Part 48 (2/2)

He knows he's got to beat Dutchy, an' he's lyin' handy by. When you see Dutchy move up Larcen'll come away, or I'm a goat.”

Mike Gaynor had taken his place on the little platform at the top of the steps leading to the stand. He was watching the race with intense interest. Would Lauzanne do his best for the girl--or would he sulk?

He saw the terrific pace that the Indian had set the others. Would it discourage their horse. His judgment told him that this fast pace could not last, and that Lauzanne could gallop as he was going from end to end of the mile and a half; even faster if he so wished. Would his rider have the patient steadiness of nerve to wait for this fulfillment of the inevitable or would she become rattled and urge the horse. Mike set his teeth, and his nails were driven hard into his rough palms as he strained in sympathy with the girl's quietude.

How long the Indian held on in his mad lead! Perhaps even he might upset all clever calculation and last long enough to win. Already the gray, White Moth, had drawn out from the bunch and was second; the other three were dropping back in straggling order to The Dutchman, who was still running as he had been, strong. That was at the mile. At the mile and an eighth, White Moth was at the Indian's heels; The Dutchman had moved up into third place, two lengths away; and Lauzanne had become merged in the three that were already beaten. At the mile and a quarter a half thrill of hope came to Mike, for Lauzanne was clear of the ruck, and surely gaining on the leaders. And still his rider was lying low on the withers, just a blue blur on the dark gold of the Chestnut.

”Bot' t'umbs! but they're a pair,” muttered the Irishman; ”be me soul, I t'ink they'll win.”

At the bottom turn into the stretch Mike could see that White Moth and The Dutchman had closed up on the Indian, so that they swung around the corner as one horse.

”Gad, she's shut off!” he muttered. It was a living wall, and through little c.h.i.n.ks in its quivering face he could see specks of blue close up where raced Lauzanne.

”Poor gurl!” he gasped, ”they've got her in a pocket. d.a.m.n them b'ys.

Why did she hug the rail--she's fair t'rowed away the last chance.”

Halfway up the steps stood Langdon, and his coa.r.s.e, evil face took on a look of unholy joy as Lauzanne was blotted into oblivion by the horses in front.

”Pocketed, by G.o.d! Clever Mister Dixon to put up a kid like that ag'in Westley an' the others,” he sneered.

Then a deafening roar went up from the stand. Somebody thrust a pair of broad shoulders in front of Mike's face; he leaned out far past the intruder, and saw the Indian sway drunkenly in his stride away from the rail, carrying White Moth and The Dutchman out; and into the opening he had left, glued to the rail, crept the chestnut form of Lauzanne.

A wild yell of Irish joy escaped Mike; then he waited. Now it would be a race; but Lauzanne was trying, trying all by himself, for the rider was as still as death. Already the clamor of many voices was splitting the air; all over the stand it was, ”The favorite wins! The Dutchman wins!”

Even yet there was no beckoning call for Lauzanne; but Mike knew. He had said to Allis before she went out, ”If ye ever get level wit' 'em in the straight, ye can win.”

And now Lauzanne's yellow head was even with the others; and soon it was in front. And then there were only two battling--Lauzanne and The Dutchman; and on the Bay, Westley was riding with whip and spur.

”In a walk--in a walk, I tell you!” fairly screamed Old Bill, clutching at Mortimer's arm; ”didn't I tell you? We're a tousand to de good. Look at him, look at him!” He had climbed halfway up Mortimer's strong back in his excitement. ”Look at de kid! Never moved--in a walk, in a walk!

Larcen all the way for a million!”

His voice generally weak and tattered like his clothes; had risen to a shrill scream of exultation.

It was past all doubt. Lauzanne, a length in front of The Dutchman, was opposite the stand; in two seconds they had flashed by the Judges' box, and Lauzanne had won.

The wave of humanity that swept down the steps carried Mike in its front wash. He took his stand close to the Judges' box; there he would be handy for whatever might be needed. He saw Langdon with a face dark and lowering, full of an evil discontent, standing there too. Back the seven runners cantered. Lauzanne's rider saluted the judge with whip, and slipping from the horse stripped him of the saddle with deft fingers, and pa.s.sed quickly into the scales. The weight was right. One after another the boys weighed.

Watching, Mike saw Langdon pa.s.s up to the Stewards. There was a short consultation, the hush of something wrong, and a murmur of an objection.

”What's the matter?” a voice questioned in Mike's ear. It was Alan Porter that had spoken.

Mike pushed his way to the small gate, even through it, that led up to the Stewards' Stand. As he did so Langdon came back down the steps. One of the Stewards, following him with quick eyes, saw Mike and beckoned with a finger.

”There's an objection to the rider of Lauzanne,” said the official; ”Trainer Langdon says Alan Porter rode the horse under a permit belonging to a boy named Mayne.”

”He's mistook, sir.” answered Mike, respectfully; ”there's Alan Porter standin' down there in the crowd. I'll sind him up, sir, an' ye can ask him yerself.”

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