Chapter 18

“Can I ride Lauzanne now?” the girl asked, and her voice choked a little--it might have been the nervous excitement, or thankfulness at the success of her plan in this its first stage.

“Do they know at home?” the Trainer asked.

“No, nobody is to know but you, Mr. Dixon--you and Mrs. Dixon.”

This suggested a thought to the Trainer. “The good wife's at work in the kitchen; I'll bring her in. Perhaps she'd like to hire a help,” and he chuckled as he opened a door and called, “Come here for a minute. This is a boy”--he turned his head away--“I'm takin' on for Lauzanne.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Dixon. Then, with severe politeness, “Good evenin', young man.”

The two figures in male attire broke into a laugh simultaneously. The good lady, oblivious to the humorous side of her greeting, flushed in anger. “Appears to be mighty funny,” she said. “What's the joke?”

“Oh, nuthin',” replied the husband, speaking hastily. “Can you give the lad a bed? He wants to bunk here.”

“Why, Andy, you know I can't. There's only Miss Allis's room.”

“Give her--him that.”

“Are you crazy, Andy?”

“It's too bad, Mrs. Dixon; I sha'n't let your husband tease you any more. I am Allis; but I'm glad you didn't know.”

“Oh, Miss Allis, where's your beautiful hair gone? Surely you didn't cut that off just for a joke?”

Then she was taken fully into their confidence; and before Allis retired Dixon had been quite won over to the plan of Allis's endeavor.

In the morning the Trainer asked the girl whether she would ride Lauzanne a working gallop to get accustomed to the new order of things, or would she just wait until race day and take her place in the saddle then.

“I'm afraid Mike'll spot you,” he said--“even Carter may.”

“I'll ride to-day,” declared Allis; “I musn't take any chances of losing this race through my inexperience. Even Lauzanne will hardly know me, I'm afraid. Mike and Carter needn't see much of me--I can slip away as soon as I've ridden the gallop.”

“Here's a boy's sweater, then,” said Dixon; “the collar'll half hide your face. I'll get a pair of ridin' breeches an' boots for you by tomorrow. The little mare's in for it sure,” he added; “her legs are swellin', an' she's off her feed--just nibbles at a carrot. I feel as bad as if it was a child that was sick, she's that gentle. She can't start, an' I'll just tell Redpath that he can take another mount if he gets it. You're still bound to ride the Chestnut?” he asked, by way of assurance.

“Yes, I am.”

“Well, we'll get five pounds off the weight for 'prentice allowance--that's somethin'. I'll arrange about a permit for you. What did you say your name was, mister?”

“Al Mayne, please, sir,” this in the humble tone of a stable-boy.

“Well, Miss--Al, I mean--you can carry Lauzanne around the course at nine o'clock sharp; then you'd better come back here an' rest up all day--lay low.”

“A new boy, I'm tryin',” Dixon explained to Gaynor, after he lifted a little lad to Lauzanne's back at the paddock gate, and they stood watching the big Chestnut swing along with his usual sluggish stride.

“He's got good hands,” said Mike, critically, “though he seems a bit awkward in the saddle. Ye couldn't have a better trial horse fer a new b'y. If Lauzanne's satisfied with him he can roide onythin'.”

When Allis, who was now Al Mayne, the boy, came around and back to the paddock, she slipped quietly from the horse, loitered carelessly about for a few minutes, and then made her way back to Dixon's quarters. Nobody had paid any attention to the modest little boy. Riding lads were as plentiful as sparrows; one more or less called for no comment, no investigation. Even Mike lost interest in the new boy in wondering why Miss Allis had not made her usual appearance.

“How did the horse like it?” Dixon asked of the girl when he returned home.

“Oh, he knew. I whispered in his ear as we cantered along, and he'll be all right--he'll keep my secret.”

“Well, I think he's due for a pipe opener to-morrow. It's just three days till the Derby, an' we've got to give him a strong workout. Besides, it'll put you next what you've got to do in the race. To-morrow mornin' you had better canter him just slow around once, an' then send him a full mile-an'-aquarter as though there was money hung up for it. I'll catch his time, an' we'll get wise to what he can do.”

This programme was carried out; and as Dixon looked thrice at his watch after the gallop to make sure that he was not mistaken in the time, 2:11, he began to wonder if, after all, the girl was not nearly right in her prophetic hope that the despised Lauzanne would win the Brooklyn Derby.

