Chapter 20

“Not yet.”

“Are ye goin' to?”

“I don't know. Do you think Lauzanne might come in first?”

A slight smile relaxed the habitually drawn muscles of Mike's grim visage; it was moons since he had heard anybody talk of a horse “coming in first;” he was indeed a green bettor, this, young man of the counting house. What was he doing there betting at all, Mike wondered. It must be because of his interest in the girl, his reason answered.

“I tink he'll win if he does his best for her.”

“Does his best for who?”

Mike got to cover; his ungoverned tongue was always playing him tricks.

“Miss Allis is managin' the horses,” he explained, very deliberately, “an' there's a new b'y up on Lauzanne's back, d'ye onderstand; an' if the Chestnut doesn't sulk, does his best fer the young misthress that'll be watchin' him here in the stand wit' tears in her eyes, he moight win--d'ye onderstand?”

Yes, Mortimer understood; it seemed quite clear, for Mike had been to some pains to cover up the slip he had made.

“Now I must go,” he continued; “an' ye needn't come in the paddock--if the b'y is there, I'll sind him out.”

When Alan's seeker returned to Old Bill, he said, “Mr. Gaynor thinks your choice might come in first.”

“Why was Irish steerin' you clear of de paddock?” asked the other.

“I suppose it was to save me the expense of buying a ticket for it.”

The other man said nothing further, but the remembrance of Mike's wink convinced him that this was not the sole reason.

They waited for young Porter's appearance, but he did not come. “The geezer yer waitin' fer is not in dere or he'd a-showed up,” said Old Bill; “an' if yer goin' to take de tip, we'd better skip to de ring an' see what's doin'.”

Mortimer had once visited the stock exchange in New York. He could not help but think how like unto it was the betting ring with its horde of pushing, struggling humans, as he wormed his way in, following close on Old Bill's heels. There was a sort of mechanical aptness in his leader's way of displacing men in his path. Mortimer realized that but for his guide he never would have penetrated beyond the outer shell of the buzzing hive. Even then he hoped that he might, by the direction of chance, see Alan Porter. The issue at stake, and the prospect of its solution through his unwonted betting endeavor, was dispelling his inherent antipathy to gambling; he was becoming like one drunken with the glamour of a new delight; his continued desire to discover young Porter was more a rendering of tithes to his former god of chastity which he was about to shatter.

Two days before betting on horse races was a crime of indecent enormity; now it seemed absolutely excusable, justified, almost something to be eagerly approved of. Their ingress, though strenuous, was devoid of rapidity; so, beyond much bracing of muscles, there was little to take cognizance of except his own mental transformation. Once he had known a minister, a very good man indeed, who had been forced into a fight. The clergyman had acted his unwilling part with such muscular enthusiasm that his brutish opponent had been reduced to the lethargic condition of inanimate pulp. Mortimer compared his present exploit with that of his friend, the clergyman; he felt that he was very much in the same boat. He was eager to have the bet made and get out into the less congested air; his companions of the betting ring were not men to tarry among in the way of moral recreation.

The mob agitated itself in waves; sometimes he and Old Bill were carried almost across the building by the wash of the living tide as it set in that direction; then an undertow would sweep them back again close to their starting point. The individual members of the throng were certainly possessed of innumerable elbows, and large jointed knees, and boots that were forever raking at his heels or his corns. They seemed taller, too, than men in the open; strive as he might he could see nothing--nothing but heads that topped him in every direction. Once the proud possessor of a dreadful cigar of unrivaled odor became sandwiched between him and his fellow-pilgrim; he was down wind from the weed and its worker, and the result was all but asphyxiation.

At last they reached some sort of a harbor; it was evidently an inlet for which his pilot had been sailing. A much composed man in a tweed suit, across which screamed lines of gaudy color, sat on a camp stool, with a weary, tolerant look on his browned face; in his hand was a card on which was penciled the names of the Derby runners with their commercial standing in the betting mart.

Old Bill craned his neck over the shoulder of the sitting man, scanned the book, and turning to Mortimer said, “Larcen's nine to one now; dey're cuttin' him--wish I'd took tens; let's go down de line.”

