Crane had not been responsible for the bribing of Lucretia's jockey, though he was well aware what had occurred; had even profited by it.

"There'll be no crooked work this time," he said; "nobody will interfere with the mare's rider, I hope," and he looked significantly at Langdon.

"I don't think they will," and the Trainer gave a disagreeable laugh. "From what Shandy tells me, I fancy it would be a bad game. The truth of the matter is that gosling Redpath is stuck on the gal."

Crane's pale face flushed hot.

"I believe that Shandy you speak of is a lying little scoundrel. I have an idea that he wrote me a note, a wretched scrawl, once. Wait, I've got it in my pocket; I meant to speak to you about it before."

Crane drew from the inner pocket of his coat a leather case, and after a search found Shandy's unsigned letter, and passed it over to the Trainer.

"It's dollars to doughnuts Shandy wrote it. Let me keep this, sir."

"You're welcome to it," answered Crane; "you can settle with him. But about the Derby, I have reasons for wishing to win that race, reasons other than the money. I want to win it, bad. Do you understand?"

"I think I do. When you say you want to win a race, you generally want to win it."

"Yes, I do. But see here, Langdon, just leave their jockey to take orders from his own master, see?"

"I wasn't goin' to put up no game with him, sir."

"Of course not, of course not. It wouldn't do. He's a straight boy, I think, and just leave him to ride the best he knows how. We've got a better jockey in Westley. Besides, the Brooklyn Handicap has taken a lot out of their mare; they may find that she'll go back after it. I think you'd better get rid of that Shandy serpent; he seems ripe for any deviltry. You can't tell but what he might get at The Dutchman if somebody paid him. If I'm any judge of outlawed human nature, he'd do it. I've got to run down to Brookfield on a matter of business, but shall be back again in a day or so. Just keep an eye on The Dutchman—but I needn't tell you that, of course."

"That two-year-old I bought at Morris Park is coughin' an' runnin' at the nose; I blistered his throat last night; he's got influenza," volunteered the Trainer.

"Keep him away from The Dutchman, then."

"I've got him in another barn; that stuff's as catchin' as measles."

"If The Dutchman were to get a touch of it, Porter would land the Derby with Lucretia, I fancy."

"Or if they got it in their stable we'd be on Easy Street."

"I suppose so. But Dixon's pretty sharp; he'll look out if he hears it's about. However, we've got to watch our own horse and let them do the same."



XXVII

That evening Langdon and Jakey Faust were closeted together in a room of the former's cottage. An A1 piece of villainy was on, and they were conversing in low tones.

"It's a cinch for The Dutchman if it wasn't for that damn mare Lucretia," Langdon observed, in an injured tone, as though somehow the mare's excellence was an unwarranted interference with his rights.

"What about the jock?" asked Faust.

"No good—can't be done. He's mooney on the gal."

"Huh!" commented the Cherub. "Did you talk it over with the Boss? He's not a bad guy gettin' next a good thing."

"He gave me the straight tip to give Redpath the go-by."

"What's his little game? Is he going to hedge on the mare?"

"No; he'll stand his bet flat-footed. Say, he's the slickest! If he didn't give me the straight office that the mare might get sick, then I'm a Dutchman."

"We're both Dutchmen." The Cherub laughed immoderately at his stupid joke. "See, we're both standin' for The Dutchman, ain't we?"

Langdon frowned at the other's levity. "You'll laugh out the other side your mouth if Lucretia puts up a race in the Derby like she did in the Handicap."

"But ain't she goin' to get sick? We could whip-saw them both ways then, that's if we knew it first. I could lay against her an' back your horse."

"I wish the old man wasn't so devilish deep; he makes me tired sometimes; gives it to me straight in one breath that he's got reasons for wantin' to win the race, an' then he pulls that preacher mug of his down a peg an' says, solemn like: 'But don't interfere with their jockey.' Then he talks about The Dutchman or Lucretia gettin' the influenza, an' that Andy Dixon is pretty fly about watchin' the mare. Now what do you make of all that, Jake?"

"Well, you area mug. It don't need no makin' up. That book's all rounded to. He wants the mare stopped, an' don't want no muddlin' about with the jockey, see? Wasn't there a row over stoppin' Lucretia last year? Wasn't the boy set down for the meetin'? You ought to know; you had to pay through the nose for shuttin' his mouth. But what made the old man talk about the mare gettin' sick?"

Langdon searched his memory; just how was that subject started? "Damn it! yes, of course; I told him about the two-year-old havin' the influenza."