“He can move; he surprised me,” the Trainer said to Allis as she dismounted. “He's not blown, either; he's as fresh as a daisy. Gad! we'll do those blackguards up yet, I believe.”

The gallop had attracted Mike's attention also. As Allis moved away he called after her, “I say, b'y, hould on a minute. What's yer name, ennyway?”

“Al,” answered the small voice.

“Well, by me faith, ye didn't put up no bad roide. Ye handled that horse foine. Don't run away, lad,” he added, hurrying after the retreating Allis.

Before she could escape him, he had her by the arm, and turned about face to face. Even then he didn't recognize her, for Allis had taken a most subtle precaution in her make-up. The delicate olive of her cheeks was hidden under a more than liberal allowance of good agricultural cosmetique. It had been well rubbed in, too, made of a plastic adherence by the addition of mucilage.

“Lord, what a doirty face!” exclaimed Mike. “But ye kin ride, b'y; so dirt don't count; clean ridin's the thing.”

If Allis hadn't laughed in his face, being full of the happiness of hope, Mike would not have recognized her--even then he didn't hit it off quite right.

“Alan Porter!” he gasped. “Bot' t'umbs up! Is it ye, b'y?”

“Hush!” and a small warning finger was held up.

“Don't fear, b'y, that I'll give it away. Mum's the word wit' me. But I'm dahmned if I t'ought ye could roide like that. It's jus' in the breed, that's what it is; ye take to it as natural as ducks--” Mike had a habit of springing half-finished sentences on his friends. “Yer father could roide afore ye; none better, an' Miss Allis can sit a horse foiner nor any b'y as isn't a top-notcher. But this beats me, t'umbs up, if it doesn't. I onderstand,” he continued, as Allis showed an inclination to travel, “ye don't want the push to get on to ye. They won't, nayther--what did ye say yer name was, sonny?”

“Al Mayne.”

“Ye'r a good b'y, Al. I hope Dixon lets ye roide the Chestnut in the Derby. I'd give wan av me legs--an' I needs 'em bot'--to see ye beat out that gang av highway robbers that got at the mare. They'll not git at the Chestnut, for I'll slape in the stall me self.”

As Allis moved away, Mike stood watching the neat figure.

“That's the game, eh?” he muttered to himself; “the gal don't trust Redpath no more'n I do; palaver don't cut no ice wit' her. The b'y didn't finish on Lucretia, an' that's all there is to it. But how's Alan goin' to turn the trick in a big field of rough ridin' b'ys? If it was the gurl herself” a sudden brilliant idea threw its strong light through Mike's brain pan. He took a dozen quick shuffling steps after Allis, then stopped as suddenly as he had started. “Mother a' Moses! but I believe it's the gurl; that's why the Chestnut galloped as if he had her on his back. Jasus! he had. Ph-e-e-w-w!” he whistled, a look of intense admiration sweeping over his leather-like face. “Bot' t'umbs! if that isn't pluck. There isn't a soul but meself'll git ontil it, an' she all but fooled me.”

XXXII

The news that Lucretia was sick had got about. The Porter's stable traveled out in the betting for the Brooklyn Derby until a backer--if there had been one--could have written his own price, and got it.

Langdon had informed Crane of this change in their favor, though he said nothing about the deal with Shandy which had brought about the poisoning of the mare.

“I'm sorry that Porter's mare has gone wrong,” Crane said. “I think we would have won anyway, but it'll just about ruin them.”

Figuratively, Langdon closed one eye and winked to himself. Crane must know that it was his implied desires that had led up to the stopping of Lucretia. Langdon thought Crane just about the most complete hypocrite he'd ever met; that preacher face of his could look honorably pious while its owner raked in a cool forty thousand over the Trainer's dirty work. However, that cut no figure, it was his ten thousand dollars Langdon was after.

Just as they thought they had destroyed the chances of their strongest opponent, came a new disturbing feature. Other eyes than Dixon's has seen Lauzanne's strong gallop; other watchers than his had ticked of the extraordinary good time, 2:11 for the mile and a quarter, with the horse seemingly running well within himself, never urged a foot of the journey, and finishing strong, was certainly almost good enough to warrant his winning.

