"I wasn't thinking of one horse," continued the minister, airily; "I meant race horses in general."

"I think Mr. Dolman is right," ventured Mrs. Porter, hesitatingly; "it's flying in the face of Providence for a girl to go amongst those race horses."

"Bad-tempered men make them vicious, mother," Allis said; "and I believe that Shandy's punishment was the visitation of Providence, if there was any."

The Reverend Dolman's face took on an austere look. It was an insult to the divine powers to assert that they had taken the part of a race horse. But he turned the point to his own ends. "It's quite wrong to abuse the noble animal; and that's one reason why I hold that racing is contrary to the Creator's intentions, quite apart from the evil effect it has on morals."

"Are all men immoral who race, Mr. Dolman?" John Porter asked.

His question forced Dolman to define his position. Porter always liked things simplified; racing was either wrong in principle or right. Dolman found him rather a difficult man to tackle. He had this irritating way of brushing aside generalization and forcing the speaker to get back to first principles.

The reverend gentleman proceeded cautiously. "I should hardly care to go so far as that—to make the rule absolute; a very strong man might escape contamination, perhaps."

Mrs. Porter sighed audibly. The minister was weakening most lamentably, giving her husband a loophole to escape.

"I hardly think racing quite so bad as it is generally supposed to be," interposed Crane, feeling that Porter was being pilloried somewhat. He received a reproachful look from Mrs. Porter for his pains.

"I've never seen any good come of it," retorted Dolman. "A Christian man must feel that he is encouraging gambling if he countenances racing, for they contend that without betting racing is impossible."

"Everything in life is pretty much of a gamble," Porter drawled, lazily; "there aren't any such things. The ships that go to sea, the farmer's crop—everything is more or less a matter of chance. If a man goes straight he has a fairly easy time with his conscience, no matter what he's at; but if he doesn't, well, he'd better go hungry."

"A great many very honorable men are racing today," added Crane; "men who have built up large fortunes through honest dealing, and wouldn't be racing if they felt that it was either unchristian or dishonorable."

"They can't be Christians if they countenance gambling," asserted the minister, doggedly.

It occurred to Mortimer that whenever the discussion took broader lines, Dolman drew it back into the narrow cell of his own convictions.

Porter scratched his head perplexedly. They had been discussing the moral influence of racing; this seemed more like theology. "It is certainly unchristian," commented Mrs. Porter, severely. "I haven't seen much Christian spirit in any business," said Porter, quietly; "they all seem more a matter of written agreements. In fact there's more done on honor in racing than in any of the business gambles. A man that's crooked in racing is sure to come to grief in the long run."

Crane shifted in his chair, and Dolman coughed deprecatingly. "For my part," continued Porter, "I've never found it necessary to do anything I'm ashamed of in racing."

His wife saw an opening. "But, John dear, you were treated most shamefully last year; a dishonest boy hauled your horse—"

"Pulled, mother," interposed Allis; "pulled father's horse, you mean."

"Perhaps, though I fail to see where the difference can be, if the horse ran the other way and your father lost."

Porter smiled indulgently. "The boy was punished, Helen," he said. "Dishonesty is not tolerated on the race course."

"Yes, but something is always happening," she continued in lament. "It's contrary to the law of the church, John. It seems just like a visitation of divine wrath the way things happen. And you're so sanguine, John; last year you were going to win a big race with Diablo when he threw his leg—"

"Threw a splint, mother," prompted Allis.

"I thought your father said it was his leg had something the matter with it," argued Mrs. Porter.

"The splint was on his leg, mother dear."

"Well, I'm not familiar with racing phrases, I must say, though I should be, goodness knows; I hear little else. And talk of cruelty to animals!" she turned to Mr. Dolman; "they burned the poor beast's leg with hot irons—"

The minister held up his hands in horror.

"It didn't give him as much pain as the doctor gave Mr. Mortimer setting his arm," declared Allis.

"But it was racing injured the horse's leg," interposed Dolman.

"But your horse has got a ringbone, Mr. Dolman," said Allis, "and a spavin, too. I've been looking at him. That's because you drive him too fast on hard roads. And his feet are contracted from neglect in shoeing. It's just cruel the way that poor old horse has been neglected. Race horses are much better taken care of."

Allis's sudden onslaught switched Mr. Dolman from the aggressive to the defensive with great celerity.

"I confess I know very little about horses," he was forced to apologize; then, with something of asperity, "the spiritual welfare of my congregation takes up my entire time."

This rebuke caused a momentary silence, and Dolman, turning to Mortimer, said, "I hope you don't approve of racing, sir."

Mortimer didn't, but a look from Allis's eyes inexplicably enough caused him to hedge very considerably in his reply.

"I know nothing about the race course," he said, "but from what I see of the thoroughbreds I believe a man would have to be of very low order if their noble natures did not appeal to him. I think that courage, and honesty, and gentleness—they all seem to have it—must always have a good influence. Why, sir," he continued, with a touch of excitement, "I think a man would be ashamed to feel that he was making himself lower than the horses he had to do with."

Allis looked grateful. Even Porter turned half about in his chair, and gazed with a touch of wonderment at the battered young man who had substituted common sense for sophistical reasoning.

The reverend gentleman frowned. "It's not the horses at all," he said, "it's the men who are disreputable."

Mrs. Porter gave a little warning cough. In his zealousness Mr. Dolman might anger her husband, then his logic would avail little.

"The men are like the horses," commented Porter, "some bad and some good. They average about the same as they do in anything else, mostly good, I think. Of course, when you get a bad one he stands out and everybody sees him."

"And sometimes horses—and men, too, I suppose—get a bad name when they don't deserve it," added Allis. "Everybody says Lauzanne is bad, but I know he's not."

"That was a case of this dreadful dishonesty," said Mrs. Porter, speaking hastily. She turned in an explanatory way to Crane. "You know, Mr. Crane, last summer a rascally man sold my husband a crooked horse. Now, John, what are you laughing at?" for her husband was shaking in his chair.

"I was wondering what a crooked horse would look like," he answered, and there were sobs in his voice.

"Why, John, when you brought him home you said he was crooked."

As usual, Allis straightened matters out: "It was the man who was crooked. Mother means Lauzanne," she continued.

"Yes," proceeded the good woman, "a Mr. Langdon, I remember now, treated my husband most shamefully over this horse."

Crane winced. He would have preferred thumbscrews just then. "John is honest himself," went on Mrs. Porter, "and he believes other men, and this horse had some drug given him to make him look nice, so that my husband would buy him."

"Shameful," protested Dolman. "Are men allowed to give horses drugs?" he appealed to Mr. Porter.

"No; the racing law is very strict on that point."

"But evidently it is done," contended Dolman.

"I think there's very little of it," said Porter.

This turn of the conversation made Crane feel very uneasy. "Do you think, Mr. Porter," he asked, "that there was anything of that sort over Lauzanne? Do you think Langdon would—" He hesitated.

"Mr. Langdon has a tolerable idea of what I think," answered Porter. "I shouldn't trust that man too much if I were you. He's got cunning enough, though, to run straight with a man like yourself, who has a horse or two in his stable, and doesn't go in for betting very heavily."

"I know very little about him," protested Crane; "and, as you say, he will probably act quite straightforward with me, at least."

"Yes," continued Porter, half wearily, as though he wished to finish the distasteful discussion; "there are black sheep in racing as there are in everything else. My own opinion is that the most of the talk we hear about crooked racing is simply talk. At least nine out of ten races are honestly run—the best horse wins. I would rather cut off my right hand than steal a race, and yet last summer it was said that I had pulled Lucretia."

"I never heard of that, John," cried Mrs. Porter, in astonishment.

"No, you didn't," dryly answered her husband.

Allis smiled; she had settled that part of it with her father at the time.

"If you'll excuse me," began Crane, rising, "I think Mr. Wortimer is getting tired. I believe I'll jog back to Brookfield."

Reluctantly the Reverend Dolman rose, too. He felt, somehow, that the atmosphere of racing had smothered his expostulation—that he had made little headway. The intense honesty that was John Porter's shielded him about almost as perfectly as, a higher form of belief might have done.

But with almost a worldly cunning it occurred to the clergyman that he could turn the drawn battle into a victory for the church; and as they stood for a minute in the gentle bustle of leave-taking, he said: "The ever-continuing fight that I carry on against the various forms of gambling must necessarily take on at times almost a personal aspect—" he was addressing Mr. Porter, ostensibly—"but in reality it is not quite so. I think I understand your position, Mr. Porter, and—and—what shall I say—personally I feel that the wickedness of racing doesn't appeal to you as a great contamination; you withstand it, but you will forgive me saying so, thousands have not the same strength of character."

Porter made a deprecatory gesture, but Dolman proceeded. "What I was going to say is, that you possibly realize this yourself. You have acted so wisely, with what I would call Christian forethought, in placing your son, Alan, in a different walk in life, and—" he turned with a grave bow in Crane's direction—"and in good hands, too."

"His mother wished it," Porter said, simply.

"Yes, John was very good about Alan's future," the mother concurred. "But, husband, you quite agreed that it was much better for Alan to be in the bank than possibly drifting into association with—well, such dishonorable men as this Mr. Langdon and his friends. He is so much better off," she continued, "with young men such as Mr. Crane would have about him."

The Reverend Dolman smiled meekly, but it was in triumph. He had called attention to an act which spoke far louder than Mr. Porter's disclaiming words.

Porter was not at all deceived by the minister; in fact, he rather admired the other's cleverness in beating him on the post. He gave a little laugh as he said: "I should not have succeeded very well in a bank. I am more at home with the horses than I am with figures; but I expect I would have gone fairly straight, and hope the boy will do the same. I fancy one of the great troubles about banking is to keep the men honest, the temptation of handling so much money being great. They seem to have more chances to steal than men on the race course."

As usual, Porter seemed to be speaking out of his thoughts and without malice; no one took offense. It was simply a straightforward answer to Dolman's charge.

Porter had simply summed up the whole business in a very small nutshell. That there was temptation everywhere, and that honest men and thieves were to be found on race courses, in banks, in every business, but that, like the horses, a fair share of them were honest.

"Speaking materially of race horses quite outside of the moral aspect," said Crane, as he was taking his leave, "you'll have to be mighty careful of that Diablo, Mr. Porter, when Miss Allis is about; he seems a vindictive brute."

"Yes, John; you'll have to sell him right away; I'll be frightened to death while he's about the place."

"I shall never be a bit afraid of him," remonstrated Allis; "Shandy, who made all the mischief, has been discharged."

