table oppositesat Wrong, huge--grinning with a devilish temptation; not gold, but aperfume of lilacs, and the music of soft laughter like the tinkle ofsilver bells, the bejeweled light of sweet eyes that were gray, and allthe temptation that Wrong held in itself was the possession of AllisPorter. 

And Crane need commit no crime, unless inaction were a crime--just leavethings as they were. In the eyes of the world Mortimer was a thief; hewould never claim Allis so branded. 

Crane with a word could clear the accused man; he could go to David Cassand force him to confess. But why should he do it--sacrifice all he helddear in life? Everything that he had valued before became obliteratedby the blindness of his love for the girl. Yet still the love seemed tosoften him. Into his life had come new, strange emotions. The sensuousodor of stephanotis, that had not repelled in the old life, had come tosuggest a pestilence in his nostrils, made clean by the purity of lilac. As he swayed in contention, the face of Wrong fronting him became theface of Sin--repellent, abhorrent; how could he ruin her life, and by acriminal act?

Hour by hour the struggle went on, until, exhausted, Crane flung himselfupon his bed to rest a few minutes, and sleep, unsought, came and hushedthe turmoil of his heart. 

Without decision he had cast himself down; his mind, tortured in itsperplexity, was unequal to the task of guiding him. So wearied he shouldhave slept for hours, but, as the first glint of sunlight came throughthe uncurtained window, he sprang from his couch with the call of anuncompleted something in his ears. 

But calm had come to him in his sleep; the question of right or wronghad been settled. He tried to remember how he had come to the conclusionthat was alone in his rested mind. It must have been before he slept, though his memory failed him, for as he slumbered Allis Porter had comewith the big gray eyes full of tears and asked him once again tospare Mortimer humiliation for her sake. And he had answered, "He isinnocent. " God! he remembered it, even now it thrilled through hisframe--she had bent over and kissed him on the forehead. Yes, that waswhat had wakened him. What foolish things dreams were. He had won just akiss and had paid the price of his love; and now waking, and in the calmof a conflict passed, he had won over the demon that had tempted himwith the perfume of lilacs. He had striven to the point when furtherstrife became a crime. He had lost; but he would prove himself a goodloser. 

XLV

That day Crane went to Brookfield. 

In spirit he was like a man that had been cast into an angry sea, andhad battled his way through hungry waves to shore. Saved, the utterweariness of fierce strife hung heavy over his soul, and exhaustiondeadened his joy of escape. Just saved, bereft of everything, he lookedback over the dark waters and shuddered. And before him a dreary wasteof desert shore-land stretched out interminably, and he must wanderalone over its vast expanse forever. 

Crane in all things was strong. It was strength drawn to right by theinfluence of the woman he loved that had saved him from the waters thatwere worse than the broad sands of a desolate life. But he still hadsomething to do, the final act made possible by his redemption. 

At Brookfield he went to the hotel, secured an isolated sitting roomupstairs, and with this as a hall of justice, followed out with hisusual carefulness a plan he had conceived. First he wrote a brief noteto Allis Porter asking her to come and see him at once. One linehe wrote made certain the girl's coming, "I have important news tocommunicate concerning Mr. Mortimer. " Then he sent the note off with aman. Next he despatched a messenger for David Cass. He pulled out hiswatch and looked at it. It was three o'clock. "I think five will do, " hemuttered; "it should be all over by that time. " Another note addressedto Mortimer, asking him to call at the hotel at five o'clock, wentforth. 

The village hotel throbbed with the pressure of unwonted business. The proprietor surmised that a financial matter of huge magnitude wasafloat--another farm was being mortgaged, most like; more money forRingwood probably, for had not a buggy gone out there to bring some onein to the great financier. Those race horses were the devil to put a manin a hole. 

David Cass came, treading on the heels of a much-whiskied howler who hadsummoned him. 

"You sent for me, sir?" he asked of Crane. It may have been thestairs--for he had come up hurriedly--that put a waver in his voice; orit may have been a premonition of trouble. 