This information had been brought to Langdon, but he also had observed the gallop. And the same boy was to ride Lauzanne in the race, he understood, for Redpath had been released, and was looking for another mount. It wasn't in the natural order of things that one small stable would have in it two horses good enough to win the Derby, especially when one of them was a cast-off; but there was the gallop; time, like figures, didn't lie, not often; and as he thought of it Langdon admitted that he had never seen such an improvement in a horse as had been made in Lauzanne. Shandy had told him that it was Miss Porter's doing, that she had cured him of his sulky moods; the gallop Langdon had witnessed seemed to bear out the truth of this. What was he to do? They couldn't repeat the trick they had played on Lucretia. The Dutchman might win; he had worked the full Derby distance, a mile and a half, in 2:45, nearly all out at the finish. Lauzanne's gallop was only a mile and a quarter; he might not be able to stay the additional quarter. But there was ten thousand dollars at stake--for Langdon. He sought to discover the identity of Lauzanne's rider; but nobody knew him--Dixon had picked him up somewhere. Perhaps he could be got at; that would simplify matters greatly.

The morning after her fast work on Lauzanne, Allis, draped as she was into the personification of Al Mayne, arrived at the course before their horses. As she was leaning over the paddock rail waiting for Lauzanne to come, Langdon, who had evidently determined upon a course of action, sauntered up carelessly to the girl and commenced to talk. After a free preliminary observation he said, “You're the boy that's ridin' for Andy Dixon, ain't you?”

The small figure nodded its head.

“I seen you gallop that Chestnut yesterday. Where you been ridin--you're a stranger here, I reckon?”

“Out West,” answered Allis, at a hazard.

“Oh, San Francisco, eh? Are you engaged to Dixon?”

“I'm just on trial.”

“Goin' to ride the Chestnut in the race?”

Again the boy nodded; under the circumstances it wasn't wise to trust too much to speech.

“He ain't no good--he's a bad horse. I guess I've got the winner of that race in my stable. If he wins, I'd like to sign you for a year. I like the way you ride. I ain't got no good lightweight. I might give you a thousand for a contract, an' losin' and winnin' mounts when you had a leg up. How do you like ridin' for Dixon?” he continued, the little chap not answering his observations.

“I ain't goin' to ride no more for him after this race,” answered the other, quite truthfully enough, but possessed of a curiosity to discover the extent of the other's villainy.

“I don't blame you. He's no good; he don't never give his boys a chance. If you win on the Chestnut, like as not they'll just give you the winnin' mount. That ain't no good to a boy. They ain't got no money, that's why. The owner of my candidate, The Dutchman, he's a rich man, an' won't think nothin' of givin' a retainer of a thousand if we won this race. That'll mean The Dutchman's a good horse, and we'll want a good light boy to ride him, see?”

Allis did see. Langdon was diplomatically giving her as A1 Mayne to understand that if she threw the race on Lauzanne, she would get a place in their stable at a retainer of a thousand dollars.

“We can afford it if we win the race,” he continued, “for we stand a big stake. Come and see me any time you like to talk this over.”

After he had gone, just as Allis was leaving the rail, she was again accosted; this time by Shandy. She trembled an instant, fearing that the small red-lidded ferret eyes would discover her identity. But the boy was too intent on trying to secure his ill-earned five hundred dollars to think of anything else.

“Good mornin', boy,” he said, cheerily. “I used to be in Dixon's stable. It's hell; and he's a swipe. I see my boss talkin' to you just now. Did he put you next a good thing?”

Allis nodded her head, knowingly.

“He's all right. So's the other one--the guy as has got the mun; he's got a bank full of it. I'm on to him; his name's Crane--”

Allis started.

“You don't know him,” continued the imp; “he's too slick to go messin' about. But if the old man promised you anything, see, God blast me, you'll git it. Not like that other skin-flint hole where you don't git nothin'. I stand in five hundred if our horse wins the Derby.”

“Do you ride him?” asked Al Mayne.

“Ride nothin'. I don't have to. I've did my job already.”

“I don't believe they'll give you five hundred for nothin',” said Allis, doubtingly, knowing that the boy's obstinate nature, if he were crossed, would probably drive him into further explanation.

“Say, you're a stiff. What'd the ole man want you to do--pull Lauzanne?”

Allis nodded.

“I knowed it. What was the use of stoppin' the mare an' let the Chestnut spoil the job?”

