Chapter 21

Mike Gaynor had taken his place on the little platform at the top of the steps leading to the stand. He was watching the race with intense interest. Would Lauzanne do his best for the girl--or would he sulk? He saw the terrific pace that the Indian had set the others. Would it discourage their horse. His judgment told him that this fast pace could not last, and that Lauzanne could gallop as he was going from end to end of the mile and a half; even faster if he so wished. Would his rider have the patient steadiness of nerve to wait for this fulfillment of the inevitable or would she become rattled and urge the horse. Mike set his teeth, and his nails were driven hard into his rough palms as he strained in sympathy with the girl's quietude.

How long the Indian held on in his mad lead! Perhaps even he might upset all clever calculation and last long enough to win. Already the gray, White Moth, had drawn out from the bunch and was second; the other three were dropping back in straggling order to The Dutchman, who was still running as he had been, strong. That was at the mile. At the mile and an eighth, White Moth was at the Indian's heels; The Dutchman had moved up into third place, two lengths away; and Lauzanne had become merged in the three that were already beaten. At the mile and a quarter a half thrill of hope came to Mike, for Lauzanne was clear of the ruck, and surely gaining on the leaders. And still his rider was lying low on the withers, just a blue blur on the dark gold of the Chestnut.

“Bot' t'umbs! but they're a pair,” muttered the Irishman; “be me soul, I t'ink they'll win.”

At the bottom turn into the stretch Mike could see that White Moth and The Dutchman had closed up on the Indian, so that they swung around the corner as one horse.

“Gad, she's shut off!” he muttered. It was a living wall, and through little chinks in its quivering face he could see specks of blue close up where raced Lauzanne.

“Poor gurl!” he gasped, “they've got her in a pocket. Damn them b'ys. Why did she hug the rail--she's fair t'rowed away the last chance.”

Halfway up the steps stood Langdon, and his coarse, evil face took on a look of unholy joy as Lauzanne was blotted into oblivion by the horses in front.

“Pocketed, by God! Clever Mister Dixon to put up a kid like that ag'in Westley an' the others,” he sneered.

Then a deafening roar went up from the stand. Somebody thrust a pair of broad shoulders in front of Mike's face; he leaned out far past the intruder, and saw the Indian sway drunkenly in his stride away from the rail, carrying White Moth and The Dutchman out; and into the opening he had left, glued to the rail, crept the chestnut form of Lauzanne.

A wild yell of Irish joy escaped Mike; then he waited. Now it would be a race; but Lauzanne was trying, trying all by himself, for the rider was as still as death. Already the clamor of many voices was splitting the air; all over the stand it was, “The favorite wins! The Dutchman wins!” Even yet there was no beckoning call for Lauzanne; but Mike knew. He had said to Allis before she went out, “If ye ever get level wit' 'em in the straight, ye can win.”

And now Lauzanne's yellow head was even with the others; and soon it was in front. And then there were only two battling--Lauzanne and The Dutchman; and on the Bay, Westley was riding with whip and spur.

“In a walk--in a walk, I tell you!” fairly screamed Old Bill, clutching at Mortimer's arm; “didn't I tell you? We're a tousand to de good. Look at him, look at him!” He had climbed halfway up Mortimer's strong back in his excitement. “Look at de kid! Never moved--in a walk, in a walk! Larcen all the way for a million!”

His voice generally weak and tattered like his clothes; had risen to a shrill scream of exultation.

It was past all doubt. Lauzanne, a length in front of The Dutchman, was opposite the stand; in two seconds they had flashed by the Judges' box, and Lauzanne had won.

The wave of humanity that swept down the steps carried Mike in its front wash. He took his stand close to the Judges' box; there he would be handy for whatever might be needed. He saw Langdon with a face dark and lowering, full of an evil discontent, standing there too. Back the seven runners cantered. Lauzanne's rider saluted the judge with whip, and slipping from the horse stripped him of the saddle with deft fingers, and passed quickly into the scales. The weight was right. One after another the boys weighed.