"Diablo has always been more trouble than he's worth," said Porter. "I thought he was going to be a good horse, but he isn't; and if he has taken to eating people I'll give him away some day. I wouldn't sell him as a good horse, and nobody'd buy a man-eater."

"I'll buy him when you make up your mind, Mr. Porter," exclaimed Crane, somewhat eagerly. "I have nobody sweet enough to tempt his appetite. In the meantime, Miss Allis, if I were you I should keep away from him."

Then presently, with good-nights and parting words of warning about Diablo, the guests were gone; and Mortimer, having declined Porter's proffered help, was somewhat awkwardly—having but one good hand—preparing to retire in Alan's room.

His mind worked somewhat faster than his fingers; several new problems had been given it to labor over within the compass of a single moon. That horse racing should ever become a disturbing interest in his life had seemed very improbable; now it was like a gale about his soul, it swayed him. He was storm-tossed in the disturbing element; he could come to no satisfying conclusion. On the one hand the thoroughbred horses were to be admired; they were brave and true, creatures of love. Also Porter was an honest man, the one thing he admired above all else.

And Miss Allis! Somehow or other his eyes wandered to a picture that rested on a mantelpiece in the room. He took it down, looking furtively over his shoulder as he did so, and taking it close under the lamp that was on the table sat and gazed steadfastly into the girlish face.

Even in the photograph the big, wondrous eyes seemed to say, "What of wrong, if we are not wrong?" That was the atmosphere so thoroughly straightforward and honest that wrong failed of contamination.

Still it was unconvincing to Mortimer. The horses might be good, the man honest, and the girl pure and sweet, but the life itself was distasteful. Reason as one might, it was allied to gambling. Mortimer rose with a sigh, the whole thing wearied him. Why should he distress his mind over the matter? As he put the photograph back on the mantel he held it for an instant, then suddenly; with a nervous, awkward gesture, brought it to his lips and kissed the eyes that seemed to command tribute.

The movement twisted his broken-ribbed side and an agony of pain came to him in quick retribution. It was as though the involuntary kiss had lurched him forward into a futurity of misery. The spasm loosed beads of perspiration which stood cold on his forehead. Swift taken from the stimulant of his thoughts, his nerves overtaxed by the evening, jangled discordantly, and he crept into bed, feeling an unutterable depression as though the room, was filled with evil, threatening spirits.



XIII

In coincidence the two men, Mortimer and Crane, had similar thoughts the day after Mr. Dolman's discussion; and, rather remarkably, their deductions were alike, having the same subject of mental retrospect—Allis Porter.

It was evident that outside of her family little interested her but horses; certainly not a very lofty aspiration. When the conversation had dealt with broad principles, men and their shortcomings, the previous evening, she had centralized it in Lauzanne, picturing him as symbolical of good acts and evil repute. Patently it was difficult to become interested in such a young woman; actually she monopolized their thoughts. Inconsistently the fair offender felt no recoil of this somewhat distressing situation; her mind busied itself chiefly over the reclamation of Lauzanne.

By inheritance all the qualities of a good horse had come to him except a submissive temper. Allis worked on the theory that his disposition had been set awry by injudicious handling; that unlimited patience would cause him to forget all that. He could gallop, else he had not won the race in which he beat The Dutchman. That he had needed a stimulant that day was because he had been soured and would not try with his wits about him. From the time of coming back to Ringwood Allis had ridden him in all his exercise gallops, and had asked Mike personally to supervise his stable education. It had taken all her great patience, all her youthful enthusiasm and faith, for the Chestnut had notions beyond all belief. At first, missing the abuse, he almost seemed to thirst for it; tried the gentle girl in every way—sulked, and loafed, and took little streaks of trying to cut the course, and made false breaks as though he were going to run with a full vigor; even laid hold of the horses with his teeth when opportunity offered. These antics did not break the girl's faith; she rode him with the gentle hand a woman knows and a horse soon learns to appreciate, and gave him to understand that he was to have fair treatment.

Porter viewed this continuous performance with silent skepticism. He did not abuse horses himself, neither did he put up with too much nonsense from them. To him they were like children, needing a lot of tolerant kindness, but, also, at times, to be greatly improved by a sound whipping. Once when he suggested something of this sort to Allis, saying that Lauzanne was a spoiled child, she admitted he was, but that thoughtless cruelty and not indulgence had done the harm, therefore kindness was the cure. The first sign of regeneration was the implicit faith that Lauzanne began to place in his young mistress. At first when she put up a hand to pet him he would jerk his head away in affright; now he snuggled her shoulder, or nibbled at her glove in full spirit of comradarie. Then one day in a gallop came a stronger manifestation, a brief minute of exhilaration, with after-hours of thankfulness, and beyond that, alas for the uncertainty of a spoiled temper, an added period of wallowing in the Slough of Despond!

It was on a crisp, sparkling morning, and with Shandy—it was before his downfall—on Lucretia, another stable lad, Ned Carter, on Game Boy, and Allis on Lauzanne, the three swung off for a working gallop of a mile or more. Lauzanne was in an inquisitive mood, as the other two raced on in front. What was his light-weighted rider up to anyway? Why did she always leave it to him to do just as he liked? Was she really deceiving him? Did she wish him to lie back there behind the others always? He fell to wondering what she would do if he were to take hold of the bit and spread his big muscles in one rushing gallop, and go on past the others and get home to the feed box first. He rattled the snaffle in his mouth with nervous indecision—he had a notion to try it.

"Steady, my boy!" said Allis, as she slipped the reins back through her fingers till they stretched tight. A dozen times she had sought in vain to make him think she did not wish him to gallop, but something in the crisp air this morning threw him off his guard. Why should he be forced to lag behind? He stretched the arch of his neck straight till the bit held hard in his mouth; the ears pitched forward in eager point; the great frame under the girl quivered and sank closer to earth; the roar of his beating hoofs came up to her ears, muffled by the drive of the wind that was now a gale as the Chestnut raced into it with the speed of an express. How her heart sang! Here was speed, and with such stride—strong, and straight, and true! Low she crouched, and her call to Lauzanne was but a joyous whisper. Her small hands were framed in steel, strength to steady the big Chestnut as he swung round the course glued to the rail. On Lauzanne sped, and to the rhythm of his big heaving quarters the girl's soul sang a song of delight. At last, at last was coming her reward.

And then, just when everything had been achieved, when the great gallop had brought them half up the stretch, something came to Lauzanne—perhaps the memory of the whipping finishes; at any rate, he curled up like a dog, threw his ears back—Allis could feel the sudden stiff prop of the forelegs as he set himself against the rush of speed—and in a dozen strides he was Lauzanne again, Lauzanne the Despised.

And so it had gone on for weeks, Allis working out her theory up to the time of the trouble over Diablo. There was something in the girl's quiet determination that was masterful; perhaps that was why she had always had her own way at home. Now this mastery was spreading out wonderfully; Lauzanne, and Mike, and her father, and Crane, and Mortimer, all in different degrees of subjection, but, as Fate knew, all subject.

Mrs. Porter's continual lament on the subject of racing had given Crane a keynote for his line of action. It was the day following her scoring of the tolerant husband that Crane revisited Ringwood full of his new idea.

He had an impulse to buy back Lauzanne. For almost the first time in his life he experienced twinges of remorse; this was because of Allis. Porter's affairs were in a bad way, and he would probably accept eagerly an offer from Crane to lighten his load. Individually he cared little for Porter's financial troubles, but it was a good opportunity to prepare the way for a stronger pressing of his suit with the girl. With his usual fine discrimination he spoke to Mrs. Porter first, intimating never so slightly that her words had won his entire sympathy; that if her husband would sell any of the horses he would buy them.

There was a convincing sincerity about Crane at all times; what he did he did with the full vigor of a man believing in its truth. One might almost have suspected that he deceived himself, that he had no conception of the unrighteousness of his acts. At any rate, he imposed most successfully upon the mother of Allis. Quite egotistically she attributed to herself the trend of his friendship. In racing phrase, Crane was out for a killing and playing his cards with consummate skill.

With the master of Ringwood he went very straight to the point. This was possible, as Porter could not hesitate to discuss his financial condition with his banker. Crane offered to buy Lucretia; this with him was purely a speculation, but Porter would not part with his little mare. Then the banker spoke of Lauzanne, saying that he felt somewhat guilty since learning the previous evening that the horse had been doped. Porter failed to see where Crane had anything to do with it. But the latter insisted that he had unwittingly helped Langdon by speaking of Lauzanne as a good horse. He had known nothing of the matter, beyond that his trainer had assured him the horse would win; in fact, he had backed him.

Porter laughed at the idea that responsibility could attach to Crane. As to the Chestnut, he was not worth a tenth of the three thousand he had cost—that was well known; and if Crane or any other man sought to buy him at that price it would savor too much of charity. At any rate, Lauzanne belonged to Allis, and Crane would have to bargain with her.

Then there was Diablo, Crane said; his presence was a menace to Miss Porter.

"I've nursed him for a good while," Porter replied, "and he's a bad betting proposition—he's too uncertain. You don't want such a horse as that—nobody does. I'll keep him a bit longer, and put him in a handicap or two where the purse will be worth running for, and I won't have to back him; he'll get in with a featherweight, and some day may take it into his head to gallop, though he's a rank bad one."

Crane did not press the point; he understood Porter's motives throughout. He knew the master of Ringwood was an unchanging man, very set in his ways, adhering closely to his plans and opinions. So Crane went back to Brookfield without purchasing a horse, saying as he left, "I claim first privilege when you wish to sell."

He had talked to Porter in the stable, and Mike, busy near by, heard that part of their conversation referring to the horses.

"They haven't got money enough in the bank to take the little mare from us yet, have they, Mike?" Porter said to Gaynor, full of his pride in Lucretia.

"That they haven't, sor," replied Mike, proudly. "But, faith, I wish th' gint hadn't come a-tryin' to buy her; it's bad luck to turn down a big offer fer any horse."

Porter smiled indulgently. This stable superstition did not appeal to him.

"It would a-broke the bad luck, sor, to have let him took the Black."

"It would have broken his bank, you mean, Mike."

"Well, he'll break somewan's back here yet, an' I'm tellin' you that sthraight. They say a black cat's full av th! divil, but Diablo's ould Nick hisself, though I'm sayin'it was th' b'y Shandy's fault sp'ilin' him. An' if it wasn't fer Miss Allis it's a pity you couldn't a-sold him the Chestnut. He's a sawhorse—he's as heavy in th' head as a bag of salt; he'll never do no good to nobody. Them's the kind as kapes a man poor, eatin' their heads off, an' wan horse, or maybe two, in the stable earnin' th' oats fer them. It's chaper to cut th' t'roats av such cattle."