“Is that what you get the five hundred for?” asked Allis, a sudden suspicion forcing itself upon her.

“Say, what d' you take me fer, a flat car? But she's sick, ain't she? An' you jes' take care of the Chestnut now, an' I'll give you a hundred out of my five, God bli' me if I don't.”

As he spoke Shandy looked hastily about to see that no one was listening, then he continued: “If you give me the double cross an' peach, I'll split yer head open.” His small eyes blazed with venomous fury. “Besides, it won't do no good, my word's as good as yours. But I'll give you the hundred, s'help me God! I will, if you don't ride the Chestnut out. Mum's the word,” he added, bolting suddenly, for Dixon had entered the paddock with his horses.

With the horses also came Mike Gaynor. While their blankets were being taken off and saddles adjusted, he came over to Allis. There was a suppressed twinkle of subverted knowledge in his weatherbeaten eyes.

“Good mornin', Al,” he said, nodding in a very dignified manner, and putting a strong accent on the name.

Now Mike had determined to keep from the girl the fact that he had penetrated her disguise. With proper Irish gallantry, crude as it might be in its expression, but delicate enough in its motive, he reasoned that his knowledge might make her uncomfortable.

“I see that fly-by-night divil Shandy talkin' to ye as I come in. What new mischief is he up to now?”

“He wants me to pull Lauzanne.”

“He ain't got no gall, has he? That come from headquarters; it's Langdon put him up to that.”

“He was talkin' to me, too.”

“I t'ought he would be. But he didn't know ye, Miss Allis--”

Heavens! It was out. Mike's sun-tanned face turned brick-red; he could have bitten off his unruly Irish tongue. The girl stared at him helplessly, her cheeks, that were scarlet, tingling under the hot rush of blood.

“There ye are, an' believe me, I didn't mean it. I was goin' to keep me mouth shut, but I never could do that.”

“You knew then, yesterday?”

“Indade I didn't, an' that's a good sign to ye nobody'll know. But whin I t'ought wit' meself I knowed that Alan couldn't ride Lauzanne the way ye did; an' ye didn't deny ye was him, an' if ye wasn't him ye must be yerself, see?” which more or less lucid explanation seemed to relieve Mike's mind mightily. “I think ye're Jes doin' roight, Miss--Al, I mean; I must get used to that name; s'help me, I believe ye'll win on the Chestnut--that gallop was good enough.”

“Do you think I can do it, Mike, among all those jockeys?”

“Sure thing, ye can, A--Al, me b'y; he won't need no ridin' in yer hands; all ye'll have to do is sit still an' keep him straight. He'll win the race in the stretch, an' there won't be many there to bother--they'll all be beat off. Now, it's a good thing that I do know about this, for I'll just kape close to ye an' kape any wan that's likely to spot ye away, if I have to knock him down.”

Mike had worked himself up to a fine frenzy of projected endeavor; he cast about for further services he could render his admired mistress.

“An' ye know Carson the starter; he's jes the loveliest Irishman; there isn't a b'y on earth could git an inch the best av it from him on a start, not if they was to give him gold enough to weigh a horse down. But I'll jes' tip him the wink that ye'r a gurl, and--”

“Mike, what are you saying? Do you mean to ruin everything?”

The rosy hue of eager joyousness that had crept into Gaynor's suntanned face vanished; his jaw drooped, and a pathetic look of sheepish apology followed.

“That's so,” he ejaculated, mournfully; “bot' tumbs up! but it's a pity. Carson's an Irish gintleman, an' if I could till him ye was a gurl, he'd knock the head plumb off any b'y that 'ud bother ye. Ye'd git away well, too.”

Then the girl told Mike all that Shandy and Langdon had said. It only confirmed Mike's opinion that between them they had poisoned Lucretia. He felt that with a little more evidence he would be able to prove both crimes--the one with Diablo and the one with Lucretia.

The Brooklyn Derby was to be run the next day. Allis was glad that it was so near; she dreaded discovery. She was like a hunted hare, dodging everyone she fancied might discover her identity. She would have to run the gauntlet of many eyes while weighing for the race, and at the time of going out; even when she returned, especially if she won. But in the excitement over the race, people would not have time to devote to a strange jockey's visage. She could quite smear her face with dirt, for that seemed a natural condition where boys were riding perhaps several races in one afternoon. The jockey cap with its big peak well pulled down over her head would add materially to her disguise. Mike would fetch and carry for her, so that she would be in evidence for very few minutes at most. Dixon even, opposed to the idea as he had been at first, now assured her quite confidently that nobody would make her out.