Watching, Mike saw Langdon pass up to the Stewards. There was a short consultation, the hush of something wrong, and a murmur of an objection.

“What's the matter?” a voice questioned in Mike's ear. It was Alan Porter that had spoken.

Mike pushed his way to the small gate, even through it, that led up to the Stewards' Stand. As he did so Langdon came back down the steps. One of the Stewards, following him with quick eyes, saw Mike and beckoned with a finger.

“There's an objection to the rider of Lauzanne,” said the official; “Trainer Langdon says Alan Porter rode the horse under a permit belonging to a boy named Mayne.”

“He's mistook, sir.” answered Mike, respectfully; “there's Alan Porter standin' down there in the crowd. I'll sind him up, sir, an' ye can ask him yerself.”

Gaynor passed hurriedly down the steps, seized Porter by the arm, and whispered in his ear, “Tell the judge yer name--that a b'y named Mayne rode Lauzanne. Quick now.”

Then he stepped up to Langdon. The latter had seen Alan Porter go up the steps, and realized he had made a mistake. Mike drew him inside the little enclosure that surrounded the stand.

“There's Alan Porter wit' the Stewards,” Gaynor whispered close to the man's face; “an' ye'll withdraw the objection at once. If ye don't ye'll have to settle wit' the Stewards fer tryin' to bribe the b'y Mayne to pull Lauzanne. And Shandy has owned up that he was to get five hundred dollars fer dosin' Lucretia. Ye'll withdraw now, or get ruled off fer life; besides, p'isinin' a horse is jail business; an' I'll take me oath before God I can prove this, too. Now go an' withdraw quick. Ye're a damn blackguard.”

Mike had meant to restrict himself to diplomatic pressure, but his Irish was up like a flash, and he couldn't resist the final expression of wrath.

A crowd of silent men had gathered about the box in a breathless wait. Fortunes depended upon the brief consultation that was being held between the Stewards.

As Alan Porter came down Langdon went up the steps with nervous haste. “I've made a mistake, gentlemen,” he said to the Stewards, “with your permission I'll withdraw the objection.”

“Yes, it's better that way,” returned one of the Stewards; “the best horse won, and that's what racing's for. It would be a pity to spoil such a grand race on a technicality.”

XXXVII

After his first burst of aboriginal glee, ecstatically uncouth as it was, Old Bill's joy over the victory of Lauzanne took on a milder form of expression.

“Let's line up fer a cash-in,” he exclaimed to Mortimer, making a break down the steps to the lawn. On the ground he stopped, his mind working at fever heat, changing its methods quickly.

“Let's wait till de kid's passed de scales; dere's no hurry. Dere won't be many drawin' down money over Larcen; he's an outsider.”

They were still waiting when the rumor of an objection floated like an impalpable shadow of evil through the enclosure. Old Bill's seamed face shed its mask of juvenile hilarity, and furrowed back into its normal condition of disgruntled bitterness. He had seen the slight mix-up when the Indian swerved in the straight. The objection must have to do with that, he thought. “What th' 'ell's th, difference,” he said in fierce, imprecating anger; “de kid on Larcen didn't do no interferin', he jes come t'rough de openin' an' won-dey can't disqualify him.”

“What does it mean?” asked Mortimer; “what's wrong?”

“De push's tryin' to steal de race; de favorite's beat, an' it's win, tie, or wrangle wit' 'em. If dey take de race away from Larcen we don't get de goods, see? Our t'ou's up de spout. Dere he goes, dere he goes; look at de knocker,” as Langdon came down from the Stewards.

Mortimer's heart sank. An exultation such as he had never experienced in his life had flushed his breast hot; the back of his scalp had tickled in a creepy way as Lauzanne flashed first past the winning post. He had felt pride in the horse, in the boy on his back, in himself at having overcome his scruples; he would be able to save Alan Porter from dishonor. His heart had warmed to the tattered outcast at his side, who had been the means to this glorious end. It had been all over, accomplished; now it was again thrust back into the scales, where it dangled as insecure as ever. It wasn't the money alone that teetered in the balance, but the honor of Allis Porter's brother.