"I believe you're right, Mike," Porter answered, quietly, as he left the stable.

Crane, driving back to Brookfield, turned over in his mind the matter of his mission. He was satisfied. He had succeeded in the main objective point. It would have been a good move to have acquired Lucretia, to have tempted her owner to part with her for ready money in sight. The money would soon have disappeared; then Porter, with a lot of bad horses on his hand, would almost certainly have come more firmly into the grasp of Crane. The offer to buy Lauzanne had been a bit of saving grace, a faint, generous impulse, begot of Allis's regenerating influence; but Crane had discovered that Porter did not at all suspect him of interest in the fraud—that was a great something. He had also established himself firmly in Mrs. Porter's good graces, he could see. It would be indeed strange if in the end he did not succeed completely.



XIV

Shandy's escapade with Diablo had brought a new trouble to Mike Gaynor.

The boy had been discharged with a severe reprimand from Mr. Porter, and a punctuation mark of disapproval from the Trainer's horn-like hand. He had departed from Ringwood inwardly swearing revenge upon everybody connected with that place; against Diablo he was particularly virulent.

Mike tried to secure a boy in the Brookfield neighborhood to ride Diablo in his work, but Shandy's evil tongue wagged so blatantly about the horse's bad temper that no lad could be found to take on in the stables. Ned Carter might have ridden Diablo at work, but the big Black was indeed a horse of many ideas. He had taken a notion to gallop kindly while accompanied by Lucretia and Lauzanne; worked alone he sulked and was as awkward as a broncho of the plains. Also he disliked Carter—seemed to associate his personality with that of Shandy's.

Mike's discontent over the hitch spread to John Porter. It was too bad; the horses had been doing so well. For three days Diablo had no gallop. On the fourth Porter determined to ride the horse himself; he would not be beaten out by an ungrateful whelp like Shandy. In his day he had been a famous gentleman jock, and still light enough to ride work.

"I don't like the idea, sor; it's not good enough," remonstrated Mike.

But his master was obdurate. If Allis rode Lauzanne, why shouldn't he ride Diablo?

Gaynor would have ridden the horse himself rather than have his master do so, but he had a bad leg. Once upon a time it had been crushed against the rail. Somebody must ride Diablo; the horse, naturally highstrung, was becoming wild with nervousness through being knocked out of his work.

For three days after his discharge Shandy sat brooding with the low cunning of a forest animal over his fancied ill-treatment. More than once he had received money from Langdon for touting off to him Porter's stable matters; now in his unreasoning bitterness he contrasted Langdon and Porter.

"Dick's white, he is, an' I'll go git a job from him. I gits half eat by that crazy skate, an' fired without a cent fer it. God drat 'em!" he muttered; "I'll get even, or know why. They'll put Ned up on Diablo, will they? The sneak! He split on me fer beltin' the Black, I know, damn him! They ain't got another boy an' they won't git one. I'll fix that stiff, Carter, too; then they won't have no boy."

He drank beer, and as it irritated his ferret mind a devilish plot came into his being and took possession of him—a plot easy of execution because of his familiarity with the Ringwood stables.

That night he slipped through the dark, like a hyena pup, to Ringwood. That the stable was locked mattered not. More than once, out of laziness, Shandy had shirked going to Mike's quarters for the keys and had found ingress by a small window, a foot square, through which the soiled straw bedding was thrown into the yard. Standing on the dung heap, Shandy worked open the board slide that closed this window, and wormed his weasel-form through the small opening. He passed down the passage between the stalls and entered a saddle room at the farther end.

"The bloomin' thing used to be on the fourth peg," he muttered, drawing his small figure up on tiptoe and feeling along the wall for something. "Blow me!" and he chuckled fiendishly as his fingers encountered the cold steel of a bit, "I'd know that snaffle in hell, if I got a feel of it."

There was a patent device of a twist and a loose ring in the center of the bit he clutched, which Porter had devised for Diablo's hard mouth.

Shandy gave the bridle a swing, and it clattered to the floor from its peg. Diablo snorted and pawed the planks of his stall nervously.

"All right, my buck," hissed Shandy, "you wait till to-morror; you'll git the run of yer life, I'm thinkin', damn their eyes!" and he went off into a perfect torrent of imprecation against everybody at Ringwood, hushing his voice to a snarling whisper. Then he shut the door of the saddle room, sat down on the floor and pulled from his pocket a knife and stub of candle. He lighted the latter and held it flame down till a few drops of wax formed a tiny lake; into this he stuck the candle upright, shielding its flame with his coat. He opened the knife and laying it down, inspected minutely the bridle which lay across his leg.

"It's Diablo's right enough," he said; "I couldn't be mistook on the bit, nor them strong lines."

He picked up the knife, and holding the leather rein across the palm of his left hand started to saw it gently with the blade. Almost instantly he left off. "Of all the bloomin' ijits! God drat me fer a goat! He'd feel that cut the first slip through his fingers the leather took."

He gathered in the rein until he had it six inches from the bit. There he cut, stopping many times, and doubling the leather close to the light to see how deep he had penetrated.

"There, Mr. Bloody Ned!" he exclaimed at last, as inspection showed that only the outer hard shell of the leather remained intact. "That'll just hold till the Black takes one of his cranky spells, an' you give him a stiff pull. God help you then!" Even this was a blasphemous cry of exultation; not a plea for divine assistance for the man he plotted against.

His next move proved that his cunning was of an exceptional order. From his coat pocket he brought forth a pill box. In this receptacle Shandy dipped a forefinger, and rubbed into the fresh cut of the leather a trifle of blackened axle grease which he had taken from a wagon wheel before starting out. Then he wiped the rein with his coat tail and looked at it admiringly.

"The bloke won't see that, blast him!"

He hung the bridle up in its place, put out the candle, dropped it in his pocket and made his way from the stable.

As he passed Diablo's stall the big Black snorted again, and plunged in affright.

"You'll get enough of that to-morror," sneered the boy. "I hope you and Ned both break your damn necks. Fer two cents I'd drop somethin' in your feed-box that'd settle you right now; but it's the skunk as split on me I want to get even with."

Shandy trudged back to where he nested in Brookfield and soon slept with calm restfulness, as though no evil had ever homed in his heart. In the first gray of the early morning he rose and went out to the race course.



XV

The course near Ringwood had formerly been a trotting track, and was still used at irregular intervals for the harness horses. In its primitive days a small, square, box-like structure had done duty as a Judges' Stand. With other improvements a larger structure had been erected a hundred yards higher up the stretch.

It was to the little old stand that Shandy took his way. Inside he waited for the coming of Gaynor's string of gallopers as supremely happy in his unrighteous work as any evil-minded boy might be at the prospect of unlimited mischief.

"Ned'll ride Diablo, sure; there's nothin' else to it," he muttered. "I hope he breaks his blasted neck. I'll pay 'em out fer turnin' me off like a dog," he continued, savagely, the small ferret eyes blazing with fury. "I'll learn the damn—Hello!" His sharp ears had caught the muffled sound of hoofs thudding the turf in a slow, measured walk. He peeped between the boards.

"Yes, it's Mike. And the girl, too—blast her! She blamed me fer near bein' eat alive by that black devil of a dope horse. Hell!"

This ambiguous exclamation was occasioned by the sight of his former master springing into the saddle on Diablo's back.

"That's the game, eh? God strike me dead! I hope you git enough of him. My arms ache yet from bein' near pulled out of the sockets by that leather-mouthed brute. Gee, if the boss hasn't got spurs on! If he ever tickles the Black wit' 'em—say, boys, there'll be a merry hell to pay, and no pitch hot."

The young Arab spoke to the boards as though they were partners in his iniquity. Then he chuckled diabolically, as in fancy he saw Porter being trampled by the horse.

"The girl's on Lauzanne," he muttered; "she's the best in the lot, if she did run me down. A ridin' that sorrel mut, too, when she ought to be in the house washin' dishes. A woman ain't got no more business hangin' 'round the stable than a man's got in the kitchen. Petticoats is the devil; I never could abide 'em." Shandy sometimes harked back to his early English Whitechapel, for he had come from the old country, and had brought with him all the depravity he could acquire in the first five years of his existence there.

"Ned's got the soft snap in that blasted bunch," as his eye discovered Carter on Lucretia. "He's slipped me this go, but I've nobbled the boss, so I don't care. I'm next 'em this trip."

As the three horses and their riders came on to the course he pulled out a cheap stop-watch Langdon had equipped him with for his touting, and started and stopped it several times.

"You'll pay fer their feed, you damn ole skinflint," he was apostrophizing Porter, "an' I'll be next the best they can do, an' stan' in on the rake-off. Gee! I thought they was out fer a trial," he muttered, looking disconsolately at the three as they cantered the first part of the journey. "I'll ketch 'em at the half, on the off chance," he added.

But though the timepiece in his hand clicked impatiently, after he pressed the stem with his thumb, as Diablo's black nozzle showed past the half-mile post, the three horses still cantered. Lauzanne was loping leisurely with the action of a wooden rocking-horse. Lucretia, her long, in-tipped ears cocked eagerly forward, was throwing her head impatiently into the air as though pleading for just one strong gallop. Diablo's neck was arched like the half of a cupid's bow; his head, almost against his chest, hung heavy in the reins tight-drawn in Porter's strong hands. His eyes, showing full of a suspicious whiteness, stood out from his lean, bony head; they were possessed of a fretful, impatient look. Froth flecked back from the nervous, quivering lips, and spattered against his black satin-skinned chest, where it hung like seafoam on holding sand.

"Whoa! Steady, old boy!" Porter was coaxing soothingly. "Steady, boy!"

"The ease up has put the very deuce into this fellow," he flung over his shoulder to Allis, who was at Diablo's quarter. "He's a hard-mouthed brute if ever there was one."

"He'll be all right, dad," she called forward, raising her voice, for the wind cut her breath; "Shandy rode him with a heavy hand, that's why."

"I'll put a rubber bit in his mouth, to soften it," he pumped brokenly. "Let out a wrap, girl, and we'll breeze them up the stretch; come on. Carter, get to the front with the mare." A quarter of a mile from the finish the horses raced into a swinging stride. Diablo was simply mad with a desire to gallop; but in the saddle was his master; no horse ever did as he wished with John Porter. Battling against the sharps his honesty might handicap him out of the strife, but in the saddle the elation of movement crept into his sinews, and he was superb, a king. As a jockey, he would have been unsurpassed. It filled his heart with delight to play with the fierce, imperious animal he rode.