They pushed out into the sea again, and were buffeted of the human waves; from time to time Old Bill anchored for a few seconds in the tiny harbor which surrounded each bookmaker; but it was as though they were all in league--the same odds on every list.

“It's same as a 'sociation book,” he grunted; “de cut holds in every blasted one of 'em. Here's Jakey Faust,” he added, suddenly; “let's try him.”

“What price's Laxcen?” he asked of the fat bookmaker.

“What race is he in?” questioned the penciler.

“Din race; what you givin' me!”

“Don't know the horse.”

Mortimer interposed. “The gentleman means Lauzanne,” he explained.

Faust glared in the speaker's face. “Why th' 'll don't he talk English then; I'm no Chinaman, or a mind reader, to guess what he wants. Lauzanne is nine to one; how much dye want?”

“Lay me ten?” asked Old Bill of the bookmaker.

“To how much?”

“A hun'red; an' me frien' wants a hun'red on, too.”

“I'll do it,” declared Faust, impatiently. “Ten hundred to one, Lauzanne!” he called over his shoulder to his clerk, taking the bettor's money; “an' the number is--?”

“Twenty-five, tree-four-six!” answered Old Bill. “Pass him yer dust,” he continued, turning to his companion.

The latter handed his money to Faust.

“Lauzanne!” advised Old Bill.

“A thousand-to-hundred-Lauzanne, win; an' the number is” he stretched out his hand, and turning over Mortimer's dangling badge, read aloud, “Twenty-five, three-five-seven.”

He took a sharp look at the two men; his practised eye told him they were not plungers, more of the class that usually bet ten dollars at the outside; they were evidently betting on information; two one-hundred-dollar bets coming together on Lauzanne probably meant stable money.

“Let's git out, mister,” cried Old Bill, clutching Mortimer's arm.

“Don't I get anything--a receipt, or--”

Faust heard this and laughed derisively. “You won't need nothin' to show for this money,” he said.

“We'll be roun' at de back in a few minutes fer a couple of t'ou',” retorted Old Bill. “Let's cut trough here,” he added to his companion, making a passage between the bookmakers.

Bill's knowledge of the local geography was good, and skirting the crowd they were soon out on the lawn.

“Let's watch de parade,” Mortimer's adjutant suggested, and he led the way down to the course, where they stood against the rail, waiting.

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 the course half an hour before the time set for the Derby. Her face was as satisfactorily disguised with dust as though she had ridden three races.

Mike assiduously attended to every detail; even the weighing, thanks to his officious care, was a matter of not more than one minute. The girl's weight was one hundred and ten pounds, the saddle brought it up to one hundred and thirteen. She would have to ride at least two pounds overweight, for the horse's impost was one hundred and eleven. Lauzanne was being led in a circle by a boy, so Allis shielded herself from the general gaze in his empty stall. She felt quite sure that nobody there would recognize her, unless, perhaps, Philip Crane. He was rarely seen in the paddock, but might this day come out to view The Dutchman. The latter horse came in for a great deal of attention, for he had been steadily backed down to the position of equal favorite with White Moth.

At last there was the summons to saddle, and Lauzanne was brought into the stall by Dixon. Then the door was shrouded by an ever-changing semicircle of curious observers. Allis gave a little start and turned her head away as Crane, pushing through the others, stood just inside the stall and spoke to Dixon.

“Your horse looks very well; I hope you win, if I don't.”

“He's as good as we could make him,” answered the Trainer, as he adjusted the weight cloth.

“Is Miss Porter here?” were Crane's next words, quite in the tone of a casually interested friend.

“She may be in the stand,” Dixon answered, without turning his head. Mike had deliberately interposed his body between Allis and the doorway. To the girl's relief, without further comment, Crane quietly moved away.

“Excuse me, Al, fer standin' in front av ye,” said Mike, “but these outsiders is enough to make a b'y narvous the way they stare at him. Alan Porter was in the paddock a minute ago askin' fer his sister, but I hustled him out, telling him ye--I mean she--was in the stand.”

“Thank you, Mike; you're a good friend,” replied the girl, gratefully.