“It's the horses they look at,” he said, “and the colors. An apprentice boy doesn't cut much ice, I can tell you. Why, I've been racin' for years,” he went on with the intent of giving her confidence, “an' many a time I see a boy up on a horse that must have rode on the tracks over a hundred times, an' I can't name him to save my neck.”

At any rate there was nothing more to do until she made the great endeavor, until she went to the track at the time set for the Brooklyn Derby, dressed in the blue jacket with the white stars of her father's racing colors; that was the plan adopted. A buggy, with Mike driving, would take her straight to the paddock quite in time for the race.

XXXIII

After Crane left the money for Porter's note with Mortimer the latter took the three one-thousand-dollar bills, pinned them to the note, placed them in a cigar box and put the box away carefully in the bank safe, to remain there until the 14th of June, when it became due. Incidentally Mortimer mentioned this matter to Alan Porter.

Crane in writing to the cashier about other affairs of the bank touched upon the subject of Porter's obligation, stating that he had left the money with Mr. Mortimer to meet the note when it matured.

The day before the Derby, the 12th of the month, Alan asked his day's leave and got it. The cashier more readily granted Alan's request, as Crane had intimated in his letter that it would please him if the lad were to have a holiday.

Alan went up to New York that evening. Earlier in the day he somewhat hesitatingly confided to Mortimer that he had backed Lucretia when she was well and looked to have a good chance to win her race; now she was scratched, and his money was lost. Bearing in mind what Crane had said about The Dutchman's chances of winning, even with Lucretia in the race, he felt now that it appeared almost like a certainty for Crane's horse. If he could have a bet on The Dutchman he would surely recoup his losses. Alan explained all these racing matters very minutely and with great earnestness to Mortimer, for the latter was quite unfamiliar with the science of race gambling. Having stated his predicament and hoped-for relief, as an excuse for so doing, he wound up by asking his companion for a loan of two hundred dollars.

Mortimer had little less horror of betting and its evil influence than Mrs. Porter, but under the circumstances he would perhaps have complied with the boy's request had he been provided with sufficient funds. As it was, he said: “I don't like the idea of lending you money to bet with, Alan; your mother wouldn't thank me for doing so; besides, if you lost it you'd feel uncomfortable owing me the money. At any rate, I haven't got it. I couldn't lend you two hundred, or half of it. I suppose I haven't got a hundred to my credit.”

“Oh, never mind then,” answered Alan, angrily, stiffening up, because of Mortimer's lecture.

“I'll lend you what I've got.”

“I don't want it. I can get it some other place.”

“You'd better take--”

“Take nothing--I don't want it.”

“Very well, I'm sorry I can't oblige you. But take my advice and don't bet at all; it'll only get you into trouble.”

“Thanks; I don't need your advice. I was a fool to ask you for the money.”

“I say, Alan,” began Mortimer, in a coaxing tone.

“Please don't 'Alan' me any more. I can get along without your money and without your friendship; I don't want either.”

Mortimer remained silent. What was the use of angering the boy further? He would come to see that he had meant it in good part, and would be all right in a day or two.

During the rest of the day Alan preserved a surly distance of manner, speaking to Mortimer only once--a constrained request for a bunch of keys in the latter's possession which unlocked some private drawers in the vault.

The next morning it suddenly occurred to Mortimer that Porter's note fell due that day--either that day or the next, he wasn't sure. The easiest way to settle the question was to look at the date on the note.

He stepped into the vault, took out the little cigar box, opened it, and as he handled the crisp papers a sudden shock of horror ran through his frame. One of the bills was gone; there were only two one-thousand-dollar notes left.

The discovery paralyzed him for an instant. He was responsible; the money had been left in his charge. Then he looked at the note; it matured the next day. All the money had been in the box the morning before, for he had looked at it. Only the cashier and Alan Porter knew that it was in the vault.

The whole dreadful truth came clearly to Mortimer's mind with absolute conviction. Alan, infatuated with the prospect of winning a large sum over The Dutchman, and failing to borrow from him, had taken the money.