Part 44 (1/2)

The race literature that had come Mortimer's way had generally dealt with the unfortunate part of racing. Somehow he had got the impression that everybody lost money at it. He was sure Alan Porter had, also the father.

True, on the train were some bearing undeniable evidences of poverty; but not many. One man of this latter unfortunate aspect sat next him.

His whole appearance was suggestive of the shady side of life. With the industry of a student he pored over a disheveled sporting paper for half an hour, then throwing it under the seat he cast a furtive look at his neighbor, and presently said, ”Dere'll be big fields to-day.”

”That's too bad,” Mortimer answered, through ignorance, thinking that the other referred to perhaps a considerable walk across country to reach the course.

”I like it,” declared the man of sad drapery; ”it means long odds if you're next somethin' good.”

Mortimer confined his remarks to a brief ”Oh!” for the other man might as well have been speaking Choctaw.

”Have you doped 'em out for de Derby?” asked the stranger.

Mortimer shook his head. Whatever it was it was connected with horse racing, and he felt sure that he hadn't done it.

”Well, I'll tell you somethin'--will you put down a good bet if I steer you straight?”

Mortimer was growing weary; his mind, troubled by the frightful disaster that threatened Allis's family, wanted to draw within itself and ponder deeply over a proper course of action; so he answered: ”My dear sir, I'm afraid you're mistaken. I never bet on races. But I thank you for your kind offer.”

The unwashed face looked at him in blank amazement, then it wrinkled in a mirthful laugh of derision. ”What d' 'ell you goin' to Gravesend for, den? Blamed if I don't believe you dough--you look it. Say, is dat straight goods--did you never have a bet in your life?”

”Never did.”

”Well, I'm d.a.m.ned! Say, I believe you've got de best of it, dough. Wish I'd never bucked ag'in' de bookies.”

”Why don't you stop it now, then?”

”Say, pard, do you drink?”

”No.”

”Smoke?”

”No.”

A hopeless air of utter defeat came into the thin, sharp face. Its owner had been searching for a simile. He wanted to point a moral and he couldn't find it. The young man at his elbow was too immaculate.

He tried to explain: ”Racin's like any other locoed t'ing--it's like tobacco, or drink, or stealin' money out of a bank--”

Mortimer s.h.i.+vered. He had felt a moral superiority in denying the implied bad habits.

”It's like any of 'em,” continued the ragged philosopher; ”a guy starts simply as a kid, an' he gets de t'row-down. He takes a bracer at himself, and swears he'll give it de go-by, but he can't--not on your life.”

Mortimer had read much about confidence men, and half expected that his self-imposed acquaintance would try to borrow money, but he was disillusionized presently.

”But de ring ain't broke Ole Bill yet. I'll clean up a t'ousand to-day--say, I like your mug; you ain't no stiff, or I miss my guess, an' I'll put you, next a good t'ing, damme if I don't, an' you don't need to divvy up, neither. Dere's a chestnut runnin' in de Derby what dey call Larcen, an' I'm goin' to plank down a hun'red chicks on him.”

He detected a look of incredulous unbelief in Mortimer's face, evidently, for he added, ”You t'ink I ain't got no dough, eh?” He dug down into the folds of his somewhat voluminous ”pants” and drew forth a fair-sized roll. ”See? That wad goes to Larcen straight. I see him do a gallop good enough for my stuf; but dey got a stable-boy on him, an'

dat's why he'll be ten to one. But dat don't cut no ice wit' me. He'll be out for de goods; it's a gal owns him, an' dere'll be nut'in' doin'.

Gal's name's Porter.”