"Steady, my boy—no you don't!" This as Diablo stuck his neck straight out like an arrow and sought to hold the bit tight against the bridle teeth, that he might race at his own sweet will. Back came the right hand, then the left, three vicious saws, and the bit was loose and Diablo's head drawn down again close to the martingale. Lucretia and Lauzanne were pulling to the front.

"Go on!" called Porter to Ned Carter; "I want to see the little mare in her stride. Take them out at three-quarter gallop down the back stretch. I'll be treading your heels off."

By this they were opposite the old stand, where Shandy was hiding. The boy, surmising that a gallop was on, and anxious to see them as they rounded the turn going down the back, had knocked a board loose to widen the crack. As the horses came abreast, Shandy, leaning forward in his eagerness, dislodged it at the top, and it fell with a clatter, carrying him half through the opening. The wind was blowing fair across the little stand, so the scent of the boy came to Diablo's nostrils at the same instant the startling noise reached his nervous ears. In a swerve he almost stopped, every muscle of his big body trembling in affright. Porter was nearly thrown from his seat by this crouching side step; the horse seemed to shrink from under him. Just for an instant, but the reins had flapped loose against the wet neck and Diablo felt freedom. With a snort he plunged forward like a wounded buck, and raced madly after Lucretia, who had bolted when the crash came.

Porter had lost a stirrup in the sudden twist, and the reins had slipped through his fingers as he grabbed the mane on Diablo's wither to pull his weight back into the saddle.

Now the black neck was straight and taut, flatcapped by the slim ears that lay close to the throatlatch. The thunder of his pounding hoofs reached to the ears of Lucretia and Lauzanne in front, and urged them onward. Carter had sat down in the saddle, and taken a steadying pull at the brown mare. Even Lauzanne seemed lifted out of his usual lethargy, and, widemouthed, was pulling Allis out of the saddle.

"Curse the brute!" gasped Porter, burying his knees in the saddle flaps, and searching for the dangling stirrup with the toe of his right foot. Once he almost had it, but missed; the iron, swinging viciously, caught Diablo in the flank—it made little difference, his terror was complete. All the time Porter was kneading the dangling reins back through forefinger and thumb, shortening his hold for a strong pull at the galloping brute's head.

"Who-o-o-a-h, who-o-o-ah, stead-y!" and, bracing himself against the pummel he swung the weight of his shoulders on the reins. As well might he have pulled at the rock of Gibraltar. Diablo's head was up, his teeth set hard and the man's strength was as nothing against the full-muscled neck of the big horse. Diablo was cutting down the lead the other two held over him, galloping like a demon. Porter felt that he must loosen the bit and throw that set head down to get command of the horse. One fierce yank to the right and the black head swayed a trifle; another to the left and—God in heaven! the rein snapped, and its loose end came back, slashing the rider across the face. He reeled with the recoil, nearly bringing Diablo to his knees with the sudden swing of weight on the right rein. Porter's brain jerked foolishly for an instant; then he was the trained horseman again, and had let the remaining leather slip through his fingers a trifle.

"Go on!" he shouted to those in front; "go on—give me a lead! Hang to the course!"

He realized now that the crazed brute under him must run himself out. All he could do was to sit tight and wait till Diablo had raced himself to a standstill. To use the one rein meant a crash into the rail, and surely death. Before, he had thought only of the horse's welfare; now it was a matter of his own life. All that remained to him was to keep a cool head, a steady nerve, and wait.

Freed of restraint, not battled with, the Black's stride lengthened, his nostrils spread wider, the hoofs pounded quicker and quicker until the earth echoed with their palpitating beat. The other horses heard the turmoil, and they, too, became more afraid, and took up the mad rush.

Diablo's reaching nose was at Lauzanne's hip when Allis took one swift backward glance. She saw the dangling rein, the set look in her father's face, the devil eyes of the horse, and for one breath-gasp her heart fluttered in its beat. As quickly she put the fear from her, and swinging Lauzanne a shade wide, left Diablo more room next the rail.

"On, Lauzanne!" she called through drawn lips; and hitched encouragingly in the saddle.

Lucretia was still in front, her speed mocking at the swift rush of Lauzanne and Diablo. But how the Black galloped! Every post saw him creeping up on the Chestnut, and Allis riding and nursing him to keep the runaway hemmed in at the turns, so that he could not crash through the outer rail. No one spoke again. Each knew that nothing was left to do but keep Diablo to the course, and ride, ride.

Just in front of Lauzanne, with swinging stride raced the brown mare, waiting till the Chestnut should drop back beaten, to take up the running with Diablo. That was Carter's good judgment; and he rode as though it were the Derby, and he was nursing his mount for the last call at the finish.

At the three quarters Lauzanne and Diablo were neck and neck; at the half, the Black was lapped on Lucretia; another furlong and she was laboring to keep her place, nose and nose with him.

"I'm done," panted Carter, feeling the mare swerve and falter; "I'm done—God help us!"

Still there was no check in the Black's gallop; he was like a devil that could go on forever and ever.

They had turned into the straight with Lucretia a neck to the bad, when Carter heard the girl's voice faintly calling, "Pull out, Ned!" The boy thought it fancy. Lauzanne the Despised couldn't be there at their heels. He had thought him beaten off long ago. But again the voice came, a little stronger, "Pull out, Ned!"

This time there was no mistake. It might be a miracle, but it was his duty to obey. As he galloped, Carter edged Lucretia to the right. Without looking back he could feel Lauzanne creeping up between him and Diablo. Soon the Chestnut's head showed past his elbow, and they were both lapped on the Black. Halfway up the stretch Allis was riding stirrup to stirrup with her father. Porter's weight was telling on Diablo.

"She's got him. Lauzanne'll hold him if he doesn't quit," Carter muttered, as he dropped back, for Lucretia was blown.

Past the finish post Lauzanne was a head in front, and Diablo was galloping like a tired horse.

"He's beat!" ejaculated Carter. "Hello! that's it, eh? My word, what a girl!"

He saw Allis reach down for the slack rein running from her father's hand to Diablo's mouth. "Missed! She's got it!" he cried, eagerly. "The devil!"

As Allis grasped Diablo's rein, the horse, with sudden fury at being drawn toward Lauzanne, his old foe, snapped at the Chestnut. As he did so, thrown out of his stride, his forelegs crossed and he went down in a heap with the rider underneath. The force of his gallop carried the Black full over onto his back. He struggled to his feet, and stood, shaking like a leaf, with low-stretched neck and fearcocked ears, staring at the crushed, silent figure that lay with its face smothered in the soft earth. In a dozen jumps Allis stopped Lauzanne, threw herself from the saddle, and leaving the horse ran swiftly back to her father.

"Oh, my God! he's dead, he's dead!" she cried, piteously, the nerve that had stood the strain of the fierce ride utterly shattered and unstrung at sight of the senseless form.

"He's not dead," said Carter, putting his hand over Porter's heart. "It's just a bad shake-up. Mike's coming, and we'll soon get him home. He'll be all right, Miss Allis—he'll be all right," he kept muttering in a dazed manner, as he raised her father's head to his knee.

"Take Lucretia and gallop for the docthor, Miss 'Allis," commanded Mike coming up on the run. "We'll get yer father home in the buggy."

"In God's mercy, don't let him die, Mike," and bending down she pressed her lips to the cold forehead that was driven full of sand. "Get him home quick, and try not to let mother see. I'll take Lauzanne."

Lauzanne had followed her and was standing waiting; his big eyes full of a curious wonderment. Mike lifted Allis to the saddle. As he drew back his hand he looked at it, then up at the girl. "Don't cry, Miss," he said, struggling a little with his voice that was playing him tricks; "yer father's just stunned a bit. The dochtor'll brace him up all right."

"It's bad business, this," he continued, as Allis galloped on her errand, and he helped Carter lift the injured man. "There, that's roight; jist carry his legs; I'll take him under the back."

As they moved slowly toward the buggy that stood in the paddock, Diablo followed at their heels as though he had done nothing in the world but take a mild gallop. "Ye black divil!" muttered Mike, looking over his shoulder; "ye've murthered wan av the best min as iver breathed. If I'd me way, I'd shoot ye. I'd turn ye into cat meat; that's what ye'r fit for!"

"What broke the rein?" he asked of Carter as they neared the buggy; "what started thim goin'?"

"Somebody was in the old stand," Carter replied, as putting his foot on the step he raised himself and the dead weight of the limp man.

"There, steady, Ned. Pull the cushion down in the bottom. Now ye've got it. Bot' t'umbs! it's as good as an ambulance. I'll hold his head in me lap, an' ye drive. Here, Finn," he continued, turning to the boy who had caught and brought up Lucretia, "take the wee filly an' that divil's baste back to the barn; put the busted bridle by till I have a good look at it after. Go on, Ned; slow; that's it, aisy does it. When we get out on the turnpike ye can slip along."

When they had turned into the road he spoke again to Carter, "Ye were sayin', Ned, there was a guy in th' ould stan'."

"Yes," replied Carter; "somebody was toutin' us off. A board broke, an' that frightened the boss's mount."

"I t'ought I see a b'y skinnin' off the track," commented Gaynor. "First I t'ought it was Shandy, but what'd he be doin' there? Did ye see his face, Ned?"

"I was too busy takin' a wrap on Lucretia; she was gettin' a bit out of hand."

When they came to the gate which gave entrance to Ringwood house Mike said to Carter, with rough sympathy in his voice: "Slip in ahead, Ned, and tell the Misses that the boss has had a bit av a spill. Say he's just stunned; no bones broke. Bot' t'umbs! though, I fear he's mashed to a jelly. Ask fer a bottle of brandy till we give him a bracer. Ned!" he called, as Carter slipped from the buggy, "see if ye kin kape the Misses from seein' the boss till the docthor comes. Git hould of the girl Cynthie, an' give her the tip that things is purty bad. Go on now; I'll drive slow wid wan hand."

Mike's kindly precautions were of little avail. Mrs. Porter saw the slow-moving conveyance crawling up the broad drive, and instinctively knew that again something terrible had occurred. That Allis was not there added to her fear.

"He's just bad, ma'am," Carter was saying, as Mike reached the steps. But she didn't hear him; her face was white, and in her eyes was the horror of a great fear, but from her lips came no cry; her silence was more dreadful than if she had called out.