"Well, Dick, my boy, you've guessed it, though you weren't trying. Crane would like to see the Porter mare coughin'."

"But you can't take a strange horse into their stable, an' him sick," objected the Trainer.

"Right you are, Dick. But you could take the sickness there, if you had a boy with the sabe."

"I was thinkin' of that," said Langdon, reflectively; "I was wonderin' if that's what the Boss meant."

"Sure thing—that's his way; he never wants to stand in for none of the blame, but he likes to feel sure that he's goin' to win."

"It looks a bit like it, damn me if it don't; an' I believe he was givin' me a pointer about the proper boy for the job, too. He said Shandy would get at a horse quick enough if he was paid for it."

"There you are; what more do you want? Would you have Crane get out on the housetop an' shout to you to go an' cruel Porter's mare? He's slick, he is, an' if it can be done you've got a great chance."

"I'm a poor man," whined Langdon, "an' I can't take no chances on loosin' ten thousand, if it can be helped."

"It's got to be done right away, 'cause it'll take a couple of days to get the mare coughin'."

"I told Shandy to come here," said the Trainer; "he ought to be turnin' up soon. When you hear him knock, just slip into that other room, an' leave the door open a little so that you can hear what takes place. God knows what that young imp wouldn't swear if a fellow had no witnesses. I think he's comin' here to-night to ask me to pay him to do some dirty job, an' I won't do it, see?" and he winked at Faust. "He's a bad boy," said the Bookmaker, in a tone of mock condemnation.

"There he is now," declared Langdon. "I hear a step on the gravel. Quick, slip into the room; he'll be peepin' through the windows; he's like a fox."

There was a knock at the door. When Langdon opened it Shandy shuffled into the room with a peculiar little rocking-horse sort of gait, just like the trot of a skunk. His whole appearance somehow suggested this despised animal.

"Have you heard anything from the Porter stable?" Langdon asked, when the boy had taken a seat.

"The little mare's well," the boy answered, laconically.

"That's bad luck for us, Shandy. We'll be poorer by the matter of a few thousand if they win the Derby."

"Who's we?" questioned Shandy, with saucy directness.

"The whole stable. A man has played The Dutchman to win a hundred thousand, an' he's goin' to give the boys, one or two of them, five hundred if it comes off."

The small imp's weak, red-lidded eyes took on a hungry, famished look. "What're you givin' us is that straight goods?" he demanded, doubtingly.

Langdon didn't answer the question direct; he said: "My man's afraid somebody'll get at The Dutchman. There's a lot of horse sickness about, an' if anyone was to take some of the poison from a sick horse's nose and put it in The Dutchman's nostrils at night, why he'd never start in the Derby, I reckon."

A look of deep cunning crept into the boy's thin freckled face; his eyes contracted and blinked nervously.

"What th' 'ell's the difference? If the Porter mare starts Redpath thinks he's got a lead-pipe cinch."

"You'd lose your five hundred; that's the difference," retorted Langdon.

"An' if she doesn't start, an' our horse wins, I get five hundred? Is that dead to rights?"

"If The Dutchan wins you get the money," replied the Trainer, circumspectly. "You mustn't come to me, Shandy, with no game about takin' the horse sickness from, our two-year-old an' fixin' Porter's mare, 'cause I can't stand for that, see?"

The boy would have interrupted, but Langdon motioned him to keep silent, and proceeded:

"You see, if it leaked out an' we'd won a lot of money over The Dutchman, damn fools would say that I'd been at the bottom of it; an' if they had me up in front of the Stewards I couldn't swear that I'd had nothing to do with it."

He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket, held it in front of Shandy's eyes, and said: "What did you write that letter for?"

The boy stared in blank amazement. He trembled with fear; it was the warning note he had sent to Crane.

"Now if I was to show that to Faust he'd put a pug on to do you up, see? I wouldn't give three cents for your carcass after they'd finished with you."

"I didn't mean nothin', s' help me God, I didn't," pleaded the boy; "give it back to me, sir."

"You can take it, only don't play me the double cross no more. If you're doin' anything crooked, don't mix me up in it. You couldn't get into Porter's stable, anyway, if you tried to fix the mare."

"I didn't say I was goin' to do no bloomin' job; but I could get in right enough."

"Well, I ain't puttin' you next no dirty work, but if you hear that the mare gets this horse sickness that's goin' about, let me know at once, see? Come here quick. If Faust got a chance to lay against the mare he probably wouldn't say anythin' about that note, if he did know."

"I'll give you the office, sir, when she's took sick."

"That's right. You ain't got any too many friends, Shandy, an' you'd better stick to them that'll help you."

