Chapter 13

“Quite a feeler, Mister Jockey,” thought Langdon to himself; “it's news you want, eh?” Then he answered aloud, with a diplomacy born of many years of turf tuition: “Fairish sort of time; it might have been better, perhaps--a shade under two-twelve. I thought they might have bettered that a couple of seconds. But they'll come on--they'll come on, both of them. If anybody asks you, Westley, The Dutchman was beaten off, see? I don't like to discourage the clever owners that has good 'uns in the Derby” Then he added as a sort of after thought, and with wondrous carelessness:

“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 a soft spot for him, an over-night sellin' purse or somethin, you'll have the 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 boy had thrown a hooded blanket over him, and he was led away. “Send them home, Westley. Now, Mr. Crane, we'll drive back to the house an' have a bit 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 was represented to be, not much account.”

“I guess Diablo's about good enough to win a big handicap, if he happened 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 and twenty-six, and he carried a hundred and twelve; and, besides, had the best 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 freely as 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 man that's had his hand on that saddle for some time, I can tell you.”

“Then Diablo did carry his full weight,” commented Crane, a light breaking 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, and don't shoot off his mouth much, but all the same things will out while ridin' 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 the other twenty pounds to-day. You've got the greatest thing on earth right in your hands now--”

Langdon hesitated for a minute, and then added: “But I guess you knew this all before, or you wouldn't have sent him here.”

“I bought him for a bad horse,” answered Crane, quietly; “but if he turns out well, that's so much to the good. But it's a bit of luck Porter's not having declared him out to save nearly a hundred. He seems to 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 a long price in the winter books.”

“Yes; I'll arrange that,” answered the other, “and I'll take care of you, too. I suppose Westley will take the mount?”

“Surely.”

“Well, you can just give him to understand that he'll be looked after if the 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 do the rest.”

When Crane had gone, Langdon paid further mental tribute to his master's astuteness. “Now I see it all,” he muttered; “the old man just thought to keep me quiet; throw me of the scent till he duplicated the other trial, whenever they pulled it off. Now he's got a sure line on the Black, an' he'll make such a killin' that the books'll remember him for many a day. But why does he keep throwin' that fairy tale into me about buyin' a bad horse to oblige somebody? A man would be a sucker to believe that of Crane; he's not the sort. But one sure thing, he said he'd look after me, an' he will. He'd break a man quick enough, but when he 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 by doublin' on the Boss.”

Langdon's mental analysis of Crane's motives was the outcome of considerable experience. The Banker's past life was not compatible with generous dealing. His act of buying Diablo had been prompted by newborn feelings of regard for the Porters, chiefly Allis; but no man, much less Langdon, would have given him credit for other than the most selfish motives.

True to his resolve, Langdon utterly refused to share his confidences with Jakey Faust.

“We've tried the horses,” he said, “and the Dutchman won, but Crane knows more about the whole business than I do. You go to him, Jake, or wait till he sends for you, an' you'll find out all about it. My game's to 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 a ten-dollar note into Shandy's hand, for he knew the lad was full open to a 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 his knowledge. As to Diablo himself, Shandy gave him a very bad character indeed.

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 good thing all to himself.

Then Langdon had promised to cooperate, now he, too, had closed up like a clam; he was as mute as an oyster.

“Crane is dealin' the cards all the time,” thought Faust; “but there's some game on, sure.”

He determined to back Diablo for himself at the long odds, and chance it.

Two days later Crane received a very illiterate epistle, evidently from a stable-boy; it was unsigned:

“DERE Boss, Yous is gittin it in the neck. de big blak hors he didn't carre the sadel you think the blak hors had on his bak. Yous got de duble cros that time. Der bokie hes axin me wot de blak is good fer der bokie is playin fer to trow yous downe.

“No moar at presen.”

This was the wholly ambiguous communication that Crane had found under his door. There was no stamp, neither place nor date written in the letter; 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 on Diablo while the odds were long enough to make it possible with the outlay of very little capital. He smoked a heavy Manuel Garcia over this new contingency. It did not matter about the saddles. Langdon had confided in him fully. But how had the writer of the ill-spelled missive known of that matter?