"Take a seat, Mr. Cass, " Crane answered, arranging a chair so that astrong light from the one window fell across the visitor's face. 

The hostler who had shown Cass to where the big man awaited himlingered, a jagged wobble of humanity, leaning against the door jamb. Heexpected an order for "Red Eye, " as he had baptized strong drink sinceit had grown familiarly into his being. "Oh!" exclaimed Crane, "I'dforgotten; here's a quarter; much obliged. That's all. "

The hostler's unjointed legs, unstable because of recurrent debauchery, carried him disconsolately to lower levels. The Banker must be sureof his business, must have it well in hand, when he ignored the usualdiplomatic mollifying preparation of a drink. 

The hostler had left the sitting-room door open; Crane closed itcarefully, and, sitting with his back to the window, said to the bankclerk: "Mr. Cass, I am going to be very candid with you; I am going totell you that I have discovered you stole the thousand dollars Mortimerhas been accused of taking. "

Cass's face blanched a bluish white; his jaw dropped loosely like thejaw of a man who had been suddenly struck a savage blow. His weak, watery, blue eyes opened wide in terror; he gasped for breath; heessayed to speak--to give even a cry of pain, but the muscles of histongue were paralyzed. His right hand resting on the arm of his chair, as Crane ceased speaking, fell hopelessly by his side, where it dangledlike the cloth limb of a dummy. 

Crane saw all this with fierce satisfaction. He had planned this suddenaccusation with subtle forethought. It even gave him relief to feelhis suffering shifted to another; he was no longer the assailed by evilfortune, he was the assailant. Already the sustaining force of right wason his side; what a dreadful thing it was to squirm and shrink in thetoils of crime. A thought that he might have been like this had heallowed Mortimer to stand accused flashed through his mind. He waitedfor his victim to speak. 

At last Cass found strength to say: "Mr. Crane, this is a terribleaccusation; there is some dreadful mistake--I did not--"

The other interrupted him. The man's defense must be so abjectlyhopeless, such a cowardly weak string of lies, that out of pity, as hemight have ceased to beat a hound, Crane continued, speaking rapidly, holding the guilty man tight in the grasp of his fierce denunciation. 

"You stole that note. You sent it, with a quick-delivery stamp to yourbrother, Billy Cass, in New York, and he bet it for you on my horse, TheDutchman, on the 13th, and lost it. Mortimer, thinking that Alan Porterhad taken the money, replaced it, and you nearly committed a greatercrime than stealing when you allowed him to be dishonored, allowed himto be accused and all but convicted of your foolish sin. It is uselessto deny it, all this can be proved in court. I have weighed the mattercarefully, and if you confess you will not be prosecuted; if you do not, you will be sent to the penitentiary. "

Cass, stricken beyond the hope of defense, rose from his chair, steadying himself with his hands on the table, leaned far over it, asthough he were drawn physically by the fierce magnetism of his accuser, and spoke in a voice scarce stronger than the treble of a child's: "MyGod! Mr. Crane! Do you mean it, that you won't prosecute me? Did you saythat?"

"Not if you confess. "

"Thank God--thank you, sir. I'm glad, I'm glad; I've been in hell fordays. I haven't slept. Mortimer's eyes have stared at me all through thenight, for I liked him--everybody liked him--he was good to me. Oh, God!I should have gone out of my mind with more of it. I didn't steal themoney--no, no! I didn't mean to steal it; the Devil put it into myhands. Before God, I never stole a dollar in my life. But it wasn'tthat--it wasn't the money--it was to think that an innocent man was tosuffer--to have his life wrecked because of my folly. "

How it was coming home to Crane. Had he not dabbled his hands in thesame sin, almost committed it?