"Do I get that five hundred, sure?"

"If Lucretia don't beat The Dutchman, you get it."

When the boy had gone Faust came forth from his hiding like a badger.

"That's a bad boy—a wicked boy!" he said, pulling a solemn face. "You're a good man, Langdon, to steer him in the straight an' narrer path. He'll take good care of The Dutchman for that five hundred."

"Yes, if you don't pay these kids well they'll throw you down; an' I ain't takin' no chances, Faust."

"The Porter mare might catch the influenza, eh, Dick?"

"If she does, I'll let you know at once, Jake. But I ain't in it. I threatened to kick that kid out when he hinted at something crooked."

"I heard you, Langdon, I'll take my oath to that. But I must be off now. You know where to find me if there's anything doin'."



XXVIII

The next day, intent on persuading Porter to accept the money won over Diablo, Crane took a run down to Ringwood farm.

As Allis had foreshadowed, his visit was of no avail, so far as Porter's acceptance of the winnings was concerned.

With natural forethought Crane first talked it over with Mrs. Porter, but that good lady would have felt a sort of moral defilement in handling any betting money, much less this that seemed obscured in uncertainty as to its rightful ownership. She believed very much in Crane's bona fides, and had no doubt whatever but his statement of the case was absolutely truthful. But Allis had refused to accept the money; it would never do for her to go beyond her daughter's judgment. She even thought it unadvisable for Crane to discuss the matter with her husband; it would only worry him, and she was positive that, in his pride of independence, he would refuse to touch a penny that was not actually due him.

"But there's a payment on Ringwood due in a few days," Crane argued, "and we must arrange for that at all events. If this money, which is rightfully your family's, could be applied on that, it would make a difference, don't you think?"

"I suppose John must settle it," she said, resignedly; "perhaps you had better see him. I can't interfere one way or the other. I have no head for business," she added, apologetically; "I'm not sure that any of us have except Allis. We just seem to drift, drift, drift."

Crane stated the facts very plausibly, very seductively, to John Porter. Porter almost unreasonably scented charity in Crane's proposal. He believed that the bet was a myth; Crane was trying to present him with this sum as a compensation for having lost Diablo. It wasn't even a loan; it was a gift, pure and simple. His very helplessness, his poverty, made him decline the offer with unnecessary fierceness. If Allis had refused it, if she were strong enough to stand without this charity, surely he, a man, battered though he was, could pass it by. He had received a hopeful message from Allis as to Lucretia's chances in the Derby; they felt confident of winning. That win would relieve them of all obligations.

"I can't take it," Porter said to Crane. "Allis is more familiar with the circumstances of the bet—if there was one—than I. It must just rest with her; she's the man now, you know," he added, plaintively; "I'm but a broken wreck, and what she says goes."

"But there's a payment on Ringwood falling due in a few days," Crane remonstrated, even as he had to Mrs. Porter.

Porter collapsed, fretfully. He could stand out against prospective financial stringency, but actual obligations for which he had no means quite broke down his weakened energy. He had forgotten about this liability, that is, had thought the time of payment more distant. He would be forced to recall the money he had given Dixon to bet on Lucretia for the Derby, to meet this payment to the bank.

Quite despondently he answered the other man. "I had forgotten all about it; this shake-up has tangled my memory. I can pay the money, though," he added, half defiantly; "it will hamper me, but I can do it."

A sudden thought came to Crane, an inspiration. "I've got it!" he exclaimed.

Porter brightened up; there was such a world of confidence in the other's manner.

"We'll just let this Diablo money stand against the payment which is about due on Ringwood; put it in the bank to cover it, so to speak; later we can settle to whom it belongs. At present it seems to be nobody's money; it's seldom one sees a few thousand going abegging for an owner," he added, jocularly. "You say it isn't yours; I know it isn't mine; and most certainly it doesn't belong to the bookmaker, for he's lost it fair and square. We can't let him keep it; they win enough of the public's money."

Reluctantly, Porter gave a half-hearted acquiescence. He would have sacrificed tangible interests to leave the money that was in Dixon's hands with him to bet on Lucretia. It would be like not taking the tide at its flood to let her run unbacked when her chances of winning were so good, and the odds against her great enough to insure a big return.

It was after banking hours, quite toward evening, by the time Crane had obtained this concession. He had brought the winnings for John Porter's acceptance, should the latter prove amenable to reason. Now it occurred to him that he might leave the money with one of the bank staff, who could deposit it the next day.