"We'll carry him, ma'am," Mike said, as she came down the steps to the buggy, and clutching the wheel rim swayed unsteadily. "Jest git a bed ready, Misses," Gaynor continued, softly; "git a bed ready, an' he'll be all roight afther a bit. He's just stunned; that's all, just stunned!"

It was curious how the sense of evil had limited each one's vocabulary.

"Let me help," pleaded Mrs. Porter, speaking for the first time.

"We'll carry him, Misses—he's just stunned," repeated Mike, in a dreary monotone, as feeling each step carefully with his toe he and Carter bore the still senseless form into the house. The wife had got one of the battered hands between her own, and was walking with wide, dry, staring eyes close to her husband.

"O John, John! Speak to me. Open your eyes and look at me. You're not dead; O God! you're not dead!" she cried, passionately, breaking down, and a pent-up flood of tears coming to the hot, dry eyes as the two men laid Porter on the bed that Cynthia had made ready.

"There, Misses, don't take on now," pleaded Mike. "The boss is jest stunned; that's all. I've been that way a dozen toimes meself," he added, by way of assurance. "Where's the brandy? Lift his head, Ned; not so much. See!" he cried, exultantly, as the strong liquor caused the eyelids to quiver; "see, Misses, he's all roight; he's jest stunned; that's all. There's the dochtor now. God bless the little woman! She wasn't long!"

The sound of wheels crunching the gravel, with a sudden stop at the porch, had come to their ears.

"Come out av the room, Ma'am," Mike besought Mrs. Porter; "come out av the room an' lave the docthor bring the boss 'round." He signaled to Cynthia with his eyes for help in this argument.

"Yes, Mrs. Porter," seconded Cynthia, "go out to the porch; Miss Allis and I will remain here with the doctor to get what's needed."

"Ah, a fall, eh," commented Dr. Rathbone, cheerily, coming briskly into the room. Then he caught Mike's eye; it closed deliberately, and the Irishman's head tipped never so slightly toward Mrs. Porter.

"Now 'clear the room,' as they say in court," continued the doctor, with a smile, understanding Mike's signal. "We mustn't have people about to agitate Porter when he comes to his senses. I'll need Cynthia, and perhaps you'd better wait, too, Gaynor. Just take care of your mother, Miss Allis. I'll have your father about in a jiffy."

"He's jest stunned; that's all!" added Mike, with his kindly, parrotlike repetition.

It seemed a million years to the wife that she waited for the doctor's outcoming. Twice she cried in anguish to Allis that she must go in; must see her husband.

"He may die," she pleaded, "and I may never see his eyes again. Oh, let me go, Allis, I'll come back, I will."

"Wait here, mother," commanded the girl. "Doctor Rathbone will tell us if—if—" she could not finish the sentence—could not utter the dread words, but clasping her mother's hands firmly in her own, kept her in the chair. Once Mike came out and said, "He's jest stunned, Ma'am. The docthor says he'll be all roight by an' by."

"He won't die—"

"He's worth a dozen dead men, Ma'am; he's jest stunned; that's all!"

There was another long wait, then Dr. Rathbone appeared.

"Porter will be all right, Madame; it'll take time; it'll take time—and nursing. But you're getting used to that," he added, with a smile, "but," and he looked fixedly at Allis, "he must have quiet; excitement will do more harm than the fall."

"Tell me the truth, doctor," pleaded Mrs. Porter, struggling to her feet, and placing both hands on his shoulders, "I can stand it—see, I'm brave."

"I've told you the truth, Mrs. Porter," the doctor answered. "There's no fear for your husband's recovery if he has quiet for a few days."

She looked into his eyes. Then crying, "I believe you, doctor; thank God for his mercy!" swayed, and would have fallen heavily but for Mike's ready arm.

"She'll be better after that," said the doctor, addressing Allis. "It has been a hard pull on her nerves. Just bathe her temples, and get her to sleep, if you can. I'll come back soon. Your father is not conscious, or will he be, I'm thinking, for a day or two. He has heavy concussion. Cynthia has full directions what to do."



XVI

After Dr. Rathbone had left Mike and Carter went down to the stables.

"I'll jest have a look at that broke rein," said Gaynor; "that sthrap was strong enough to hang Diablo. If there's not some dirty business in this, I'll eat me hat. T'umbs up! but it was a gallop, though. The Black kin move whin he wants to."

"But what do you think of old Lauzanne?" exclaimed Carter. "He just wore Diablo down, hung to him like a bulldog, an' beat him out."

"It was the girl's ridin'; an' Lauzanne was feared, too. He's chicken-hearted; that's what he is. Some day in a race he'll get away in front av his horses, an' beat 'em by the length av a street. He'll be a hun'red to wan, an' nobody'll have a penny on."

When they arrived at the stable Mike headed straight for the harness room. The light was dim, coming from a small, high, two-paned window; but Mike knew where every bridle and saddle should be. He put his hand on Diablo's headgear, and bringing it down carried it through the passage to a stable door where he examined it minutely.

"Jest what I tought. Look at that," and he handed it to Carter for inspection. "How do ye size that up, Ned?"

"The rein's been cut near through," replied Carter. "I wonder it held as long as it did."

"A dirty, low-down trick," commented Mike. "I'll hang it back on the peg just now, but don't use it again fer a bit."

As he reentered the saddle room briskly his heel slipped on the plank floor, bringing him down. "I'd take me oath that was a banana peel, if it was on the sidewalk," he exclaimed, after a gymnastic twist that nearly dislocated his neck. "Some of ye fellows is pretty careless wit' hoof grease, I'm thinkin'."

More out of curiosity than anything else he peered down at the cause of his sudden slip. "What the divil is it, onyway?" he muttered, kneeling and lighting a match, which he held close to the spot. "Bot' t'umbs!" he exclaimed, "it's candle grease. Have aither of ye b'ys been in here wit' a candle? It's agin the rules."

"There isn't a candle about the barn, an' you know it, Mike," cried Carter, indignantly.

Mike was prospecting the floor with another light.

"Here's two burnt matches," he continued, picking them up. "An' they were loighted last night, too. See that, they're long, an' that means that they wasn't used for lightin' a pipe or a cigar—jes' fer touchin' off a candle, that's all. I know they was loighted last night," he said, as though to convince himself, "fer they're fresh, an' ain't been tramped on. If they'd been here fer two or three days, roight in front of the door, they'd have the black knocked off 'em wid ye boys' feet. This wan didn't light at all hardly, an' there's a little wool fuzz stickin' to it. Gee! that manes some wan sthruck it on his wool pants. Git the lantern, Ned, p'raps we'll fin' out somethin' more. The light from that high up winder ain't good enough fer trackin' a bear."

When the lantern was brought, Mike continued his detective operations, nose and eyes close to the floor, like a black tracker.

"What's that, Ned?" he asked, pointing his finger at a dark brown spot on the boards.

Carter crouched and scrutinized Mike's find. "Tobacco spit," and he gave a little laugh.

"Roight you are; that's what it is. Now who chaws tobaccie in this stable?" he demanded of Carter, with the air of a cross-examining counsel.

"I don't."

"Does Finn?"

"No; I don't think so."

"Didn't Shandy always have a gob of it in his cheek—the dirty pig?"

"Yes, he did, Mike."

"I t'ought so; I t'ought it was that blackguard. But how did the swine get in here? The stable was locked, an' I had the key in me pocket. I'll take me oath to that."

Carter took his cap off, ran a hand reflectively up and down the crown of his head, canvassing every possible entry there might be to the stalls. Suddenly he replaced his cap and whistled softly. "I know, Mike; he crawled through the dung window. I've seen him do it half a dozen times. When he was too lazy to go for the keys, he'd wiggle through that hole."

Mike said nothing, but led the way to the back of the stable. There he climbed upon the pile of rotting straw, and examined closely the small, square opening, with its board slide, through which Shandy had passed the night before.

"God! I t'ought so!" he ejaculated. "Here's more tobacco spit, where the cutt'roat divil stood when he opened the winder."

Looking down, his eye caught the glint of something bright deep in the straw. He dug his hand down into the mass and brought up a knife. "Whose is that, Ned?" he queried.

Carter looked at it closely. "Shandy's," he answered; "I'll swear to that. I've borrowed it from him more than once to clean out the horses' hoofs."

"Bot' t'umbs up! I'd hang that b'y to a beam if I had him here. He cut that rein as sure as God made little apples," declared Mike, vehemently. "An' the gall av him to go an' sit there in the ould stand to watch the Black run away wit' somewan an' kill 'em. Now jest kape yer mouth shut, Ned, an' we'll put a halter on this rooster. By hivins! when I git him I'll make him squale, too!"



XVII

The seriousness of Porter's accident became clearer to Doctor Rathbone the following day. He imparted this information to Allis; told her that in all probability it would be weeks before her father would be strong again.

"In the meantime, little woman, what are you to do with all these hungry horses on your hands?" he asked.

The girl's answer came quickly enough, for she had lain awake through all the dreary night, thinking out this problem. Without medical knowledge she had felt certain that her father was badly injured, and the gloomy future had come to her in the darkness instead of sleep.

"I'll look after them," she answered the doctor, quite simply.

A smile of skepticism hovered about his full lips, as he raised his eyes to the girl's face, but the look of determination, of confidence that he met put his doubts to flight. "I believe you can do it, if any man can," and he put his big hand on her slight shoulders, as much as to say, "I'm behind you; I believe in you."

Of course an inkling of Porter's condition had to be given his wife, though the full gravity was masked. This was done by Allis, and Mrs. Porter immediately became a prey to abject despair.

The first thing to be done was to get rid of Diablo. She was too gentle to ask that he be shot, but he must go, even if he be given away. She would willingly have sacrificed all the horses. Always with their presence had come financial troubles, spiritual troubles; now the lives of those dear to her were in actual peril. No wonder the good woman was rendered hysterical by the strong emotions that swayed her.

In her depression she somewhat startled Allis by insisting that they must send for Mr. Crane at once. After all, it was not so unreasonable; with the master of Ringwood helpless, who else could they consult with over their entangled condition? For, the past year Porter had found it necessary to keep in constant touch with the bank; so they must become familiar with the details of the entanglement.

Mrs. Porter had come to have the utmost confidence in Crane's friendship and ability; he was the one above all others to have Diablo taken off their hands. So Philip Crane, to his intense delight, was summoned to Ringwood. This was his first knowledge of Porter's mishap, for he had been in New York.