"You have never known what it is to suffer in that way. But let me tellyou all. I must. Then perhaps you will understand how I was tempted. Foryears I have been ground in poverty. My mother and my sister, even mybrother have all looked to me. My brother should have supported them, but all his money went on the race course, gambling. When I heard AlanPorter tell Mortimer that your horse was sure to win, for the first timein my life I felt a desire to get money that way. But I had no money tobet. That day as I went into the vault I saw under a lower shelf--theDevil drew my eyes that way--a bank note. I hardly knew it was a banknote, for I saw but a piece of paper indistinctly in the dim light. Ipicked it up. Oh, God! if I hadn't touched it! I looked at it. My heartjumped in my throat and choked me; my head swam. In my ears were strangevoices, saying: 'Take it! Put it in your pocket!' Perhaps it was becauseit was so large--a thousand dollars--perhaps it was because it seemedlost, out of place, I don't know. I had handled thousands and thousandsbefore, and never felt that way. 

"The devil voices that were in my ears said: 'This is your chance. Takeit, borrow it, no one will know. Bet it on the horse that will surelywin, and you will get many thousands; then you can replace it, and foronce in your life you will know what it is to have something of yourown. '"

"I tried to put it back. I couldn't. The voices called me a fool, acoward. I thought of my mother, my sister, what I could do if I had thecourage. I tried to take it in to Mr. Lane and say that I had found it. I couldn't. Oh, my God! you don't know what it is to be tempted! Youhave been successful, and don't know how miserably weak ill-fortunemakes a man. I yielded--I took it; then when its loss was discovered, and Mortimer was accused, I tried to confess--I couldn't; I was acoward, a traitor, a Judas. Oh, God!"

The overwrought man threw himself face down on the table in front of hisgrim accuser, like a child's broken doll, and wept with great sobs thatshook his frame as the wind lashes the waters into turmoil. 

An exultation of righteous victory swept through Crane's soul. He mighthave been like that; he had been saved from it by his love for a goodwoman. He could not despise the poor broken creature who confessed soabjectly, because all but in deed he also had sinned. The deepest cryof despair from Cass was because of the sin he had committed against hisfriend--against Mortimer. 

Crane waited until Cass's misery had exhausted itself a little, and whenhe spoke his voice was soft in pity. 

"I understand. Sit in your chair there and be a man. Half an hour ago Ithought you a thief--I don't now. You had your time of weakness, perhapsall men have that; you fell by the wayside. I don't think you'll do itagain. "

"No, no, no! I wouldn't go through the hell I've lived in again forall the money in the world. And I'm so glad that it is known; I feelrelief. "

"Well, it is better that the truth has come out, because everything canbe put right. I was going to make you pay back the thousand dollars toMortimer--I was going to drive you from the bank--I was going to let itbe known that you had stolen the money, but now, I must think. You musthave another chance. It's a dangerous thing to wreck lives--"

"My God! it is; that's what haunted me night and day. I felt as thoughI had murdered a man who had been my friend. I knew he thought youngPorter had taken it and was shielding him. The memory of the misery inMortimer's face at being counted a thief would have stuck to me if I hadlived a hundred years. "

Cass had interrupted Crane. When he ceased again out of exhaustion, Crane proceeded, "Mortimer must be paid back the money. "

"I'll save and work my fingers off till I do it. "

"You can't. Those dependent upon you would starve. I'll attend to thatmyself. "

"And you will let me go without--"

"No, you can't go. "

"My God! I'm to be prosecuted?"

"No, you can stay in the bank. I don't think you'll ever listen to thevoices again; it's bad business. "

Cass sat and stared at the strange man who said these things out ofsilly expressionless eyes that were blurred full of tears. 

"Yes, you can go right on as you have been. It will be understoodthat the money was found, had been mislaid; I'll think that out. It'snobody's business just now; I run the bank and you take orders from me. Go back to your desk and stay there. I've got to tell Mortimer and MissPorter that you made this mistake, and Lane, too, I suppose, but nobodyelse will ever know of it. I was going to make you sign a confession, but it's not needed. You may go now. "

Cass rose, his thin legs seeming hopelessly inadequate to the task ofcarrying his body, and said, "Will you take my hand, sir?"