Crane drove back to the village and went at once to the cashier, Mr. Lane's house. He was not at home; his wife thought perhaps he was still in the bank. Crane went there in search of him. He found only Mortimer, who had remained late over his accounts. From the latter Crane learned that the cashier had driven over to a neighboring town.

"It doesn't matter," remarked Crane; "I can leave this money with you. It's to meet a payment of three thousand due from John Porter about the middle of June. You can put it in a safe place in the vault till the note falls due, and then transfer it to Porter's credit."

"I'll attend to it, sir," replied Mortimer. "I'll attach the money to the note, and put them away together."

On his way to the station Crane met Alan Porter.

"I suppose you'd like a holiday to see your father's mare run for the Derby, wouldn't you, Alan?" he said.

"I should very much, sir; but Mr. Lane is set against racing."

"Oh, I think he'll let you off that day. I'll tell him he may. But, like your mother, I don't approve of young men betting—I know what it means."

He was thinking, with bitterness, of his own youthful indiscretions.

"If you go, don't bet. You might be tempted, naturally, to back your father's mare Lucretia, but you would stand a very good chance of losing."

"Don't you think she'll win, sir?" Alan asked, emboldened by his employer's freedom of speech.

"I do not. My horse, The Dutchman, is almost certain to win, my trainer tells me." Then he added, apologetic of his confidential mood, "I tell you this, lest through loyalty to your own people you should lose your money. Racing, I fancy, is very uncertain, even when it seems most certain."

Again Crane had cause to congratulate himself upon the somewhat clever manipulation of a difficult situation. He had scored again in his diplomatic love endeavor. He knew quite well that Allis's determined stand was only made possible by her expectation of gaining financial relief for her father through Lucretia's winning the Derby. Should she fail, they would be almost forced to turn to him in their difficulties. That was what he wanted. He knew that the money won over Diablo, if accepted, must always be considered as coming from him. The gradual persistent dropping of water would wear away the hardest stone; he would attain to his wishes yet.

He was no bungler to attempt other than the most gently delicate methods.



XXIX

Encouraged by Jockey Redpath's explanation of his ride on Lucretia, Allis was anxious that Dixon should take the money her father had set aside for that purpose and back their mare for the Brooklyn Derby.

"We had better wait a day or two," Dixon had advised, "until we see the effect the hard gallop in the Handicap has had on the little mare. She ain't cleanin' up her oats just as well as she might; she's a bit off her feed, but it's only natural, though; a gallop like that takes it out of them a bit."

It was the day after Crane's visit to Ringwood that Dixon advised Allis that Lucretia seemed none the worse for her exertion.

"Perhaps we'd better put the money on right away," he said. "She's sure to keep well, and we'll be forced to take a much shorter price race day."

"Back the stable," advised Allis, "then if anything happens Lucretia we can start Lauzanne."

The Trainer laughed in good-natured derision. "That wouldn't do much good; we'd be out of the frying pan into the fire; we'd be just that much more money out for jockey an' startin' fees; he'd oughter been struck out on the first of January to save fifty dollars, but I guess you all had your troubles about that time an' wasn't thinkin' of declarations."

"It may have been luck; if Lauzanne would only try, something tells me he'd win," contended the girl.

"And somethin' tells me he wouldn't try a yard," answered Dixon, in good-humored opposition. "But I don't think it'll make no difference in the odds we get whether we back the stable or Lucretia alone; they won't take no stock in the Chestnut's prospects."

So Dixon made a little pilgrimage among the pencilers. He was somewhat dismayed and greatly astonished that these gentry also had a somewhat rosy opinion of Lucretia's chances. Her good gallop in the Brooklyn Handicap had been observed by other eyes than Crane's. Ten to one was the best offer he could get.

Dixon was remonstrating with a bookmaker, Ulmer, when the latter answered, "Ten's the best I'll lay—I'd rather take it myself; in fact, I have backed your mare because I think she's got a great chance; she'll be at fours race day. But I'll give you a tip—it's my game to see the owner's money on," and he winked at the Trainer as much as to say, "I'll feel happier about it if we're both in the same boat."

"It'll be on, sure thing, if I can get a decent price."

"Well, you go to Cherub Faust; he'll lay you longer odds. I put my bit on with him at twelve, see? If I didn't know that you an' Porter was always on the straight I'd a-thought there was somethin' doin', an' Faust was next it, stretchin' the odds that way. How's the mare doin—is she none the worse?" Ullmer asked, a suspicious thought crossing his mind.

"We're backin' her—an' money talks," said Dixon, with quiet assurance.

