Part 41 (2/2)
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?”
”Hus.h.!.+” 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.”
x.x.xII
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 finis.h.i.+ng strong, was certainly almost good enough to warrant his winning.
<script>