He gave a sharp cry of astonishment, for going up the steps in front of them was the boy himself, Alan. Presently he came down again, his face looking drawn and perplexed. In his ignorance of everything pertaining to racing Mortimer feared for an instant the theft of the thousand dollars had been discovered, and the present inquiry had something to do with that, else why was Alan mixed up in it.

As the boy came through the little gate Mortimer accosted him. “Hello, Alan!” he exclaimed, very gently, “what's the trouble?”

“Just a silly mistake,” answered Porter, a weak laugh following his words; “Langdon has claimed that I rode Lauzanne.”

“Is dat it?” interposed Old Bill; “an' did you tell dem dey was wrong-de stiffs! Dere's cutt'roat Langdon up again; here he comes back, looking as tough he'd been fired fer splint--de crook! Hello! it's all right Hoo-ray! Lauzanne gits de race!” For already the cry of “All right!” was ringing through the betting ring. “Come on, pard,” called Old Bill, eagerly, to Mortimer; “let's go an' rake down de dough.”

“In a minute,” the other answered; and turning to Alan Porter, took him by the arm and led him to one side. “I suppose you lost over The Dutchman,” he said.

“Yes, I'm broke,” answered the boy, with a plaintive smile.

“Well, I've won.”

“You betting!” exclaimed Alan, in astonishment.

“Yes--strange, isn't it? But I'm going to put that money of your father's back.”

The boy said nothing, and Mortimer fancied that his face flushed guiltily.

“Yes, I can put it back now that Lauzanne's won,” continued Mortimer; “but don't say a word to a soul about it, I don't want anybody to know I was betting.”

“But what money?” began Alan.

“I've won a thousand dollars on Lauzanne--”

“Come on, pard,” said Old Bill, impatiently interrupting them, “let's get our rake off, an' den you kin buck to yer chum after.”

Mortimer yielded to the tattered one's command, for without his guidance he never would be able to find the man that held the money.

“I'll be back in a little while,” he said to young Porter; “don't go away.”

There was delay over the cashing in; being late, they found a line of Lauzanne men in front of them at the bookmaker's stand.

When Mortimer returned to the lawn with eleven hundred dollars in his pocket Alan Porter had gone. He had dreaded that perhaps the boy might do something desperate, fearing discovery of the theft; he had thought even of taking Alan back to Brookfield with him; however, he had told him that the money would be replaced, the boy would understand that nothing could happen him and would go back, Mortimer felt sure. He spent a short time searching for Alan, but his former fruitless quest had shown him the hopelessness of trying to find a person in that immense throng. He thought kindly of the enveloping mob that had kept him hidden from Allis, as he thought. He had feared to meet her--something in his presence might cause her to suspect that something was wrong. The whole episode was like a fairy dream. It was a queer twist of Fate's web, his winning enough over Lauzanne--he, a man who had never betted in his life--to replace the money the brother had stolen.

All at once it occurred to him that some reward was due the instigator of his success. The thousand he must keep intact. He had a few loose dollars in his pocket beyond his original hundred, quite sufficient to take him back to Brookfield. Taking the hundred from his pocket and turning to Old Bill, who was still with him, he said: “I'm going home, I've had enough horse racing for one day; you've done me a great kindness--will you take this hundred--I need the thousand badly, so can't spare more than this.”

“Not on yer life, pard. I give you de tip first, but you got de office straight from Irish, an' we're quits, see? I wasn't playin' you fer a sucker, an' yer straight goods. Jes' shove de boodle in yer breast pocket, an' don't show it to no one. Dere's some here as would take it off you quick enough.”

“But--”

“Dere ain't no buts in dis game--it's a straight deal, an' we've split even. If you'd been a crook, well, God knows how we'd a-panned out. But you ain't no geezer of dat sort--yer square, an' Old Bill wishes you good luck till de robins nest again. Yer goin', eh? Say, pard, I'd a-been wearin' diamon's if I could quit when I was 'head of de game. Yer dead onto it. Here's my hand, Mr. Morton.”