"Of course I will. Just do right from this on, and forget-no, better notforget; remember that there is no crime like weakness; all crime comesfrom weakness. Be strong, and listen to no more voices. But I needn'ttell you. I know from this out I can trust you further than a man whohas never been tried. "

At the door Cass turned and looked back at the man who had reached downinto the abyss, pulled him up, and stood him on his feet. The man wassitting quite still, his back to the light, his head drooped, and Casscould not see his face. He strove futilely for some adequate expressionof gratitude, but his senses were numb from the shock of what he hadescaped; he simply nodded twice toward the sitting figure, turned, andpassed out into the street, where the sunlight baptized him with warmthas though he had been born again. 

"Poor, weak devil!" muttered Crane; then he shivered. Had the imbecile'stalk of voices got on to his nerves? Surely a voice had whisperedderisively in his ear, "Which one is the poor, weak devil?" Andin answer within his soul Crane knew that the margin was indeed ofinfinitesimal narrowness. Cass, hastened in his temptation, yieldingto the first insane impulse, not knowing that the damnation of a friendhung on his act, had fallen. He, Crane, in full knowledge that twoinnocent lives might be wrecked by his doing, had been kept to theright only after hours of struggle, and by the supporting influence ofa supreme love. To have gained Allis Porter by the strategy of a villaincould not be the method of holy passion. To sacrifice his desire andgive her back her lover was love, love worthy of the girl. 

For an hour he waited; then there was turmoil on the stairway;horses were surely coming up. At the door a thick voice explained thediversion. The hostler had again arrived, with an hour of increaseddrunkenness pulling mercilessly at his erratic legs. 

"John Porter's gal 'sh here, an'--an'--" the hostler wrestled with themental exercise that had been entrusted to his muddled brain. He'd swearthat she was there, for his eyes had seen her, two of her; and also hehad a hazy idea that when he essayed the stairs she had entrusted tohim some message. He groped fitfully among the wheels that buzzed in hisskull for the elusive something connected with her advent. The heredityof habit came to his assistance. 

"D'ye want a drink?" he asked, with a sudden brightening. 

"Drink!" a voice cried. "I don't want any drink" A strong hand had himby the collar, and the house was rocking violently to and fro; he couldscarcely keep his feet. 

"Wake up, you're drunk. Is Miss Porter down stairs?"

"Porter, Porter, yesh, Portersh gal; thatsh what I said. Whatsh matterwith you?--leg-go. Keep cool, don't get excited. "

"Here, get out--go down stairs!" And he did, hurriedly. 

Crane had followed him down. Allis was standing just within the halldoor. 

"Good afternoon, Miss Porter, " he said. "It was good of you to come. I've got something very important to tell you, and it's better that wehave quiet--it doesn't seem quite the usual order of things here. Should you mind coming upstairs to the sitting room, where we shall beundisturbed?"

"I don't mind, " answered the girl, simply. 

"Have a chair, " he said, motioning to the one Cass had lately sat in. 

Crane did not take the other seat, but paced restlessly up and down theroom; it cooled the fever of his mind. 

"I hope it isn't more bad news, Mr. Crane, " Allis said; for hercompanion seemed indisposed to break the silence. 

"It is--" the girl started--"for me, " Crane added, after a little pause;"and yet I am glad. "

"That sounds strange, " Allis commented, wonderingly. 

"What I am going to say to you means the destruction of the dearest hopeI have in life, but it can't be helped. Now I wouldn't have it any otherway. "

Suddenly he stopped in his swift pace, faced the girl, and asked, "Youare quite sure you can't love me?" He was waiting for an answer. 

"No, I can't--I hate to cause you misery, but I must speak the truth;you have asked for it. "

"And you've answered honestly. I know it was foolish in me to askthe impossible. Just one more question and then I will tell you why Ibrought you here. Do you still believe in Mortimer's innocence--do youlove Mortimer?"