"Well, Faust is wise to somethin'—he stands in with Langdon, an' I suppose they think they've got a cinch in The Dutchman. Yes, that must be it," he added, reflectively; "they made a killin' over Diablo, an' likely they got a good line on The Dutchman through him in a trial. But a three-year-old mare that runs as prominent in the big Handicap as Lucretia did, will take a lot of beatin. She's good enough for my money."

Thanking him, Dixon found Faust, and asked of him a quotation against Porter's stable.

"Twelve is the best I can do," answered the Cherub.

"I'll take fifteen to one," declared Dixon.

"Can't lay it; some of the talent—men as doesn't make no mistake, is takin' twelve to one in my book fast as I open my mouth."

"I want fifteen," replied Dixon, doggedly. "Surely the owner is entitled to a shade the best of it."

"What's the size of your bet?" queried the Cherub.

"If you lay me fifteen, I'll take it to a thousand."

"But you want it ag'in' the stable, an' you've two in; with two horses twelve is a long price."

"I'm takin' it against the stable just because it's the usual thing to couple it in the bettin. It's a million to one against Lauzanne's starting if Lucretia keeps well."

Faust gave a little start and searched Dixon's face, furtively. The Trainer's stolid look reassured him, and in a most sudden burst of generosity he said: "Well, I'll stretch a point for you, Dixon. Your boss is up ag'in' a frost good and hard. I'll lay you fifteen thousand to one ag'in' the stable, an' if Lauzanne wins you'll buy me a nice tiepin."

His round, fat sides heaved spasmodically with suppressed merriment at the idea of Lauzanne in the Brooklyn Derby.

"They must have a pretty good opinion of The Dutchman," Dixon thought, as he moved away after concluding the bet. "I'm naturally suspicious of that gang, when they get frisky with their money. It's a bit like I've heard about the Sultan of Turkey always givin' a present to a man before cutting his head off."

The Trainer told Allis what he had done. He even spoke of his distrust at finding Faust laying longer odds against their mare than the other bookmakers. "But I don't see what they can do," he said, reflectively, studying the grass at his feet, his brow quite wrinkled in deep thought. "The mare's well, and we can trust the boy this time, I think."

"Yes, you can trust Redpath," affirmed Allis, decisively. "If Faust is in with Langdon, as you say, it just means that they're goin' on their luck, and think their colt, The Dutchman, can't lose."

"It must be that," concurred the Trainer, but in a hesitating tone that showed he was not more than half satisfied.

"You backed the stable?" queried Allis, as an afterthought.

"Yes, an' Lauzanne'll have a chance to-day to show whether he's worth the pencil that wrote his name beside Lucretia's."

"You are starting him to-day? I had almost forgotten that he was entered."

"Yes, it'll give him a fair trial—it's a mile, an' there ain't no good horses, that is, stake horses, in the race. I'll put Redpath up on him, an' you might have a talk with the boy, if you like. You're onto Lauzanne's notions better'n I am."

Allis gave Jockey Redpath the benefit of her knowledge of Lauzanne's peculiarities.

"I'm afraid he won't take kindly to you," she said, regretfully; "he's as notional as most of his sire's line. But if he won't try he won't, and the more you fight him the sulkier he'll get. I wish I could ride him myself," she added, playfully; then fearing that she had hurt the boy's feelings by discounting his ability, added, hastily: "I'm afraid I've spoiled Lauzanne; he has taken a liking to me, and I've learned how to make him think he's having his own way when he's really doing just what I want him to do."

Redpath's admiration for Allis Porter was limited to his admiration for her as a young lady. Being young, and a jockey, he naturally had notions; and a very prominent, all-absorbing notion was that he could manage his mount in a race much better than most boys. Constrained to silent acquiescence by respect for Allis, he assured himself, mentally, that, in the race his experience and readiness of judgment would render him far better service than orders—perhaps prompted by a sentimental regard for Lauzanne.

The Chestnut was a slow beginner; that was a trait which even Allis's seductive handling had failed to eradicate.

When the starter sent Lauzanne off trailing behind the other seven runners in the race that afternoon, Redpath made a faint essay, experimentally, to hold to Allis's orders, by patiently nestling over the Chestnut's strong withers in a vain hope that his mount would speedily seek to overtake the leaders. But evidently Lauzanne had no such intention; he seemed quite satisfied with things as they were. That the horses galloping so frantically in front interested him slightly was evidenced by his cocked ears; but beyond that he might as well have been the starter's hack bringing that gentleman along placidly in the rear.

"Just as I thought," muttered the boy; "this skate's kiddin' me just as he does the gal. He's a lazy brute—it's the bud he wants."

