Part 48 (1/2)

”That's our horse,” declared Old Bill, as Lauzanne pa.s.sed. ”He's all right, bet yer life; he's fit ter go all day. De geezer as trains him ain't no mug. Let's go up in de stand, where we can see de whole show; den we'll come down an' cash in. Say, pard, if dis goes through I'll blow you off to a bottle of de best; wine ain't none too good fer dis coop.”

Altogether it was as though Destiny had found pleasant domicile in the ancient clothing of Old Bill, and was using their unique wearer as a protective agent to ward off evil from both Mortimer and the girl. As they jogged toward the starting post Allis allowed Lauzanne to lag; she wished to avoid Redpath. But the Indian was a horse of uncertain temperament, and presently, with a foolish side rush, he cannoned fair into Lauzanne. In the melee Redpath looked full into Allis's eyes at short range. His face went white in an instant.

”You!” he cried, pulling hard at his horse's mouth; ”it's you, Miss--”

He stopped suddenly. ”G.o.d! I'm glad I know this,” he jerked between set teeth, as he fought the Indian, who was nearly pulling him out of the saddle.

”It's because he'll gallop for you, isn't it? You didn't think I was a wrong one--it wasn't because you couldn't trust me you took the mount away, was it?”

The Indian, quieted by the sleepy Chestnut, was going steadier. ”No; it's because Lauzanne won't give his running for anyone but me,” the girl answered.

The boy remained silent, thinking over why he was on the Indian. There was a moral obliquity about his present position; the new light of his discovery showed him this strongly. His feelings had been played upon by the owner of the Indian, at Langdon's instigation.

He had been told that the Porters had not given him the mount on Lauzanne because they distrusted him. He had been put on the horse to make running for The Dutchman. There was nothing really patently dishonest about this arrangement, and Redpath's mind had been dulled to fine discrimination by the idea that he was falsely distrusted.

Presently the boy spoke with sharp decision, in quick broken sentences, for they were nearing the Starter. ”I'm in to make the running; this crock's got no license to win. Don't you bother about him--he'll come back to the others fast enough when he's done. When you want an opening to get through just come bang into me--I'll be next the rail; yell 'Lauzanne,' an' I'll pull out. I'll give them blasted crooks something to stare at. Don't gallop your mount's head off chasing this sprinter; he'll be beat when we swing into the stretch. Don't go wide at the turn; you can have my place; I'll make it wide for something else though.”

They were at the post. Allis had not spoken; she had listened gratefully to Redpath's string of kindly directions. The presence of a friend in the race cheered her; the discovery she had dreaded had come as a blessing.

x.x.xVI

Crane's words had started a train of thought in Langdon's mind. All at once he remembered that the face of Lauzanne's rider had a dream-like familiarity. He had not given it much thought before; but his owner's suggestion that the boy was like Alan Porter echoed in his ears. He had wondered where Dixon had got this new boy; why he was putting him up on Lauzanne instead of Redpath; it seemed a foolish thing to give the mount to an apprentice when a good jockey was to be had. Could it be that it really was Alan. The whole family were natural-born jockeys, father and son, even the girl, Allis.

Langdon knew nothing of Alan Porter's movements--had not been interested enough to know. He had heard derogatory remarks about Redpath's riding of Lucretia in the Brooklyn Handicap; the Porters, no doubt dissatisfied--suspicious of the jockey--had put up Alan to insure an honest ride.

Langdon had thought these thoughts as he pa.s.sed swiftly from the paddock to the stand inclosure, where he stood not far from the rail, trying to get a good look at the lad on Lauzanne. Allis's persistently averted face thwarted this. The boy was inscribed on the jockey board ”Al Mayne;” the permit to ride must be under that name. If it were really Alan Porter, why had he been called Mayne? But the boy had retained the name ”Al”--that was a contraction of Alan, no doubt.

While Langdon labored over the problem of Mayne's Ident.i.ty he had watched the horses at the post through his gla.s.ses. The Dutchman was behaving well, his trifle of eagerness to break away was even better than Lauzanne's indolent indifference. The other five were acting as three-year-olds are wont to act--with erratic indecision; one minute violent desire, and the next obstinate reluctance characterizing their interminable twistings, backings, and plungings. It was not for long; a neck or a length at the start meant little when a mile and a half stretched its tiring length between them and the finish post.

Langdon's perplexity was cut short by the cry, ”They're off!” the jingle of a bell, and the scurrying of many feet, as eager men rushed for higher points of observation in the stand.

As the seven horses came thundering by, pulling double in eager ignorance of the long journey that lay before them, Langdon saw with evil satisfaction that the Indian was well out in the lead.

The Dutchman was sixth, and behind, with a short awkward strength in his gallop, loafed Lauzanne.

There was smoothness in the stride of Hanover's big son, The Dutchman; and his trainer, as he watched him swing with strong grace around the first turn, mentally fingered the ten thousand dollars that would shortly be his.

”That skate win!” he sneered, as Lauzanne followed; ”he gallops like a fat pig. He can't live the pace--he can't live the pace,” he repeated, and his voice was mellow with a cheerful exultation.

His observations seemed eminently truthful; Allis's horse trailed farther and farther behind the others. Out in front galloped with unseeming haste the Indian--a brown blotch of swift-gliding color. Two lengths from his glinting heels raced four horses in a bunch--two bays, a gray, and a black; so close together that they formed a small mosaic of mottled hue against the drab-gray background of the course stables beyond. Then The Dutchman, with his powerful stride, full of easy motion--a tireless gallop that would surely land him the winner, Langdon thought, as he hung with breathless interest on every move of Westley's body.

Up in the stand Old Bill was expressing in florid racetrack speech to Mortimer his deductions.

”Days a good kid on Larcen. See what he's doin'; he's trailin' 'em.

Dat's where our horse gits it; he's a stretch runner, he is. Dey'll have bellows to mend when he tackles 'em.”

To Mortimer it appeared very much as though the other horses were too fast for Lauzanne. ”Isn't he losing?” he asked of his exuberant friend.

”Losin' nut'in'! De kid ain't moved on him yet. De others is gallopin'

der heads off; dey're chasm' de crazy skate in front. Dere's only two jocks in de race worth a d.a.m.n--Bill Westley an' de kid on our horse.