"Yes. "

"If I were to tell you that he is innocent, that I have discovered theguilty one. "

"Oh, my God!" It was a cry of sudden joy, incapable of exact expression, irrelevant in its naming of the Deity, but full in its exultation ofsoul. Then, in quick transformation, the girl collapsed, as Cass haddone, and huddled in her chair, stricken by the sudden conviction thatthe crime had been brought home to her brother. Her lover was guiltless;but to joy over it was a sin, inhuman, for was not Alan the thief, ifMortimer were innocent?

Crane understood. He had forgotten. He stepped quickly to the girl'sside, put his hand tenderly on her head; her big gray eyes stared up athim full of a shrinking horror. 

"Poor little woman!" he said, "your big, tender heart will be the deathof you yet. But I've got only good news for you this time. NeitherMortimer nor Alan took the money--it was Cass. "

"They are both innocent?"

"Yes, both. "

"Oh, my God, I thank Thee. " She pulled herself up from the chair, holding to Crane's arm, and looking in his face, said, "You did this;you found the guilty man for me?"

Crane nodded his head; and it came to the girl as she looked, thatthe eyes she had thought narrow in evil grew big and round and full ofhonesty, and soft with gentleness for her. 

"How can I thank you--what can I do or say to repay you?" She knew whatit must have cost the man to clear his rival's name. 

"It was your doing, Miss Allis; it is I who must thank you. You made aman of me, brought more good into my life than had been there for fortyyears. I will be honest. I did not do this of myself, my own free will. In my love for you, and desire to have you with me always, I almostcommitted a crime. I was tempted to conceal the discovery I had made;I knew that if I cleared Mortimer you were lost to me. I struggledwith temptation and fell asleep still not conquering it. In my sleep Idreamed--I don't think it was a dream--it was like a vision--you cameto me, and when I said that Mortimer was innocent, you kissed me on theforehead. I woke then, and the struggle had ceased--the temptationhad passed. I came down here, and Cass has confessed that he took themoney. "

"Would you like it--would you think it wrong--it seems so little for meto do--may I kiss you now, as I did in your dream, and thank you fromthe bottom of my heart for making me so happy? It all seems like a dreamto me now. "

For answer Crane inclined his head, and Allis, putting her hand upon hisshoulder, kissed him on the forehead, and through him went a thrill ofgreat thankfulness, of joy such as he knew would never have come to himhad he gained through treachery even this small token of conquest. 

"There, " he said, taking Allis by the arm, and gently drawing her backto the chair; "now I am repaid a thousandfold for not doing a greatwrong. You have beaten me twice within a few days. I fancy I shouldalmost be afraid to be your husband, you master me so easily. "

"That's Mortimer coming, " Crane said, suddenly, as a step with moreconsistency in its endeavor than pertained to the hostler's, sounded, coming up the stairs. "I sent for him, " he added, seeing the look ofhappy confusion in Allis's face. 

"Come in, " he called cheerily, in answer to a knock on the door. 

"You sent for me--" Then Mortimer stopped suddenly, and stood staringfirst at Allis, then at Crane, alternately, back and forth from one tothe other. 

Crane turned his back upon the younger man and busied himself wondrouslyover the manipulation of a chair. A strange dread crept into Mortimer'sheart; it smothered him; he felt dizzy. Why did Allis look so happy--whywere there smiles on her lips when she must know there were ashesof gloom in his soul? Why was she alone there with Crane? Was it butanother devilish trick of the misfortune that pursued him?

"Good afternoon, Miss" the words stuck in Mortimer's throat, and hecompleted his greeting with a most dreadfully formal bow. 