Convinced that he was right, and that his orders were all wrong, the jockey asserted himself. He proceeded to ride Lauzanne most energetically.

In the horse's mind this sort of thing was associated with unlimited punishment. It had always been that way in his two-year-old days; first, the general hustle—small legs and arms working with concentric swing; then the impatient admonishment of fierce-jabbing spurs; and finally the welt-raising cut of a vicious, unreasoning whip. It was not a pleasurable prospect; and at the first shake-up, Lauzanne pictured it coming. All thoughts of overtaking the horses in front fled from his mind; it was the dreaded punishment that interested him most; figuratively, he humped his back against the anticipated onslaught.

Redpath felt the unmistakable sign of his horse sulking; and he promptly had recourse to the jockey's usual argument.

Sitting in the stand Allis saw, with a cry of dismay, Redpath's whip-hand go up. That Lauzanne had been trailing six lengths behind the others had not bothered her in the slightest—it was his true method; his work would be done in the stretch when the others were tiring, if at all.

"If the boy will only sit still—only have patience," she had been saying to herself, just before she saw the flash of a whip in the sunlight; and then she just moaned. "It's all over; we are beaten again. Everything is against us—everybody is against us," she cried, bitterly; "will good fortune never come father's way?"

By the time the horses had swung into the stretch, and Lauzanne had not in the slightest improved his position, it dawned upon Redpath that his efforts were productive of no good, so he desisted. But his move had cost the Porters whatever chance they might have had. Left to himself, Lauzanne undertook an investigating gallop on his own account. Too much ground had been lost to be made up at that late stage, but he came up the straight in gallant style, wearing down the leaders until he finished close up among the unplaced horses.

Allis allowed no word of reproach to escape her when Redpath spoke of Lauzanne's sulky temper. It would do no good—it would be like crying over spilt milk. The boy was to ride Lucretia in the Derby; he was on good terms with the mare; and to chide him for the ride on Lauzanne would but destroy his confidence in himself for the other race.

"I'm afraid the Chestnut's a bad actor," Dixon said to Allis, after the race. "We'll never do no good with him. If he couldn't beat that lot he's not worth his feed bill."

"He would have won had I been on his back," declared the girl, loyally.

"That's no good, Miss; you can't ride him, you see. We've just got one peg to hang our hat on—that's Lucretia."

Lauzanne's showing in this race was a great disappointment to Allis; she had hoped that his confidence in humanity had been restored. Physically he had undoubtedly improved; his legs had hardened and smoothed down. In fact, his whole condition was perfect.

She still felt that if Redpath had followed her advice and allowed Lauzanne to run his own race he would have won. The race did not shake her confidence in the horse so much as in the possibility of getting any jockey to ride him in a quiescent manner. When it was impossible of Redpath, who was eager to please her, whom else could they look to? They might experiment, but while they were experimenting Lauzanne would be driven back into his old bad habits.

The next morning brought them fresh disaster; all that had gone before was as nothing compared with this new development in their run of thwarted endeavor.

Ned Carter had given Lucretia a vigorous exercise gallop over the Derby course. As Dixon led the mare through the paddock to a stall he suddenly bent down his head and took a sharp look at her nostrils; another stride and they were in the stall. The Trainer felt Lucretia's throat and ears; he put his hand over her heart, a look of anxious dismay on his usually stolid face.

"She coughed a little, sir, when I pulled her up," volunteered Carter, seeing Dixon's investigation.

"I'm afraid she's took cold," muttered Dixon. "Have you had her near any horses that's got the influenza?" he asked, looking inquiringly at Carter.

"She ain't been near nothing; I kept her away from everything, for fear she'd get a kick, or get run into."

"I hope to God it's nothin'," said the Trainer; and his voice was quite different from his usual rough tone. Then a sudden suspicion took possession of him. Faust's readiness to lay long odds against the mare had haunted him like a foolish nightmare. Had there been foul play? The mare couldn't have taken a cold—they had been so careful of her; there had been no rain for ten days; she hadn't got wet. No, it couldn't be cold. But she undoubtedly had fever. A sickening conviction came that it was the dreaded influenza.

That morning was the first time she had coughed, so Faust could not have known of her approaching illness, unless he had been the cause of it.

The Trainer pursued his investigation among the stable lads. When he asked Finn if he had noticed anything unusual about the mare, the boy declared most emphatically that he had not. Then, suddenly remembering an incident he had taken at the time to be of little import, he said: "Two mornin's ago when I opened her stall and she poked her head out, I noticed a little scum in her nose; but I thought it was dust. I wiped it out, and there was nuthin' more come that I could see."