Yes, he had better make his bet before these whisperings came to other ears.

But the bookmaker mentioned? That must be Faust. Why was he prowling about among stable lads?

He sent for Faust. When the latter had come, Crane asked Diablo's price for 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, sallow face, as he imparted this information; but he might as well have studied the ingrain paper on the wall; its unfigured surface was not more placid, more devoid of indication, than the smooth countenance he was searching.

Crane remained tantalizingly silent for a full minute; evidently his thoughts had drifted away to some other subject.

“Yes,” said Faust, speaking again to break the trying quiet, “some one's nibblin' at Diablo in the books. I wonder if it's Porter; did he think him a good horse?”

“It can't be Porter, nor any one else who knows Diablo. It's some foolish outsider, tempted by the long odds. I suppose, however, it doesn't matter; in fact, it's all the better. You took that five thousand 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 do with 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 want to back The Dutchman again shortly.”

When Faust had gone, Crane opened the little drawer which held his betting book, took it out, and drew a pencil through the entry he had made opposite Allis's name.

“That's off for a few days, thanks to Mr. Faust,” he thought. Then he ran his eye back over several other entries. “Ah, that's the man--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 eleven o'clock with Hummel; and the result of that interview was that Crane backed Diablo to win him a matter of seventy-five thousand dollars at the liberal odds of seventy-five to one; for Jakey Faust, feeling that he had made a mistake in backing the Black, had laid off all his own bets and sent the horse back in the market to the longer odds. Crane had completely thrown him of his guard.

No sooner had Faust congratulated himself upon having slipped out of his Diablo bets than he heard that a big commission had been most skillfully worked on this outsider for the Brooklyn. In his new dilemma he went to Crane, 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 lighted one.

“He's travelin' up and down in the market,” continues Faust. “He dropped to thirty, then went back to seventy-five; now he's at twenty; I can't make it out.”

“I shouldn't try,” advised Crane, soothingly. “Too much knowledge is even 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 to hang 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 to Gravesend 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 him to 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 aroused Crane's suspicion, and this man of a great cleverness had put him away while he worked a big commission through some one else. The thought was none the less bitter to Faust that it was all his own fault; his super-cleverness.

“An' you don't want me to work a commission for you on Diablo?” he asked, desperately.

“No; I sha'n't bet on him at present. And say, Faust, in future when I want you to do any betting on my horses, on my account, you know, I'll tell you. Understand? You needn't worry, that is--other people. I'll tell you myself.”

“I didn't mean--” Faust had started to try a plausible explanation, but Crane stopped him.

“Never mind; the matter is closed out now.”

“But, sir,” persisted Faust, “if you've got your money all on, can I take a bit now? Is it good business? We've worked together a good deal without misunderstanding before.”

“Yes, we have,” commented Crane.

“Yes; an' I'd like to be in on this now. I didn't mean to forestall you.”

Crane raised his hand in an attitude of supplication for the other man to desist, but Faust was not to be stopped.

“I made a mistake, an' I'm sorry; an' if you will tell me whether Diablo's good business for the Brooklyn, I'll back him now at the shorter price. There's no use of us bein' bad friends.”

“I think Diablo's a fairly good bet,” said Crane, quietly, entirely ignoring the question of friendship.

“It won't be poachin' if I have a bet, then?” asked the Cherub, more solicitous than he had appeared at an earlier stage of the game.

“Poachers don't worry me,” remarked Diablo's owner. “I'm my own game keeper, and they usually get the worst of it. But you go ahead and have your bet.”

“Thank you, there won't be no more bad breaks made by me; but I didn't mean 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 the stable-boy's ill-favored note.