Crane was supposed to possess a rare magnetism; most certainly men came under his influence with a noiseless, cheerful complaisance. It may have been that there was a slight fascination in the oblique contour of his eyes, but in reality his power lay in his exquisite finesse; people delved for him under the impression that they were laboring according to the dictates of their own sweet wills. Figuratively speaking, he twisted Mrs. Porter round his finger, and so delightfully, that she was filled with gratitude because of Crane's kindness in their hour of trouble.

The matter of Diablo was settled in a minute; he would buy the horse himself, and the price could be arranged when Mrs. Porter was able to discuss the matter—that is, definitely; in the meantime he would pay a thousand for him. He understood Porter had bough him for that price. With a touch of kindly humor, Crane declared that he would have a small bet on the horse for Allis the first time he started.

Beyond parting with Diablo, Allis would not go farther in the matter of selling the horses; this was the full extent of her concession to the mother. Had she known that her father had entered Diablo in the Brooklyn Handicap she might even have refused to part with the horse. As it happened, Porter had entered both Lucretia and Diablo in the Brooklyn a day or so before his accident, but had not spoken of it.

Crane assured Mrs. Porter that she need not distract her mind over money matters, the bank could easily carry their lead until her husband was himself again. No matter how things turned out, it was a delicate matter to touch upon, the possibility of Porter's condition taking a serious turn, but coming from Crane it seemed like an earnest of his sincerity—well, Mrs. Porter would find a friend in him, quite willing and able to smooth their difficult path.

Crane had meant to defer any protestations of regard for Allis until a propitious future, but with his quick perception he saw that the psychological moment had been moved forward by the sudden effacement of the master of Ringwood. If he spoke now to Mrs. Porter it would give her a right to call upon his services. He would appear in the light of a debtor; it would break down barriers which might seem to exist because of their non-relationship.

Crane had not been without a suspicion that the younger man, Mortimer, might prove a rival; heroics such as the Diablo episode were apt to give young people a romantic interest in each other; Fate had more than evened matters up by giving him the present opportunity. He thought with some satisfaction how perfectly helpless Mortimer was in the present instance, for he was most undeniably poor. It was an opportunity to be grasped; and Crane never let the tide pass its flood in the waters of his life.

So the banker spoke to Mrs. Porter of his strong love for Allis; so delicately, and with so much sincerity, that she was completely won over. It is true, the ground had been prepared for the seed, for the mother had long feared that Allis might become attached to some one of Porter's racing associates. Though strong in spiritual matters, the good woman was not without worldly instinct. She was pleased with Crane personally; he was not by any means a racing man; a rich banker, who would make a most desirable husband for her daughter. Of course, it would rest with the girl herself. Mrs. Porter would not coerce nor influence her; but why should not Allis come to care for Crane under the influence of his strong love?

Mrs. Porter's mind had rebounded from its dazed condition after her husband's accident, and was now acute. All these thoughts came to her with rapidity, as Crane talked with masterly judgment.

To the mother's suggestion that he speak to Allis he put forward a plea of delicate consideration for the girl; he would rather deny himself; he would wait patiently until her mind was in a happier condition. Cleverly enough he knew that Mrs. Porter was now his ally, and would plead his cause with less chance of failure than if he startled Allis by the sudden fronting of life's great problem.

When Crane had gone Allis found her mother calmed by his visit; his assurances had driven away distressing clouds of financial worry.

Almost immediately Mrs. Porter transmitted to the girl what had come to her of Crane's declaration.

"It seems almost like an answer to my prayer," she said to Allis; "not, of course"—she interrupted herself—"that I've been praying for a husband for you, but this wicked racing has warped the whole woof of my life; it seemed inevitable in the strength of its contaminating atmosphere that you would be wedded into it, though one were better dead than willingly choose a path of sin."

"Then you've settled it, mother!" Allis's big eyes took on a dangerous look of rebellion.

"No, daughter; you must choose for yourself; only you will be wise not to go contrary to your parent's wishes. I did—"

"But you are not sorry, mother?" there was reproach in the girl's voice.

"Not for having wedded your father, but because of his racing life. I should have been firmer, and asked him to give it up before I married him. He might have done it then. Mr. Crane is a gentleman, Allis. That is a great deal nowadays, and he loves you most sincerely. Words often mean very little, but one can tell—at least when they've come to years of discretion they can—from a man's voice whether he is in earnest or not. I suppose it is very worldly to speak of his riches, but in poverty one can do very little, very little good. I had rather that you didn't have to look with misgiving into the future, Allis; it has taken much joy out of my existence. The dread of poverty is a nightmare; it wears one's life threadbare. To the young, buoyed up by confidence in the rosy future, this may seem sordid, but this feeling of insecurity mars many lives which might otherwise be happy.

"You see, Allis," her mother continued, "I know you are heart-whole, so I can't cause you any misery by my well-meant advice. You've been a good girl, and there has been nobody of your class about. Mr. Mortimer is, I dare say, a gentleman, and I must confess I was afraid that you might mistake a feeling of generosity to him for something stronger; but that was only an idle fancy, I see. It would have been unfortunate if it were otherwise, for he is very poor indeed. His small salary must be all taken up in keeping himself, his widowed mother, and a younger sister."

Allis gave a sudden start. She had not known these particulars of Mortimer's life; but they carried certain explanations of his conduct. Quite casually she had formed an impression that he was penurious; something he had dropped about not being able to afford certain pleasures. That was where the money went—to support his mother and sister. Unwittingly her mother was pleading the cause of two men.

The mother's talk depressed Allis greatly. Why should this troublesome matter come to her when she had so much to bear, so much to do. It gave her quite a shock to find that as her mother talked she was not thinking of Crane at all. She could not picture his face, even; just the narrow-lidded eyes peeped at her in her thoughts once or twice; it would be horrible to look into them forever and ever. The face of Mortimer, pale and firm-set as it had been in that day of strife, was always obliterating the other visage. Was her mother right? Was she so heart-whole? As if her thoughts had bearing on her mother's mind, the latter said: "I wouldn't have spoken to you of this matter while your father is so ill if it weren't for the fact that our position is very precarious. I can't understand just how badly off we are, but if anything were to happen your father, I hardly know what would become of us."

"And Mr. Crane has promised to help us if—if—" There was a hard ring in the girl's voice as she spoke, getting not past the "if," refusing to put into words the distressing thought.

"There is no 'if' about it, daughter. Mr. Crane is our friend, your father's friend, and he is going to help us; and he only spoke of his regard for you by way of an excuse—it was delicacy on his part, thinking that I would have less compunction in accepting his good offices. All I ask, girl, is that you will try to like Mr. Crane; if you can't, well, you won't find me making you unhappy. But I can tell you this, Allis, unless matters mend, and how the change is to come I can't say, your father will lose Ringwood and it will belong to Mr. Crane. Even if the horses were sold off, the money would not clear the debts; besides, I think that even the horses are encumbered."

Allis stood in indecision for a little, thinking deeply; then she went up to her mother, and, taking her face in her hands, kissed her.

"I understand, mother," she said, "you are worrying over the dear old place, over my future, and over father, and it is nothing but worry, worry, worry all the time. But I'll save Ringwood for you, mother. I hope father will soon be well again and that luck will change; but anyway, mother, I promise you that no matter what effort it costs me you sha'nt sacrifice the dear old place."

Mrs. Porter's eyes were wet with tears of gratitude. She was thinking only of the redemption of the place through Crane; but Allis's words had meant far more than she had taken from them. They were inspired by a faith that she could save their fortunes without sacrificing herself to Crane. If not, if she failed, she was brave, she was a Porter, and would keep her word and save Ringwood, even at that price.



XVIII

Journeying back to New York, Crane reviewed in detail his interview with Mrs. Porter. He congratulated himself upon his wisdom in having instituted his love suit by proxy. With all his masterfulness he was very considerably in awe of Miss Allis. There was a not-to-be-daunted expression in her extraordinary eyes which made him feel that a love tilt with her would be a somewhat serious business. He pictured himself as an ardent lover; he would cut a droll figure in that role, he knew; emotions were hardly in his line. He might feel such an assertive emotion as love quite as strongly as anyone, in fact, did, but could he express himself with faultless consistency? He rather doubted it. His usual slow-advancing method was certainly ordained of this intricate endeavor; and he had made great progress with the mother, the one above all others to be placated; adversity, continuous as it promised to be, would probably settle Porter's influence in his favor. His plan of action plainly was to be often at Ringwood to familiarize the household with his presence. The acquiring of Diablo would facilitate that.

Diablo—a skate! He laughed to himself over his purchase. Certainly Langdon would laugh at him, too; not openly, of course; Crane wouldn't tolerate that. What an influence this girl had over him, to be sure! Any man who had endeavored to sell him a bad horse would have had a hopeless task; with but a nod of encouragement from Allis he would have bought every horse—all the useless crooks they had; the stable was full of them, Lauzanne among the rest.

The influence was dividing his nature into a dual one; starting into life infantile thoughts of a generous morality; an unrest of great vigor was coming to him, retribution; possibly the power to feel the difference between an avariciousness, fathering dishonesty, and this new recognition of other rights.

On his arrival in New York he sent for his trainer.

"I bought a horse at Ringwood. I want you to look after him, Langdon," he said. "Their man, Gaynor, will send him direct to your stables."

The Trainer's face brightened. "Did you get Lucretia after all?"

"No; I bought a big black, Diablo."

The look of delight faded from Langdon's eyes quickly. "The devil!" he exclaimed.

"That's what I said; that's his name."

"But he's the most uncertain brute that ever wore a set of plates. You'll get no good of him, sir; he's bad, clean through. It's come down to him from his second sire, Robert the Devil, without a bit of the good, either. He'd break a man that would follow him."

"He won't break me," answered Crane, quietly; "nor you, either, Langdon—you've got too much sense."

This subtle tribute mollified the Trainer.

Crane proceeded: "I remember the horse quite well. Four thousand was paid for him as a yearling; as a two-year-old he was tried out good enough to win the Futurity; but when it came to racing he cut it and finished in the ruck."

"That's right," commented Langdon. "He owes me a good bit, that same Johnny; his people thought him a lead-pipe cinch, and I went down the line on him to my sorrow."

"Just so. You know him as well as I do. It's a great way to get acquainted with them, isn't it, Langdon; put your money on, and have the good thing go down?"

Langdon had the highest possible opinion of his master's astuteness and began to waver in his antipathy to Diablo.

"You think he's really good, then, sir; did he show you a fast trial?"