Dixon had never taken so much care over the preparation of a horse for a race in all his life; and at last everything was as perfect as it could possibly be made. Lauzanne's behavior gladdened the girl's heart; he was as supremely indifferent to the saddling, to the staring of the people, to the scent of battle that was in the soft summer air, as though he were in his own stable at home. Not a muscle of his huge flank trembled. Once, as the bridle rein was loosened for an instant, he half turned in the stall, curved his neck and stretched his golden nozzle toward the small figure in blue silk, as though he fain would make sure by scent that one of his natural enemies, a man jockey, had not been thrust upon him. Allis understood this questioning movement, and reaching out her hand rubbed the gray velvet of his nose. But for the restraining rein, tightened quickly by the boy who held him, Lauzanne would have snuggled his head against his little mistress.

“They understand each other,” said Dixon to Mike, in an undertone; “we'll get all that's in him this trip.”

“Bot' t'umbs up! if he doesn't come home alone I'll eat me hat. The sharks'll get a knock this journey, that'll make 'em take a tumble to themselves.”

Dixon stepped back to the corner where Allis was and said: “I guess I can't give you no orders. He's a bit sluggish at the post, an' a few false breaks won't hurt him none. Just don't be afraid, that's all. A mile an' a half's a long journey, an' you'll have plenty of time to take their measure. He's sure to get away last, but that won't matter; there'll be plenty of openin's to get through after you've gone a mile. Just keep your eye on The Dutchman--he's a stayer from 'way back; an' Westley may kid you that he's beat comin' up the stretch, for he's slick as they make them, an' then come with a rattle at the finish an' nose you out on the post. Don't never let up once you're into the stretch; if you're ten lengths ahead don't let the Chestnut down, but keep a good holt on him, an' finish as though they was all lapped on your quarter. There's a horse in the race I don't understand; he can no more get a mile an' a half than I could; it's the Indian, an' why they're puttin' up the startin' price beats me, unless”--and he lowered his voice to a whisper--“there's a job to carry Lauzanne, or White Moth, or somethin' off their feet. Just watch the Indian, an' don't let him shut you in on the rail if you can help it. They've put up Redpath, an' that beats me, too, for I think he's straight. But the Indian hasn't a ghost of a chance to win. You'd better take a whip.”

“I don't want either whip or spurs,” answered the girl. “Lauzanne will do better without them.”

“I know that, but take a whip--something else in the race might need it; an' if you have to use it, use it good an' strong. If Langdon lodges an objection I can make him quit.”

Over at The Dutchman's stall there was a very confident party. Their horse would go to the post as fit as any thoroughbred had ever stripped. Langdon was a great trainer--there was no doubt about that; if there had been Crane would have discovered it and changed his executive officer. The tall son of Hanover was lean of flesh, but gross in muscle. He was as though an Angelo had chiseled with sure hand from his neck, and ribs, and buttocks all the marble of useless waste, and left untouched in sinewy beauty layer on layer, each muscle, and thew, and cord. Flat-boned and wide the black-glossed legs, and over the corded form a silken skin of dull fire-red. From the big eyes gleamed an expectant delight of the struggle; not sluggishly indifferent, as was Lauzanne's, but knowing of the fray and joyous in its welcome.

“He'll win on a tight rein,” confided Langdon to Jockey Westley; “he's the greatest Hanover in the land. There's a dozen races bottled up in that carcass”--and he slapped the big Bay lovingly on the rump”--but if you're put to it, Bill, you can call on him fer the full dozen today. There's nothin' to it but yourself and White Moth.”

Carelessly he stepped to the back of the stall, touching Westley as he passed. Kicking the loose dirt with his toes, and bending his head to bury his voice, Langdon continued in a subdued tone: “The Indian'll cut out the pace so fast that it'll choke off Lauzanne. The Chestnut's a plugger an' ain't no good when it comes to gallopin'. If you was to all loaf aroun' he might hang on an' finish in front; but the pace'll kill him--it'll break his heart; the fast goin'll lay out White Moth, too, for she'll go to the front an' die away after a mile an' a quarter. Just nurse the Bay, an' let the others fight the Indian. But don't loaf an' let Lauzanne get near you, fer he can keep up a puddlin' gait all day. There ain't nothin' else in the race I'm afraid of; there ain't one of them can last a mile an' a half.” Then he added, with a disagreeable chuckle--it was like the slobbering laugh of a hyena--“I miss my guess if the boy on Lauzanne kills himself tryin' to win anyway. He seems a fair lad, but you can ride rings 'round him, Bill.”