“I wonder who sent me this scrawl? It gave me a pointer, though. I suppose the writer will turn up for his reward; but the devil of it is he'll sell information of this sort to anyone who'll buy. Must weed him out 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 Woman while I think of it. 'Three thousand seven hundred and fifty to fifty, Diablo for the Brooklyn, laid to Miss Allis Porter.'” Then he dated it. “She loses by this transaction, but that won't matter; it will be a pretty good win if it comes off. She may even refuse this, though she shouldn't, for it's a part of the bargain that I was to have a bet on for 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 the winnings. She was probably thinking of gloves. Jingo, she has a lovely hand, I've noticed it; long slim fingers, even the palm is long; sinewy I'll warrant; nothing pudgy about that hand. Hey, Crane, you're silly!” he cried, half audibly, taking himself to task; “doing business in big moneys--a cool seventy-five thousand, if it materializes, perhaps even more--and then slipping off into a mooney dream, vaporing about a girl's slim hand. I suppose that's the love symptom. But at forty! it's hardly my normal condition, I fancy.”

The slim hand beckoned him off into a disjointed reverie. Was he the better for it? What would the end be? Before the new emotion he could look back upon his past struggles with sordid satisfaction. Men in battle were not given to uneasy qualms of compunction, nor questionings as to the method that had led to victory. His life had been one long-drawn-out battle; the financial soldiers that had fallen by the wayside because of his sword play did not interest him; they were dead; being dead, their memory harrassed him not at all. If there were commercial blood stains upon his hand, they were hidden by the glove of success. After a manner he had had peace; now all was disquiet; the turmoil of an awakened gentler feeling clashing with the polemics of self-satisfying selfishness. And all because of a girl! To him that was the peculiar feature of the disturbance in his nature. He, Philip Crane, the strong man of strong men, to be shorn of his indifference to everything but success by a girl unskilled in managing anything but a horse.

“It's all very fine to argue it out with one's self,” he thought, “but I simply can't help it.” He was astonished to find that he was pacing up and down the floor of his apartment. Undoubtedly he was possessed of a tremendous regard for the girl Allis. But why not put it from him; why not conquer himself as he had always done? To let it master him meant the giving up of things that were almost second nature. He could not love the girl as a good woman should be loved, and--and--well, the gray eyes that had their strength because of supreme honesty would surely bring him disquietude. It would indeed be difficult to change his nature much; his habits were almost like leopard's spots; they were grown into the woof of his existence. Even if he won her it must be almost entirely because of a superior diplomacy. Everything told him that his love was not returned. It seemed almost impossible that it should be; there was not more disparity in their years than in their two selves. “All very fine 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 for nothing; love is all compelling; my first master, I salute thee,” this in sarcastic sincerity.

In his strength he relied upon his power to bring forth an answering love, 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 out and get some fresh air, and I will.”

XXII

It was the middle of May. Down in the earth the strong heart of reawakened nature throbbed with a pulsating force that sent new life forth on its errand of rejuvenation. The apple trees had peeped out with pink eyes, and seeing the summer maiden stalking through the land, had thrown off their timid coyness and shaken loose a drapery of white, all rose-tinted and green-shaded, that turned their broad-acred homes into fairy ball rooms. And for music the bees, and the birds, and shrill fife-playing frogs volunteered out of sheer joyousness of life.

Tiny shavings of green wag, the gentle spring grass, lay strewn about the ballroom floor, and glistened in the warm light that was of one high-hung chandelier, the sun.

But all the newborn awakening, all the sweet strength of soul and life that was borne to the waiting land on the wings of soft winds, brought not the hoped-for allotment to John Porter.

At Ringwood they had waited for the springtime. That would work the cure the doctor's skill had failed of. A man of outdoors, it was the house caging that was killing him, keeping him back.

These things were said; but Doctor Rathbone only shook his wise, old head, with its world of good sense, and answered: “It is none of these things. The trouble is in his mind; he is fretting. A sensitive man, well in body, may be brought to illness by anticipated disaster. That could not have been the case with John Porter well, but John Porter ill is quite a different matter. It's as I have said before, give him hope, win him races.”

So Allis was really glad at the near approach of the time of her trial. The day was coming fast, soon, when She was to go forth with her little band of horses, as a man almost in everything, to strive for the fulfillment of that which had been put upon her.

