Part 45 (1/2)

”At it again, Mr. Bunco. I'll take care of him,” he continued, turning to Mortimer. ”He's a tout. Out you go,” this to the other man. Then, tickled in the ribs by the end of the policeman's baton, the tout was driven from the enclosure; the spectators merged into a larger crowd, and Mortimer was left once more to pursue his fruitless search.

As he emerged into the open of the lawn he saw a gentleman standing somewhat listlessly, self-absorbed, as though he were not a party to the incessant turmoil of the others, who were as men mad.

With a faith born of limited experience, Mortimer risked another hazard. He would ask this complacent one for guidance. What he had to do justified all chances of rebuke.

”Pardon me, sir,” he began, ”I am looking for a young friend of mine whose people own race horses. Where would I be likely to find him?”

”If he's an owner he'll probably be in the paddock,” replied the composed one.

”Could you tell me where the paddock is?”

”To the right,” and sweeping his arm in that direction the stranger sank back into his inner consciousness, and blinked his eyes languidly, as though the unusual exertion of answering his inquisitor's questions had decidedly bored him.

”That man is one in a thousand; yea, forty thousand, for he is a stranger to excitement,” Mortimer said to himself, as he strode rapidly across the gra.s.s to a gate which opened in the direction the other had indicated. His eagerness had almost carried him through the gateway when a strong arm thrown across his chest, none too gently, barred his further progress.

”Show your badge, please,” cried a voice.

Mortimer exposed the pasteboard he had acquired on his entry to the stand.

”You can't pa.s.s in here,” said the guardian; ”that's only good for the stand.”

”But,” began Mortimer.

”Stand aside--make room, please!” from the gatekeeper, cut short his conversation.

Others were waiting to pa.s.s through. In despair he gave up his untenable place, and once more was swallowed in the maelstrom of humanity that eddied about the stand enclosure.

As he was heading for his rock of locality, the stairway, hurrying somewhat recklessly, he ran with disturbing violence full tilt into a man who had erratically turned to his left, when according to all laws of the road he should have kept straight on.

”I beg pardon--” began Mortimer; then stared in blank amazement, cutting short his apology. The victim of his a.s.sault was Mr. Crane. The latter's close-lidded eyes had rounded open perceptibly in a look of surprise.

”Mr. Mortimer!” he exclaimed, ”You here? May I ask who's running the bank?”

Anxious about the stolen money the sudden advent of Crane on his immediate horizon threw the young man into momentary confusion. ”My mother was ill--I got leave--I had to see Alan Porter--I've come here to find him. They'll manage all right at the bank without me.”

He fired his volley of explanation at his employer with the rapidity of a Maxim gun. Truth and what he considered excusable falsehood came forth with equal volubility. Crane, somewhat mollified, and feeling that at first he had spoken rather sharply, became more gracious. At sight of Mortimer he had concluded that it was to see Allis the young man had come, perhaps at her instigation.

”Have you seen Alan Porter, sir?” Mortimer asked, anxiously.

”I did, but that was about an hour ago. You will probably find him”--he was going to say--”in the paddock with his sister,” but for reasons he refrained; ”let me see, most likely sitting up in the grand stand.”

As Mortimer stood scanning the sea of faces that rose wave on wave above him, Mr. Crane said, ”I hope you found your mother better. If I see Alan I'll tell him you are looking for him.”

When Mortimer turned around Crane had gone. He had meant to ask about the race Porter's horse Lauzanne was in, but had hesitated for fear he should say something which might give rise to a suspicion of his errand.

He heard the rolling thunder of hoof beats in the air. From where he stood, over the heads of many people he could see gaudy colored silk jackets coming swiftly up the broad straight boulevard of the race course; even as he looked they pa.s.sed by with a peculiar bobbing up-and-down motion. The effect was grotesque, for he could not see the horses, could not see the motive power which carried the bright-colored riders at such a terrific pace.

A thought flashed through his mind that it might be the Derby.

”What race is that?” he asked of one who stood at his elbow.

The man's face wore a sullen, discontented look, and no wonder, for he had, with misplaced confidence, wagered many dollars on a horse that was even then prancing gaily in many yards behind the winner.