"What's the row?" asked Mike Gaynor, as he joined Dixon.

When the details were explained to him Mike declared, emphatically, that some one had got at the mare. Taking Dixon to one side, he said: "It's that divil on wheels, Shandy; ye can bet yer sweet loife on that. I've been layin' for that crook; he cut Diablo's bridle an' t'rew th' ould man; an' he done this job, too."

"But how could he get at her?" queried the Trainer. "The stable's been locked; an' Finn and Carter was sleepin' in the saddle room."

"That divil could go where a sparrer could. How did he git in to cut th' bridle rein—t'rough a manure window no bigger'n your hat. He done that, as I know."

"Well, if the mare's got it we're in the soup. Have you seen Miss Porter about, Mike?"

"I did a minute ago; I'll pass the word ye want to see her—here she comes now. I'll skip. Damn if I want to see them gray eyes when ye tell about the little mare. It'll just break her heart; that's what it'll do. An' maybe I wouldn't break the back av the devil as put up this dirty job. It isn't Shandy that's as much to blame as the blackguard that worked him."

Dixon ran over in his mind many contorted ways of breaking the news to Allis, and finished up by blurting out: "The mare's coughin' this mornin', Miss; I hope it ain't nothin', but I'm afraid she's in for a sick spell."

Coming to the course, the girl had allowed rosy hope to tint the gray gloom of the many defeats until she had worked herself into a happy mood. Lucretia's win would put everything right; even her father, relieved of financial worry, would improve. The bright morning seemed to whisper of victory; Lucretia would surely win. It was not within the laws of fate that they should go on forever and ever having bad luck. She had come to have a reassuring look at the grand little mare that was to turn the tide of all their evil fortune. The Trainer's words, "The mare's coughin'," struck a chill to her heart. She could not speak—the misery was too great—but stood dejectedly listening while Dixon spoke of his suspicions of foul play.

What villains there were in the world, the girl thought; for a man to lay them odds against their horse, knowing that she had been poisoned, was a hundred times worse than stealing the money from their Dockets.

"I don't suppose we'll ever be able to prove it," declared Dixon, regretfully; "but that doesn't matter so much as the mare being done for; we're out of it now good and strong. If we'd known it two days ago we might a-saved the money, but we've burned up a thousand."

"We'll have to start Lauzanne," said Allis, taking a brave pull at herself, and speaking with decision.

"We might send him to the post, but that's all the good it'll do us, I'm feared."

"I've seen him do a great gallop," contended Allis.

"He did it for you, but he won't do it for nobody else. There ain't no boy ridin' can make him go fast enough for a live funeral. But we'll start him, an' I'll speak to Redpath about takin' the mount."

Allis was thinking very fast; her head, with its great wealth of black hair, drooped low in heavy meditation.

"Don't engage him just yet, Dixon," she said, looking up suddenly, the shadow of a new resolve in her gray eyes; "I'll talk it over with you when we go back to the house. I'm thinking of something, but I don't want to speak of it just now—let me think it over a little."

Dixon was deep in thought, too, as he went back to his own stables. "We haven't got a million to one chance," he was muttering; "the money's burned up, an' the race is dead to the world, as far as we're concerned."

That Allis could evolve any plan to lift them out of their Slough of Despond he felt was quite impossible; but at any rate he got a distinct shock when, a little later, a slight-formed girl, with gray eyes, set large and full in a dark face, declared to him that she was going to ride Lauzanne in the Derby herself.

"My God, Miss!" the Trainer exclaimed, "you can't do it. What would people say—what would your mother say?"

"People will say the race was well ridden if I'm any judge, and mother won't be interested enough to know whether Lucretia was hitched to a buggy in the Derby or not."

"But the Judge would never allow a girl—"

"There'll be no girl in it;". and Allis explained, in minute detail the result of her deep cogitation.

"It won't work; you never could do it," objected Dixon, with despondent conviction. "That big head of hair would give you dead away."

"The head of hair won't be in evidence; it will be lying in my trunk, waiting to be made up into a wig after we've won."

"No, no; it won't do," the Trainer reiterated; "everybody'd know you, an' there'd be a fine shindy. I believe you could ride the horse right enough, an' if he has a chance on earth you'd get it out of him. But give up the idea, everybody'd know you."

The girl pleaded, but Dixon was obdurate. He did not contend for an instant that she was not capable of riding the horse,—only in a race with many jockeys she would find it different from riding a trial gallop,—but his main objection was that she'd be known. Allis closed the discussion by saying that she was going home to encourage her father a little over the mare's defeat in the Handicap, and made Dixon promise not to engage Redpath for Lauzanne till her return next morning.