“I'll put up a good ride on The Dutchman, an' I think we'll ketch the Judge's eye,” replied Westley. “It doesn't seem to stand for it that a stable-boy on a bad horse like Lauzanne is goin' to beat me out.”

“The boss says you're to have two thousand fer winnin', Westley, so don't make no mistake. I wasn't goin' to tell you this afore you went out, fer fear it'd make you too eager. Many a race's been thrown away by a boy bein' too keen, an' makin' his run too early in the game; but you've a good head and might as well know what you're to have. There's the bugle; get up.”

Eager hands stripped the blanket that had been thrown over The Dutchman; Westley was lifted into the saddle, and the gallant Bay led out by Langdon.

In front strode White Moth; one by one the others, and last, seventh, Allis's fatal number, lagged Lauzanne, lazily loafing along as though he regretted leaving the stall.

As the horses passed to the course, Crane, who had followed The Dutchman to the gate, raised his eyes from scanning Lauzanne to the rider on his back. It was just a look of languid interest in the apprentice boy Dixon had put up instead of such a good jockey as Redpath. The face rivetted his attention; something in the line of the cheek recalled a face he had constantly in view.

“For an instant I thought that was Alan Porter on Lauzanne,” he said to Langdon, who was at his elbow. “A strange fancy--I'm going up to the stand to watch the race:”

“It's all roight but the win now,” said Mike to Dixon. “I'm goin' in be the Judges' box to watch the finish. You'll be helpin' the b'y pass the scales, Andy.”

As Allis passed the Judges' Stand in the parade she cast a quick, furtive look toward the people on the lawn. She seemed pilloried on an eminence, lifted up in pitiless prominence; would anyone detect her at the last moment? Hanging over the rail in the very front she saw a pale face that struck a chill of fear to her heart--it was Mortimer's. She had not even thought of his being there. She had eluded the close scrutiny of all the others who were likely to recognize her, but there, within ten yards were eyes almost certain to penetrate her disguise. The girl turned her face away; she knew Mortimer well enough to think that if he did recognize her he would make no sign.

“That's our horse,” declared Old Bill, as Lauzanne passed. “He's all right, bet yer life; he's fit ter go all day. De geezer as trains him ain't no mug. Let's go up in de stand, where we can see de whole show; den we'll come down an' cash in. Say, pard, if dis goes through I'll blow you off to a bottle of de best; wine ain't none too good fer dis coop.”

Altogether it was as though Destiny had found pleasant domicile in the ancient clothing of Old Bill, and was using their unique wearer as a protective agent to ward off evil from both Mortimer and the girl. As they jogged toward the starting post Allis allowed Lauzanne to lag; she wished to avoid Redpath. But the Indian was a horse of uncertain temperament, and presently, with a foolish side rush, he cannoned fair into Lauzanne. In the melee Redpath looked full into Allis's eyes at short range. His face went white in an instant.

“You!” he cried, pulling hard at his horse's mouth; “it's you, Miss--” He stopped suddenly. “God! I'm glad I know this,” he jerked between set teeth, as he fought the Indian, who was nearly pulling him out of the saddle.

“It's because he'll gallop for you, isn't it? You didn't think I was a wrong one--it wasn't because you couldn't trust me you took the mount away, was it?”

The Indian, quieted by the sleepy Chestnut, was going steadier. “No; it's because Lauzanne won't give his running for anyone but me,” the girl answered.

The boy remained silent, thinking over why he was on the Indian. There was a moral obliquity about his present position; the new light of his discovery showed him this strongly. His feelings had been played upon by the owner of the Indian, at Langdon's instigation.

He had been told that the Porters had not given him the mount on Lauzanne because they distrusted him. He had been put on the horse to make running for The Dutchman. There was nothing really patently dishonest about this arrangement, and Redpath's mind had been dulled to fine discrimination by the idea that he was falsely distrusted.

Presently the boy spoke with sharp decision, in quick broken sentences, for they were nearing the Starter. “I'm in to make the running; this crock's got no license to win. Don't you bother about him--he'll come back to the others fast enough when he's done. When you want an opening to get through just come bang into me--I'll be next the rail; yell 'Lauzanne,' an' I'll pull out. I'll give them blasted crooks something to stare at. Don't gallop your mount's head off chasing this sprinter; he'll be beat when we swing into the stretch. Don't go wide at the turn; you can have my place; I'll make it wide for something else though.”