“Mortimer--George Mortimer.”

“Well, shake, George. Where do you hang out?”

“Brookfield.”

“My address is New York. Dat's as close a fit as I knows at present. If de run o' luck keeps up p'r'aps I'll write you from de Waldorf. Good-bye, of man.”

With a light heart Mortimer hastened from Gravesend, not waiting for the other races, and took his way to Brookfield. A genuine admiration of buffeted Old Bill filled his mind.

In the morning he would be at the bank bright and early, and replace the stolen thousand dollars; nobody would know that it had been taken. The narrow escape that had come to Alan Porter might prove his salvation. Surely it would cure him of his desire to bet. Out of all this evil positive good would accrue.

XXXVIII

After winning on Lauzanne Allis had dodged the admiring crowd of paddock regulars that followed her. As Lauzanne was being blanketed she had kissed the horse's cheek and given him a mighty squeeze of thankfulness. How nobly he had done his part; good, dear old despised, misjudged Lauzanne. He had veritably saved her father from disaster; had saved her from--from many things.

She had slipped into her long coat and stood waiting for Mike to drive her to Dixon's cottage when the rumor came of an objection. Then there had been the misery of terrible suspense, a wait of uncertainty. Was her sacrifice of womanly instinct to go for nothing? Dixon had hurried to the scene of investigation; then he had come back after a little with Mike, and the good news that they had been given the race. If it had not been for prying eyes she would have knelt there at Lauzanne's feet and offered up a prayer of thankfulness. She had done all a woman could do, almost more; Providence had not forsaken her and her stricken father.

Then Mike had hurried her to the buggy just as Crane, leaving the beaten Dutchman and Langdon, had come, asking Dixon where Miss Porter was, that he might tender congratulations. He wanted to see the boy that had ridden Lauzanne, also--wanted to take his hand and tell him what a grand race he had ridden. But Dixon had been ready with excuses; the boy was dead beat after the race--he was only a kid--and had gone to Dixon's home. Miss Porter was perhaps in the stand, or perhaps she had gone home also. Crane knew of Langdon's objection. It was a silly thing, he said, due to overeagerness. He had taken no part in it, he assured Dixon. Alan Porter, too, came into the paddock, asking for his sister; but fared pretty much as Crane had. He would certainly find her at the cottage, Dixon assured him.

That night Allis wired the joyful tidings to her father, and that she would be home in the morning.

Dr. Rathbone's prophecy as to the proper medication for John Porter stood a chance of being fulfilled in one day. Allis's telegram proved that the doctor had understood the pathology of Porter's treatment, for he became as a cripple who had touched the garment of a magic healer.

It was thus that Allis found him when she reached Ringwood. Oh, but she was glad; and small wonder. What she had done was as nothing; it shrank into insignificance under the glamourous light of the change that had come over the home. What a magic wand was deserved success; how it touched with fairy aspect all that drooped with the fearsome blight of anticipated decay! And even then they did not know the full extent of her endeavor. Mingled with her mother's gentle welcome, and her father's full-throated thanks, was praise for the, to him unknown, boy that had ridden Lauzanne so gallantly.

The girl found tears of thankfulness glistening in her eyes as she listened to the praise that was wholly hers, though given in part to the jockey. They had not even heard his name--it had not mattered before; and now when her father asked for it, she answered that Mike called him Al something. Her father, generous in his salvation, was most solicitous as to a fitting present; a thousand dollars, or perhaps two, or even more, if Dixon advised so. What had he promised the lad? But there were so many things to talk over and settle, and laugh about, and congratulate each other upon. Good fortune was a generous dame. They were all like children in their happiness. \ “Yes, Alan had been there,” the girl answered to a question from her father. Also it was a strange happening, a distortion of fate that Crane had beaten them in the Brooklyn with Diablo, and now they had beaten his horse, The Dutchman, with Lauzanne the Despised. All was content after the turmoil of endeavor. And of the horses, Lauzanne, who would gallop for no one but Allis, would be brought back to Ringwood, to be petted and spoiled of his young mistress for the good he had done. Lucretia, when convalescent, would also come to the farm to rest and get strong.

