Part 33 (1/2)

Allis had sought to be alone in this short time of trial; she was hardly sure of herself. If Lucretia failed she might break down; for what would come to her father should the message home be one of disaster? Even if the little mare won her joy might lead her to commit strange pranks; she felt that her heart would burst out of sheer joy, if she did not shout in exultation, or caper madly, as she had seen others do in the hour of victory. She was sorry that Crane had come.

”I was looking for you,” he said; ”I want to see you win this race; that is, if--I mean, like every other man here, I have harked back to my natural instinct of covetous acquisition and had a bet on.”

”Not Lucretia?”

”No--I've bet on Diablo. Langdon thinks he'll win. Do you remember the agreement about his purchase?”

”What was that? I've half forgotten it.”

”Just a little bet on your account, you know.”

”Oh, I remember; but that was only in fun, wasn't it?”

”It was part of the bargain, and it's on. You'll take it, won't you, if he wins--”

”They're off!” Some one had shouted the magic words from the head of the steps. In a second every voice of the thousands was stilled, and there was only the noise of shuffling feet, as eager watchers stood up to see the horses.

”It's a false start,” said Crane, quietly, turning toward the girl. ”It would have been well for you, Miss Allis, had the starter let them go.

Lucretia was well out in the lead; it was Diablo's fault, too, that they had to go back--he was left standing.”

Crane's voice was Fate's voice. Would there never be anything but Lucretia and Diablo, seven and thirteen, thirteen and seven?

”Diablo's a bad horse at the post, sure,” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Crane, letting his field gla.s.s rest for an instant on his knee; ”he just backs up and shakes his head viciously; evidently he doesn't like the idea of so much company.”

”How is Lucretia acting, Mr. Crane?”

”Perfectly. You must have instilled some of your own patience into her.”

The girl hardly heard the implied compliment.

Would the patience be rewarded? Or would thirteen, that was symbolical of evil, and its bearer, Diablo, who was an agent of evil, together s.n.a.t.c.h from her this prize that meant so much? It was strange that she should not think of the other horses at all. It was as though there were but two in the race--Lucretia and Diablo--and yet they were both outsiders.

”The Starter is having a bad time of it; that makes six false breaks,”

said Allis's companion; ”it will end by his losing patience with the boys, I fear, and let them go with something off in a long lead. But they say this Fitzpatrick is a cool hand, and gives no man the best of it. He'll probably fine Diablo's rider a hundred dollars; I believe it's customary to do that when a jockey persistently refuses to come up with his horses. Just look at that!--the black fiend has lashed out and nearly crippled something.”

”Not Lucretia, Mr. Crane!” gasped Allis.

”No, it's a chestnut--there they go! Good boy, Westley. I mean Diablo's jockey has done a fiendish clever thing. He came through his horses on the jump, carried them off their feet, they all broke--yes, the flag's down, and he's out with a clean lead.”

Down in front a bell was clanging viciously; people were rus.h.i.+ng with frenzied haste from the betting ring, and clambering up the steps of the stand; in the stand itself the whole vast mob had risen to its feet, and even now the rolling beat of eager hoofs was in the aid, hushed of the mob's clamor.

Yes, Crane had spoken truly; a great striding black, along whose neck hung close a tiny figure in yellow and red, was leading the oncoming horses. Allis strained her eyes trying to discover the little mare, but she was swallowed up in the struggling mob that hung at Diablo's heels.

As they opened a little, swinging around the first turn, Allis caught sight of the white-starred blue jacket. Its wearer was quite fifth or sixth.

”Lucretia is doing well,” said Crane; ”she's holding her own; she's lapped on White Moth.”

It seemed strange to Allis that any other thought should come into her mind at that time other than just concern for Lucretia, but she caught herself wondering at Crane's professional words of description. For the time he was changed; the quick brevity of his utterance tokened an interested excitement. He was not at all like the Crane she knew, the cold, collected banker.

”Lucretia's doing better,” her companion added a few seconds later. ”If I were given to sentiment, I should say her gallop was the poetry of motion. She deserves to win. But honestly, Miss Allis, I think she'll never catch the Black; he's running like a good horse.”