"I didn't even see the horse," Crane answered, looking dreamily out of the window. "I bought him to—"

He paused in reflection; he couldn't tell Langdon why he had bought him, and he hardly cared to have his prestige with the Trainer destroyed. He continued, shifting the subject—matter a trifle, "You did John Porter up over Lauzanne last summer, Langdon—"

"Me?" questioned 'the Trainer. Was Crane forgetting his share in the matter?

"Yes, you!" affirmed the other, looking him steadily in the eye. "You sold him Lauzanne, and Lauzanne was loaded."

Langdon said nothing. What the devil was coming?

"Well," drawled Crane, "Porter's badly hurt; he's out of the race for some time to come. They're friends of mine."

"They're friends," mused Langdon; "who in thunder are they?"

"They're friends of mine, and I offered to buy Lauzanne back, just to help them out; but the old man's daughter has got the Chestnut for a hack, and she won't sell him. It was Diablo's fault that Porter got the fall, so they were willing to part with him, and I took the brute."

This was certainly a new role for Crane to play, Langdon thought; his employer helping people out when they were in difficulties was a revelation. The Trainer felt inclined to laugh. No doubt there was something back of it all; some tout must have given Crane information of a fast gallop Diablo had done, and he had gone to Ringwood to buy the horse, thinking that Porter would be selling some of his racers owing to the accident.

Langdon tried to remember what Shandy had said about Diablo, or whether the boy had mentioned his name at all.

"I wonder what condition he's in?" the Trainer remarked, questioningly.

"Physically I think he's all right; it seems he galloped something under forty miles with Porter before he came a cropper. But I understand they had an imp of a boy, Sheedy, or 'Shaney'—"

"Shandy," corrected Langdon.

"Yes, that's the name," affirmed Crane, drawing a semicircle in the air with his cigar, "and he's a devil on wheels, by all accounts. Diablo's no angel, as you've said, Langdon, and this boy made him a heap worse. You've handled some bad horses in your time, and know more about it than I do; but I'd suggest that you put Westley—he's a patient lad—to look after the Black; give him quite a bit of work, and when you've got him right, try him out with something, and if he shows any form we'll pick out a soft spot for him. Let me see, he's a maiden—fancy that, buying a four-year-old maiden!"

Langdon laughed approvingly. Crane was evidently coming back to his view of the case.

"Well, as I've said, he's a maiden, and we'll try and graduate him out of that class. It will be a great chance for a killing if we can round him into his early two-year-old form; and you can do it, Langdon, if anybody on earth can."

"Now I've got him on his reputation," thought Crane, idly brushing specks of cigar ash from the front of his coat.

"Just as I thought," mused Langdon; "the old man's got a horse after his own heart. Everybody thinks Diablo's no good, but the boss has found out something, and is on for the biggest kind of a coup."

"How's The Dutchman coming on?" asked Crane, intimating by the question that the subject of Diablo bad been closed out, for the present, at least.

"Great. He cleans up his four quarts three times a day, and is as big as a cart horse. I never had a better doer in my hands. If he keeps well, and I think he will, you have a great chance with him for the Brooklyn Derbv."

"That's encouraging. There are some good horses in it, though, White Moth and others. However, I'll back The Dutchman to win fifty thousand, and there'll be ten thousand in that for you, Langdon, if it comes off." The Trainer's mouth watered. Money was his god. Horses were all right as a means to an end, but the end itself was gold. He would stop at nothing to attain that end; his avaricious mind, stimulated by Crane's promise, came at once to the disturbing element in the pleasant prospect, Shandy's report of Lucretia's good form.

"Did you find out anything about Porter's mare Lucretia? I know White Moth's form; both fit and well. The Dutchman holds him safe over the Derby journey."

"No; I didn't hear anything about Porter's mare."

"I have," said Langdon, decisively. "I paid a boy to keep an eye on her, and he says she'll be hard to beat."

Crane frowned. "What boy?" he asked, abruptly.

"Shandy."

"Well, just drop that; chuck that game. John Porter has his own troubles. If he can win, let him. He can't if The Dutchman keeps well; but anyway, our own horses will keep us fully occupied."

Langdon was dumbfounded. If Crane had opened the Bible and read a chapter from St. Luke he would not have been more astonished. It had occurred to him that he had done a remarkably smart thing; he had expected commendation for his adroitness in looking after his master's interests. This disapprobation of such a trivial matter as the touting off of an opponent's horses was another new discovery in his master's character. Where were they at, anyway? Presently Crane would be asking him to give the public a fair run for their money each time out.

All at once a light dawned upon Langdon. Crane was doubling on him. He saw it like a flash. His employer had a tout on the ground himself; that was how he had got next some good performance of Diablo's. My, but it was clever; he could appreciate it. Crane rose in his estimation again.

Quite humbly he answered: "Very, well; it's not my funeral; I'll bring The Dutchman to the post fit to run the race of his life. If Lucretia beats him it won't be my fault. I thought perhaps you might want to hedge a bit on Porter's mare."

"I don't think it. I'll stand The Dutchman; there are too many in to start backing them all. Let me know if the Black gives you any encouragement, and I'll see about placing him."

After Langdon had gone Crane lighted a fresh cigar and let his thoughts circle about Allis and Diablo. It would be just like the play of Fate for the horse to turn out good, now that John Porter had got rid of him. When evil fortune set its hard face against a man he could do little toward making the wicked god smile, and Porter, even when he was about, was a poor hand at compelling success.

. . . . . . . . . .

Jakey Faust learned of Diablo's transition from Porter's to Langdon's stable. This information caused him little interest at first; indeed, he marveled somewhat at two such clever men as Crane and Langdon acquiring a horse of Diablo's caliber.

Faust's business relationship with Crane was to a certain degree tentative. Crane never confided utterly in anybody; if agents obeyed his behests, well and good; and each transaction was always completed in itself. He had discovered Faust and used him when it suited his purpose.

Some time after the purchase of Diablo, Jakey, reading his Morning Telegraph, came with much interest upon the entries for the Brooklyn Handicap, published that day. They were all the old campaigning Handicap horses, as familiar to Faust as his fellow members of the betting ring. As his eye ran down the long list a sudden little pig grunt of surprise bubbled up through his fat throat. "Gee, Diablo! Oh, ho, Mr. Crane!"

He tore out the list and put it in his pocket; then he sat for a time, thinking. The result was a run down to Gravesend to pay just a friendly visit to Langdon.

As far as Crane was concerned, the Trainer and the Bookmaker were like two burglars suddenly coming upon each other while robbing the same house; they were somewhat in a condition of armed neutrality, toward each other.

Faust hoped that Langdon would talk about Diablo; but the Trainer was like most of his guild generally, a close-mouthed man, so Jakey had to make his own running.

"What's the boss goin' to do with Diablo?" he asked Langdon.

"Must 've bought him for a work horse, I guess," the Trainer answered.

"Is he any good?"

"He can eat; that's all I see from him yet."

"What did he buy him for?"

"To help a snoozer that was sittin' in bad luck."

Faust had an odd habit of causing his fat sides to ripple like troubled water when he wished to convey the impression that he was amused; he never laughed, just the rib ripple.

"What's funny?" Langdon asked, eying Jakey, with querulous disfavor.

"Crane buying a horse to help a man," answered the Cherub, wondering if Langdon was so devoid of humor as to take it seriously.

"Crane told me so himself," said the Trainer; "Porter's hurt, an' I guess they're in a hole, an' the boss took over Diablo."

"Say, Dick," and Faust edged close enough to tap the other man's ribs with his thumb, "were you born yesterday? I say," continued the Cherub, for Langdon had turned away somewhat impatiently, "what's the good av givin' me that gup; you didn't stand for it yourself—not on yer life. Th' old man's pretty slick; buys a bad horse to help a poor mutt, an' enters him in the Brooklyn, eh?"

"The Brooklyn!" exclaimed Langdon, thrown off his guard.

With corpulent intensity the Cherub melodramatically drew from his pocket the Telegraph clipping and tendered it to Langdon, watching the latter's face closely. "That's the pea, Dick, eh?" he asked.

Langdon was thinking. Was Crane doubling on him all around? Why the devil hadn't he told him?

"Now you ain't takin' in that fairy tale of Crane's any more'n I am, Dick. Why can't we do a bit for ourselves over this; it won't hurt the boss none. Won't throw him down. This horse was a good youngster, an' Crane didn't get him without seein' him do somethin'. You jest keep me posted, an' if he shapes good I can back 'm fer an old-time killin', see? I'll divvy up straight."

Langdon didn't answer at once—not with satisfaction to Faust; he knew that Crane held the butter for his bread, even the bread itself; but here was a man with cake, and he loved cake. Finally, in the glamour of Jakey's talk of untold wealth to be acquired, Langdon, swayed by the cupidity of his nature rather than his better judgment, promised half-heartedly to cooperate with Faust.

But no sooner had the latter gone than the lode-star of Langdon's self-interest flickered clearly in view, and he promised Mr. Jakey, mentally, a long trip to a very hot place, indeed, rather than a surreptitious partnership over Diablo.

It was some little time after this, while Faust was feeling somewhat irritated at the absence of information from Langdon, that he had an interview with Crane.

"I want you to back The Dutchman to win fifty thousand for me over the Brooklyn Derby," the latter said.

"But there's no winner book on it," objected Faust.

"That's just where your cleverness will come in," suavely answered Crane. "There's no hurry, and there are always people looking for foolish money. There's one such in Chicago, O'Leary; and I fancy they could even be found in New York. But you ought to get fifty to one, about it, if you put it on easy."

"I see you have Diablo entered for the Brooklyn," Faust put out as a feeler. "Don't you want a commission worked on him?"

"I didn't enter him; that was somebody else's foolishness, and I don't want to back him."

"He's a hundred to one."

"A thousand would be short odds, I should say," answered Crane. "But wait a bit. I bought him just to—well, I took him from some people who were tired of his cannibal ways, and promised to have a small bet on him the first time he ran, for—for the man." The equivocation was really a touch of delicacy. "You might take the odds to fifty for me; there's not one chance in a million of his starting, but I might forget all about this little matter of the bet, even if I were foolish enough to pay post-money on him."

"Hadn't I better dribble on more from time to time, if he has a chance?"

"Not of my money, thanks!" The "thanks" clipped like a steel trap, and the business was completed.

Faust went away more than ever suspicious of Crane and Diablo. That fifty dollars being put on for anybody else was bunkum. What was Crane up to anyway? If he really meant to back the horse he would not have started with such a trifle. Perhaps Diablo had been stuck in the Brooklyn simply to see how the handicapper would rate him.

Faust was convinced that Crane had some big coup in view; he would wait a little, and at the first move have a strong play himself.