The girl laughed outright; how droll it was to see a man trying tomake himself unhappy when there was nothing but happiness in the world. Through the open window she could hear the birds singing, and throughit came the perfume of clover-buried fields; across the floor streamedwarm, bright sunlight from a blue sky in which was no cloud. And fromtheir lives, Mortimer's and her own, had been swept the dark cloud--andhere, in the midst of all this joy was her lover with a long, sad face, trying to reproach her with a stiff, awkward bow. 

Her laugh twirled Crane about like a top. He saw the odd situation;there was something incongruous in Mortimer's stiff attitude. Cranehad a big cloud of his own not quite driven from his sky, but a smilehovered on his thin lips. This happiness was worth catching. 

Mortimer noticed the distasteful mirth reflected in the other man'sface, and he repeated with asperity, "You sent for me, sir--may I ask--"

"Will you take a chair, " said Crane, and he pushed the one he had beentoying with toward Mortimer. The latter remained standing. 

Allis sprang forward and caught him by the arm--Crane turned away, suddenly discovering that from the window the main street of Brookfieldwas a most absorbing study. 

"I'm so happy, " began Allis. Mortimer shivered in apprehension. Why hadCrane turned his face away--what was coming? How could she be happy, howcould anyone in the world be happy? But evidently she was. She stolea quick look at Crane--to be exact, Crane's back, for his head andshoulders were through the window. 

Then the girl--she had to raise on her tiptoes--kissed the sad man onthe cheek. I'm ashamed to say that he stared. Were they all mad--was henot standing with one foot in the penitentiary?

She drew him toward the chair, calling to Crane: "Will you please tellMr. Mortimer the good news. I am too happy; I can't. "

A fierce anger surged in Mortimer's heart; it was true, then--hisdisgrace had been too much for Allis. The other had won; but it was toocruel to kiss him. 

Crane faced about, and coming forward, held out his hand to the man ofdistrust. "I hope you'll forgive me. "

Mortimer sprang to his feet, shoving back his chair violently, and stooderect, drawn to his full height, his right hand clenched fiercely at hisside. "Shake hands? No, a thousand times no!" he muttered to himself. 

Crane saw the action, and his own hand dropped. "Perhaps I ask toomuch, " he said, quietly; "I wronged you--"

Mortimer set his teeth and waited. There were great beads ofperspiration on his forehead, and his broad chest set his breathwhistling through contracted nostrils. A pretty misdirected passion wasplaying him. This was why they had sent for him--the girl he would havestaked his life on had been brought to believe in his guilt, and hadbeen won over to his rival. Ah--a new thought; his mind, almost diseasedby unjust accusation, prompted it--perhaps it was to save him frompunishment that Allis had consented to become Crane's wife. 

"But I believed you guilty--" Mortimer started as Crane said this "now Iknow that you are innocent, I ask--"

Mortimer staggered back a step and caught at the chair to steadyhimself. He repeated mechanically the other's words: "You know I'minnocent?"

"Yes, I've found the guilty man. "

"Then Alan--oh, the poor lad! It's a mistake--you are wrong. The boydidn't take the money--I took it. "

Crane looked at him in admiration, an indulgent smile on his lips. 

"Nonsense, my dear sir!" he exclaimed, dryly; "Alan did not take themoney--neither did you. Cass took it, and you wasted a day of the bank'stime covering the crime for him. "

"Cass took it?" asked Mortimer in a dazed way, looking from Crane toAllis. 

"Yes; he has confessed, so you see he's ahead of you in that line"He went on, speaking hurriedly: "I ask you to forgive me now for mysuspicions. Your innocence is completely established. You acted like ahero in trying to shield Alan Porter, and I like men of that stamp. Thethousand dollars you paid in will be restored to you; it is yours. Wewill devise some scheme for clearing up the matter as far as your goodname is concerned that will shield poor Cass from people who have nobusiness in this affair. "

"But how did Cass manage to get the note?"

"Found it on the floor of the vault, he says. "

"I don't see how it could have fallen out of the box, because the threebills were pinned to the note. "

Crane drew forth a pocket book, and opening it took out the bill thathad been stolen. He examined it closely, holding it up in front of thewindow. 