They were at the post. Allis had not spoken; she had listened gratefully to Redpath's string of kindly directions. The presence of a friend in the race cheered her; the discovery she had dreaded had come as a blessing.

XXXVI

Crane's words had started a train of thought in Langdon's mind. All at once he remembered that the face of Lauzanne's rider had a dream-like familiarity. He had not given it much thought before; but his owner's suggestion that the boy was like Alan Porter echoed in his ears. He had wondered where Dixon had got this new boy; why he was putting him up on Lauzanne instead of Redpath; it seemed a foolish thing to give the mount to an apprentice when a good jockey was to be had. Could it be that it really was Alan. The whole family were natural-born jockeys, father and son, even the girl, Allis.

Langdon knew nothing of Alan Porter's movements--had not been interested enough to know. He had heard derogatory remarks about Redpath's riding of Lucretia in the Brooklyn Handicap; the Porters, no doubt dissatisfied--suspicious of the jockey--had put up Alan to insure an honest ride.

Langdon had thought these thoughts as he passed swiftly from the paddock to the stand inclosure, where he stood not far from the rail, trying to get a good look at the lad on Lauzanne. Allis's persistently averted face thwarted this. The boy was inscribed on the jockey board “Al Mayne;” the permit to ride must be under that name. If it were really Alan Porter, why had he been called Mayne? But the boy had retained the name “Al”--that was a contraction of Alan, no doubt.

While Langdon labored over the problem of Mayne's Identity he had watched the horses at the post through his glasses. The Dutchman was behaving well, his trifle of eagerness to break away was even better than Lauzanne's indolent indifference. The other five were acting as three-year-olds are wont to act--with erratic indecision; one minute violent desire, and the next obstinate reluctance characterizing their interminable twistings, backings, and plungings. It was not for long; a neck or a length at the start meant little when a mile and a half stretched its tiring length between them and the finish post.

Langdon's perplexity was cut short by the cry, “They're off!” the jingle of a bell, and the scurrying of many feet, as eager men rushed for higher points of observation in the stand.

As the seven horses came thundering by, pulling double in eager ignorance of the long journey that lay before them, Langdon saw with evil satisfaction that the Indian was well out in the lead.

The Dutchman was sixth, and behind, with a short awkward strength in his gallop, loafed Lauzanne.

There was smoothness in the stride of Hanover's big son, The Dutchman; and his trainer, as he watched him swing with strong grace around the first turn, mentally fingered the ten thousand dollars that would shortly be his.

“That skate win!” he sneered, as Lauzanne followed; “he gallops like a fat pig. He can't live the pace--he can't live the pace,” he repeated, and his voice was mellow with a cheerful exultation.

His observations seemed eminently truthful; Allis's horse trailed farther and farther behind the others. Out in front galloped with unseeming haste the Indian--a brown blotch of swift-gliding color. Two lengths from his glinting heels raced four horses in a bunch--two bays, a gray, and a black; so close together that they formed a small mosaic of mottled hue against the drab-gray background of the course stables beyond. Then The Dutchman, with his powerful stride, full of easy motion--a tireless gallop that would surely land him the winner, Langdon thought, as he hung with breathless interest on every move of Westley's body.

Up in the stand Old Bill was expressing in florid racetrack speech to Mortimer his deductions.

“Days a good kid on Larcen. See what he's doin'; he's trailin' 'em. Dat's where our horse gits it; he's a stretch runner, he is. Dey'll have bellows to mend when he tackles 'em.”

To Mortimer it appeared very much as though the other horses were too fast for Lauzanne. “Isn't he losing?” he asked of his exuberant friend.

“Losin' nut'in'! De kid ain't moved on him yet. De others is gallopin' der heads off; dey're chasm' de crazy skate in front. Dere's only two jocks in de race worth a damn--Bill Westley an' de kid on our horse. He knows he's got to beat Dutchy, an' he's lyin' handy by. When you see Dutchy move up Larcen'll come away, or I'm a goat.”