XIX

Langdon was a consummate trainer, a student of horse character. He knew that while biniodide of mercury would blister and put right a bowed tendon, or the firing iron take the life out of a splint, that a much finer knowledge than this was requisite to get fullhearted work out of a thoroughbred. Brain must be pitted against brain; so he studied his horses; and when Diablo came into his hands, possessed of a mind disease, he worked over him with considerable intelligent patience.

This study of horse character was the very thing that had caused him to go wrong over Lauzanne. He had not gone quite far enough; had not waited for time to demonstrate clearly the horse's temperament, but had recourse to a cocaine stimulant. But with him Lauzanne's case had been exceptional.

At first there was little encouragement over Diablo, but almost by accident Langdon discovered that the Black's bad temper was always fanned into a blaze by the sight of the boy Shandy.

Then came a glint of hope. Diablo took a fancy to Westley, the jockey, who was experimentally put on his back in the working gallop. After that Shandy was kept out of the way; Westley took Diablo under his care, and the big horse began to show a surprising improvement.

Crane had been quite honest in his statement that he thought Diablo a bad horse. His having been entered by Porter in the "Brooklyn" suggested the possiability that his former owner must have seen some merit in the horse. At any rate, he advised Langdon to give Diablo a patient trial. He really had very little idea that the horse would start in the Handicap—it seemed improbable. Langdon was also convinced that Porter had discovered something great in Diablo; that Crane knew this, and had paid a stiff price for the horse, and to his own ends was keeping it dark.

As the winter turned into April he intimated to Crane that it was time for them to decide the placing of the horses, and suggested that they try them out. Crane had already decided to race The Dutchman this year in his own name and not in Langdon's. If The Dutchman came up to expectation they could give him a slow preparation up to Derby time; they could find out whether Diablo was worth keeping for—well, for Morris Park or Gravesend, or they could hurry him on a little, and start him at Aqueduct.

Crane agreed with this reasoning, and it was decided to give the two horses a home trial.

On the day that Langdon had said he would try Diablo and The Dutchman, Crane went down to Gravesend. When he got to the Trainer's house he found the latter waiting for him.

"I sent the horses over with the boys," Langdon said; "if you'll just wait a minute, I'll have a buggy hitched up and we'll drive over."

A stable-boy brought the trap to the door in a few minutes, and Langdon, telling Crane to get in, disappeared into the house, returning presently with two saddles, which he placed in the buggy.

"A couple of favorite saddles of mine," he explained, "they're like old fiddles that great players carry about under their arms an' sleep with, an' never let no one but themselves touch."

"Are you that particular with these?" asked Crane by way of conversation, not feeling at all interested in what he considered a fad of the Trainer's.

"Yes; I mostly handle 'em myself. They cost a bit. I had 'em made to order. The boys is that careless, they'd smash anything."

As they jogged along, Langdon kept up a monologue dissertation on the merits of the two horses. "It's a good day for a gallop," and he flicked the driving beast's quarter with the whip; "there's not much wind, an' the air's a bit sharp. They'll be on their mettle, the both of 'em, more 'specially Diablo. I had his plates changed. 'Pears to me he hadn't been shod in three moons; I'll bet the smith took an inch off his toes." Then he broke off to chuckle awhile.

Crane was not skilled in the anatomy of a horse, beyond as it worked out in winning races and money. That a horse had toes had never quite come into his knowledge, and Langdon's gurgle of mirth he put down to a suspicion that the Trainer was taking a rise out of him in what he had said.

"I was thinking of Paddy Caramagh when he shod Diablo the other day. I think you've heard Pat swear. He holds the belt for cussin' in this part of the country. Well, he let it all out of him before he'd finished with the Black. Ha, ha, ha, ha! I can hear him still, with the sweat running off his face like oats spilling from a feed bag. I says to Paddy, 'Rub his nose a bit,' for I could see it was more nervousness with the horse than sheer deviltry. 'With what?' says Paddy, 'the hammer? Be gor! You're right, though,' says he, and with that he tries to put a twister on Diablo's nose. Holy mother! Diablo reached for him, and lifted the shirt clean off his back. Say, there was a scared Irishman, if you ever saw one in your life. He threw down the plate, cussin' as only Paddy can, and swore the brute could run till he'd wore his hoofs off, for all of him. Well, I takes hold of the Black's head, an' kids him a bit, only firm-like, and we shod him right enough."

"He is bad tempered, then?" asked Crane.

"No; just wants a fair deal; that's all. You make him believe you're on the square, an' he'll do what's right. But he hasn't got no use for any of the guys that gets a cranky play in on him; he won't stand it. I'm going to put Westley up on him to-day."

"What about The Dutchman?"

"Colley'll do. Any kid can ride him, if they sit still. He's just the easiest-tempered horse ever looked through a bridle; he knows what's doin' all the time. But Colley ain't no good on Diablo, an' if he can smell Shandy, that settles it—it's all over. I'll put Westley up; it takes a man to ride that horse."

"What about this gallop?" asked Crane; "there'll be spies about trying to find out things, won't there?"

"Bet yer life, there'll be somebody, sir. It's just like when I was out in Colorado; you couldn't see a vulture if you traveled forty days, perhaps, but plant a dead thing anywhere and in an hour the sky simply rained 'em down. These touts is most like vultures of anything I know; you've just got to work your stunt to give 'em the go-by, that's all."

Crane took but an apathetic interest in the matters that held full sway over the Trainer's mind; looking after these incidents was Langdon's part of the contract.

That was why they were so strong together. Langdon could do it. Just how the trial was to benefit them alone, with the inevitable tout at hand, Crane knew not, neither did he investigate; that was up to the Trainer.

They drove into the paddock. Westley, Colley, and the two stable lads were there.

"Shall we bring out the horses?" asked Westley, as Langdon sat swinging a leg loosely over the end of the buggy seat.

"Any of the talent about, Bill?"

"Quite likely, though I haven't seen none."

"Well, we'll slip 'em now. Just saddle up careless like, and no preliminary, mind you. The sharks won't look for a brush till you've gone around once. Take your mounts down the stretch to the quarter post, an' then come away the first break; if there's anyone toutin' you off, they'll think it just a pipe opener, an' won't catch the time. Run out the mile-an'-a-quarter, make a race of it, but don't go to the bat. Diablo an' The Dutchman don't need no whip to give us about the best they've got."

"All right, sir," answered Westley. "If I'm a judge, when the Black's through pullin', he's done racin', 'cause he's a keen one, so there won't be no call to put the bud to him. If any of the rail birds is lookin' they'll think we're goin' under a strong wrap, even when we're all out."

Lang don nodded his head. He was a man not given to exuberant appreciation. The boys averred that when Dick Langdon didn't curse at them they had done pretty well, indeed.

"What's your weight?" he asked of Westley, abruptly.

"I've just tipped the scales at a hundred-and-three in my sweater."

"One hundred and three," mused the Trainer, making a mental calculation. "What's Colley's weight?"

"He's as near a hundred as you can make it."

"Did you bring over a saddle?"

"Yes; two of 'em; one apiece for the horses."

"Tell Colley to take one, and some leads, and weigh out a hundred and twelve. That'll be three pounds above the scale for May, weight for age, for the three-year-old, The Dutchman. I guess he won't need more'n seven pounds dead weight, for it's a five-pound saddle, I think. Let me see, you said a hundred and three, you were."

"Yes, sir; in the sweater; I can take that off—"

"No; never mind. Take this saddle," and he lifted one from the buggy; "it'll just suit Diablo; he's got a herring-bone of a wither, an' this is high in the tree, an' won't cut him. Here's the cloth an' some leads; weigh out a hundred and twelve too. Weight for age—Diablo's a four-year-old; you ought to carry a hundred and twenty-six, but he's not The Dutchman's class, an' the ycungster'd lose him before they'd gone half the journey. We'll run 'em at level weights, an' he'll get closer to The Dutchman, an' the sharks won't have such a fairy tale to tell about our horse."

"A hundred and twelve, you said, sir?" queried Westley, as he put the saddle that Langdon handed him over his left arm, slipped the thin sheets of lead in his pocket, and stood dangling the linen weight cloth in his right hand.

"Yes; level weights—a hundred an' twelve pounds."

"Westley," the Trainer called as the little man started off, "just bring the saddle back to me here when you've weighed. I'll put it on Diablo myself; he's a touchy cuss, and I don't want him ruffled by careless handlin'."

"You take considerable trouble over it," remarked Crane. "One would think it was a big handicap you meant to capture this morning."

Langdon started visibly. Was Crane thinking of the Brooklyn? Did this quiet, clever man sitting at his elbow already know as much as he hoped to discover in his present gallop?

He answered: "Handicaps is usually won pretty much like this; they're generally settled before the horse goes to the post for the trip itself. When he goes through the paddock gate the day of the big race he's out of his trainer's hands; the man's got no more to do with the race himself than a kid sittin' up in the grand stand. Here's where I come in, if we mean to land the Brooklyn," and he looked searchingly at Crane, a misleading grin on his lips. But the latter simply joined in the laugh, doubtingly, perhaps.

"A hundred and twelve, neat," declared Westley, as he returned, throwing some loose leads into the buggy. "Colley's gone to saddle The Dutchman."

"All right," answered Langdon, getting down from the seat and taking the saddle. "Go and tell the boy to bring Diablo out of the stall. I'll saddle him in the open. He generally kicks the boards when I cinch him up, an' it puts him in a bad humor."

Langdon started off with the jockey, but turned back, saying, "Oh, Mr. Crane, I wanted to ask you—"

By this he had reached the buggy, while Westley continued on his way to the stalls.

"It's a fine day, sir," continued Langdon, finishing his sentence, and exchanging the saddle held in his hand for the one that was in the buggy.

"Going to put the other on?" asked Crane.

"Yes; I fancy Diablo will like this better. Touchy brutes, these race horses; got to humor 'em. Come on over to the stalls—the horse'll stand."

Diablo was being led around in a small circle by his boy. He was a magnificent creature, sixteen and a half hands high, and built on the same grand scale; perhaps a bit leggy for the huge barrel that topped the limbs; that was what caused him to go wrong in his younger days. His black skin glistened in the noonday sun.

"That's what I call the mirror of health," said Langdon, in an unwonted burst of poetic eloquence, as he passed his hand across the horse's ribs. Then feeling that somehow he had laid himself open to a suspicion of gentleness, added, "He's a hell of a fine looker; if he could gallop up to his looks he'd make some of the cracks take a back seat."