In the midst of it all Dr. Rathbone came in, and of course, man-like and doctor-like, with pretended pomposity, said: “I told you so. What did I say? Now Mrs. Porter, no more scolding over the ways of horses, a good horse is a delight, and a good daughter a joy forever.”

Dear old Dr. Rathbone, wise in his generation and big of heart!

XXXIX

At the bank down in the village--well, at nine o'clock Mortimer, feeling the virtue of early effort, with the money of redemption in his pocket, entered into the resumption of his duties. At the earliest moment after the vault was opened he made his way to the box that contained the Porter payment. One thing troubled him slightly. It was a thousand-dollar bill that had been taken; the money he had to replace was in hundreds and fifties. As he slipped them quietly into the box he thought it wouldn't really matter; he would transfer the three thousand to the account himself, and nobody would know of the change. Leaving the box where it was for a little, in the way of subtle strategy, he came out 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 due today, isn't it?”

Looking up, Mortimer saw Lane's eye fixed upon his face with piercing intensity. 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 note had been paid.”

Mortimer felt his knees shake-something was choking hire. Had the devil of mischance taken the salvation of Alan's good name out of his hands--had his work been for nothing.

“I couldn't understand it,” went on the cashier. His voice sounded like the clang of a fire bell to the listening man, though it was evenly modulated, cold and steady in its methodical precision. “I thought Porter knew the money was here to meet the note,” said Lane, still speaking, “but my attention being called to the matter, I looked up the papers. I found one thousand dollars missing!” He was looking steadily at Mortimer; his eyes were searching the young man's very soul. There was accusation, denunciation, abhorrence in the cashier's gaze.

Mortimer did not speak. He was trying to think. His brain worked in erratic futility. The slangy babble of Old Bill thrust itself upon him; the roar of the race course was in his ears, deadening his senses; not a sane, relevant word rose to his lips. He was like a child stricken by fear. In an indistinct way he felt the dishonor that was Alan Porter's being 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 at Emerson to clear up this matter; he discovered that you had not been there; that your mother was not ill. May I ask where you were yesterday?”

“I was at Gravesend, sir--at the races,” answered Mortimer, defiantly.

This speech broke the lethargy that was over him; his mind cleared--he commenced to think sanely.

“Can you tell me,” proceeded Lane, “where the balance of Mr. Porter's three 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 hurriedly into the vault and reappearing instantly with the box in his hand.

He opened it and stared at the package of bills that rose up when freed from the pressure of the lid. With nervous fingers he counted the contents.

“I beg your pardon,” he exclaimed in a quick, jerky way. “The three thousand dollars is here, but these bills have been put in the box this morning; they were not there last night. It is not the money that was taken away, either. That was one bill, a thousand-dollar note; and here 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 used before. This “Ah” of the cashier's, with its many gradations of tone, had been a most useful weapon in his innumerable financial battles. It could be made to mean anything--everything; flung out at haphazard it always caught his opponent off guard; it was a subtle thrust, and while one pondered over its possible meaning, Lane could formulate in his mind more decisive expressions.

“Ah,” he repeated, adding, “if you did not steal the money, who did? And if 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, thrust forward in the attitude of a parrot about to strike with its beak.

“I can't answer those questions,” answered the man he was grilling. “The money to pay Mr. Porter's note is here; and I fancy that is all the bank needs to concern itself about. It was entrusted to me, and now I am prepared to turn it over.”

“Quite true; ah, yes, quite true; but it might have been vastly different. That is the point that most concerns the bank. Whoever took the money”--and he bowed, deprecatingly, with ironical consideration to Mortimer--“must have needed a thousand dollars for--well, some speculative purpose, perhaps. Good fortune has enabled the some one to make good, and the money has been replaced.”