Part 5 (1/2)

”They're off!” exclaimed the baritone.

”Not this trip,” objected the falsetto.

”The spurs--the young fiend!” fiercely e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed John Porter.

”What is it, father?”

”The boy on Lucretia is jabbing her with the spurs, and she's cutting up.”

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

Allis heard the woman's shrill voice, smothered to a hissing whisper, answer something. Two distinct words, ”the hop,” carried to her ears.

There was a long-drawnout baritone, ”Oh-h!” then, in the same key, ”I knew Lauzanne was a sluggard, and couldn't make out why he was so frisky to-day.”

”d.i.c.k's got it down fine”--just audibly from the woman; ”Lauzanne'll try right enough this time out.”

”The mare's actin' as if she'd a cup of tea, too,” muttered her companion, Ned.

This elicited a dry chuckle from the woman.

Allis pinched her father's arm again, and looked up in his face inquiringly, as from the seat behind them the jumbled conversation came to their ears. Porter nodded his head understandingly, and frowned. The stephanotis was choking his nostrils, and an occasional word was filling his heart with confirmation of his suspicions.

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

”My G.o.d!” he exclaimed in the next breath. He had startled the girl with the fierce emphasis he threw into the words; she sprang to her feet in excitement.

A bell had clanged noisily, there was the shuffle of thousands of eager feet; a hoa.r.s.e cry, ”They're off!” went rolling from tier to tier, from seat to seat, to the topmost row of the huge stand.

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

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

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

”You called the turn.” Even Ned's baritone had risen to a false-keyed tenor; he was standing on his toes, peering over the heads of taller men in front.

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

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

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

”Where is Lucretia, father?” the girl asked again, stretching her slight figure up in a vain endeavor to see over the shoulders of those in front.

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

”What's wrong? Has she--”

”It's the Minstrel. His boy threw him fair across Lucretia, and knocked her to her knees.” He lowered his gla.s.ses listlessly. ”It's Lauzanne all the way, if he lasts out. He's dying fast though, and Westley's gone to the whip.”

He was looking through his gla.s.ses again. Though beaten, his racing blood was up. ”If Lauzanne wins it will be Westley's riding; the Hanover colt, The Dutchman, is at his quarter. He'll beat him out, for the Hanovers are all game.”