"I think you are mistaken, " he said, "there are no pin holes in thisbill; I see, " he continued, "the pin had not gone through this one;being detached, in handling the box, it has slipped out. "

"It must have, " concurred Mortimer. "I remember in putting the box inthe compartment once I had to turn it on its edge; the bill being loose, as you say, has slipped to the floor, and as the vault was dark I didnot notice it. "

"It doesn't matter, " added Crane. "I must go now. Good-bye, Miss Allis. "

Turning to Mortimer he held out his hand. 

"Good-bye, and long happiness to you both, " he said; "I trust you willthink kindly of me and poor Cass. I am sure we are sorry for what hasbeen done. "

As Crane went down the stairs he wondered why he had coupled himselfwith Cass. Was the difference so slight--had they been together in thesame boat up to the point of that silly, fantastic dream. Perhaps theyhad. 

XLVI

With the going of Crane an awkward restraint came over the two who wereleft; the man who had suffered so much for the woman's sake, and thegirl who had endeavored so much. 

He was like a man suddenly thrust into a new world of freedom; heindulged in a physical manifestation of its exhilaration, drinking ina long, deep draught of the clover-scented air, until his great lungssighed with the plethora. It seemed a lifetime that he had lived in thenoisome atmosphere of a felon's cell. But now the crime had dropped fromhim; a free man in every sense of the word, he could straighten himselfup and drink of the air that was without taint. 

Allis watched Mortimer curiously; she was too happy to speak--just tolook upon him standing there, her undefiled god, her hero, with hisheroism known and applauded, was a suffusing ecstasy. He was sogreat, so noble, that anything she might say would be inane, tawdry, inconsequent; so she waited, patiently happy, taking no count of time, nor the sunshine, nor the lilt of the birds, nor even the dissolution ofconventionality in the unsupervised tete-a-tete. 

The ecstatic magnetism of congenial silence has always a potency, andits spell crept into Mortimer's soul and laid embargo on his tongue. Hecrossed over to Allis, and taking her slender hand in his own, croucheddown on the floor beside her chair, and looked up into her face, justas a great St. Bernard might have done, incapable of articulating thewealth of love and gratitude and faithfulness that was in his heart. 

Even then the girl did not speak. She drew the man's strong rugged headclose up to her face, and nestled her cheek against his. Love withoutwords; love greater than words. It was like a fairy dream; if eitherspoke the gentle gossamer web of it would float away like mist, and ofneeds they must talk of the misery that had passed. 

In the end the girl spoke first, saying like a child having a range ofbut few words, "You are happy now, my hero?"

"Too happy--I almost fear to wake and find that I've been dreaming. "

She kissed him. 

"Yes, it's real, " he answered; "in dreams happiness is not so positiveas this. You did not doubt?" he queried. 

"Never. "

"You would have waited?"

"Forever. "

"And now--and now, we must still wait. "

"Not forever. "

They talked of the wonderful necromancy the gods had used to set theirlives to the sweet music of happiness. How Lauzanne the Despised hadsaved Ringwood to her father; how he had won Alan's supposed price ofredemption for Mortimer; how he had stood sturdy and true to the girlof much faith and all gentleness. And the room became a crypt ofconfessional when she, in penitence, told of her ride on the gallantChestnut. 

Just a span of Fate's hand from these two happy mortals, and twicethe sand had sifted through the hour glass, sat a man all alone in hischamber. On his table was the dust of solitariness; and with his fingerhe wrote in it "Forever. " But he looked fearlessly across the board, forthere sat no grinning demon of temptation, nor remorse, nor fear. But afragrance as of lilacs and of sweet clover coming through an open windowwas in his nostrils; and in his memory was the picture of a face heloved, made like unto an angel's with gratitude, and on his foreheadstill burned, like a purifying fire, a kiss that reached down into hissoul and filled him with the joy of thankfulness.