The nearness of the not-to-be-shirked responsibility drove into her veins an unlooked-for exhilaration of strength. She had thought that she would look with dread upon the going away from Ringwood; that a feeling much akin to stage fright would quite unnerve her at the very last. The riding at home, the horse lore, and the almost constant companionship with her father, always among horses and horsemen, though it appeared somewhat dreadful to the village folks had been as nothing to her. Now that she needed strength for the newer, stranger endeavor, it came to her, even as the blossoms came to the swaying apple trees, great and small.

What wouldn't she do? she asked herself many times, to bring a strength-giving peace to her father's troubled mind. Even Mrs. Porter, implacably bitter against racing, must condone what was so evidently Allis's study, if it tended to their happiness; the mother had softened somewhat in the austerity of her opposition.

Evening after evening they had discussed the gloomy outlook, with, always from Allis's side, a glimmer of hopeful light. The girl's patient resolve had worn down the mother's pessimistic dread of anticipated evil.

“You know, Allis,” she had said, “how I look upon this thoroughly unchristian pursuit. Nothing can justify it from a true woman's point of view, absolutely nothing--not even poverty. I would willingly suffer the loss of all we possess--that it is so little is due to this dreadful, immoral horse racing--but I would sacrifice even what remains, if your father were well and willing to start afresh in some occupation befitting his noble character. I would help him, to endure every hardship, even deprivation, without a murmur.”

“But, mother,” interrupted Allis, “it's impossible now; I think it always was, for, as you know, father knew nothing of other business. Nothing would tempt him to be dishonest in racing, and he always enjoyed it because of his love for horses. But with all that, mother, if he had been in a position to please you, if he had felt that we--you, and Alan, and I--would not have suffered, I am sure he would have listened to your pleadings and given it up. He might perhaps have gone on breeding horses, for you wouldn't have objected to that, would you, mother?”

“No, it's the wicked associations of the race course which I felt degraded a man of your father's character. But I'm not going to dishearten you, Allis, nor hamper you now in your brave acceptance of the task that has come to you, because of wrong done before. It is distasteful to me, of course; it would be to any right-minded mother, to have her daughter in a position so repellant; but, strange as it may seem I'd rather you went with the horses than Alan.”

“Alan couldn't go, mother; he couldn't give up his place in the bank; besides, father has purposely kept him from racing.”

“I know it, Allis; I wasn't thinking of that, though. Alan has the gambling spirit born in him; it's not his fault; it's the visitation of the sins of the father upon the son. It came to your father in just the same way. No, I'm not even blaming your father for it; it has come down from generation to generation; but there has never been dishonor, thank God--there has never been a dishonest Porter in my husband's family, and, please God, there never may be. That would be too much! It would kill me. And it's better that you go, Allis, for Alan is but a boy, and the temptations to a young man at the race course must be almost impossible to resist. Besides, your going may bring new life to your father; the doctor is so hopeful--he says it will. He was afraid that he had shocked me, when he said you were to win races for your father's good. It displeased the pastor; I know it did, but perhaps he doesn't quite understand how much we have at stake.”

“He's so narrow, mother.”

“The Reverend Mr. Dolman thinks only of our souls, daughter; naturally, too, and one can hardly be a Christian and race horses. But we have got so much to consider. I hope I am not wrong in feeling glad that you are able to look after our interests. I should like to pray for your success even, Allis. It might be wrong; I might feel guilty; but if it makes your father better, don't you think I'd be forgiven?”

“I'm sure you would, mother, and it would make me stronger. I'm so glad. I didn't want to displease you. I wanted you to feel that I was doing right. It will be lighter now; I sha'n't mind what anybody says if you're with me, mother. Now everything will come out right; I know it will. And if it does, if father gets strong, just out of thankfulness, I'll coax him to try something else, for your sake, mother.”

“No, for his own, Allis. I think only of him in this matter.” The prospective commencement of the racing campaign seemed to foreshadow a complete fulfillment of the doctor's prophecy should success smile upon this modern Joan of Arc; for the bustle of preparation was music to the ears of the stricken man, and he fought the lethargic fever of discontent that was over him until his eyes brightened and his face took on a hopeful look of interest.

“Brave little woman,” he said to Allis, “it's a shame for a great hulk as I am to lie up here, while you fight the sharks that were almost too much for your father.”