"He can't take another mount," she said, "because he's retained for Lucretia, and we haven't declared her out yet."

"I'm hopin' we may not have to," remarked Dixon. "Anyway, there's no hurry about switchin' the boy onto Lauzanne, so we'll settle that when you come back."



XXX

Allis's visit to Ringwood was a flying one. Filial devotion to her father had been one motive, but not the only one. Her brother Alan's wardrobe received a visitation from hands not too well acquainted with the intricacies of its make-up.

John Porter was undoubtedly brightened by the daughter's visit. Lucretia's defeat in the Handicap had increased his despondency. To prepare him gradually for further reverses Allis intimated, rather than asserted, that Lucretia might possibly have a slight cold—Digon wasn't sure; but they were going to run Lauzanne also. Like the Trainer, her father had but a very poor opinion of the Chestnut's powers in any other hands but in that of the girl's.

"Who'll ride him?" he asked, petulantly. "It seems you can't trust any of the boys now-a-days. If they're not pin-headed, they're crooked as a corkscrew. Crane tells me that Redpath didn't ride Lucretia out in the Handicap, and whether he rides the mare or Lauzanne it seems all one—we'll get beat anyway."

"Another boy will have the mount on Lauzanne," Allis answered.

"What difference will that make? You can't trust him."

"You can trust this boy, father, as you might your own son, Alan."

"I don't know about that. Alan in the bank is all right, but Alan as a jockey would be a different thing."

"Father, you would trust me, wouldn't you?"

"I guess I would, in the tightest corner ever was chiseled out."

"Well, you can trust the jockey that's going to ride Lauzanne just as much. I know him, and he's all right. He's been riding Lauzanne some, and the horse likes him."

"It's all Lauzanne," objected Porter, the discussion having thrown him into a petulant mood. "Is Lucretia that bad—is she sick?"

"She galloped to-day," answered the girl, evasively. "But if anything happens her we're going to win with the horse. Just think of that, father, and cheer up. Dixon has backed the stable to win a lot of money, enough to-enough to—well, to wipe out all these little things that are bothering you, dad."

She leaned over and kissed her father in a hopeful, pretty way. The contact of her brave lips drove a magnetic flow of confidence into the man. "You're a brick, little woman, if ever there was one. Just a tiny bunch of pluck, ain't you, girl? And, Allis," he continued, "if you don't win the Derby, come and tell me about it yourself, won't you? You're sure to have some other scheme for bracing me up. I'm just a worthless hulk, sitting here in the house a cripple while you fight the battles. Perhaps Providence, as your mother says, will see you through your hard task."

"I won't come and tell you that we've lost, dad; I'll come and tell you that we've won; and then we'll all have the biggest kind of a blow-out right here in the house. We'll have a champagne supper, with cider for champagne, eh, dad? Alan, and Dixon, and old Mike, and perhaps we'll even bring Lauzanne in for the nuts and raisins at desert."

"And the Rev. Dolman,—you've left him out," added the father.

They were both laughing. Just a tiny little ray of sunshine had dispelled all the gloom for a minute.

"Now I must go back to my horses," declared Allis, with another kiss. "Good-bye, dad—cheer up;" and as she went up to her room the smile of hope vanished from her lips, and in its place came one of firm, dogged resolve. Allis needed much determination before she had accomplished the task she had set herself—before she stood in front of a mirror, arrayed in the purple and fine linen of her brother. She had thought Alan small, and he was for a boy, but his clothes bore a terribly suggestive impression of misfit—they hung loose.

Mentally thanking the fashion which condoned it, she turned the trousers up at the bottom. "I'll use my scissors and needle on them to-night," she said, ruthlessly. Thank goodness, the jockeys are all little chaps, and the racing clothes will fit better.

The coat was of summer wear, therefore somewhat close-fitting for Alan; but why did it hang so loosely on her? She was sure her brother was not so much bigger. A little thought given to this question of foreign apparel brought a possible solution. The undergarments she had tumbled about in her search were much heavier than her own. Her crusade had its side of comedy; she chuckled as, muttering, "In for a penny, in for a pound," she reincarnated herself completely, so far as outward adornment was concerned. Then she examined herself critically in the glass. The mirror declared she was a passable counterfeit of her brother; all but the glorious crown of luxuriant hair. Perhaps she had better leave it as it was until she had met with the approval of Dixon—the terrible sacrifice might be for nothing. She wavered only for an instant—no half measure would do. "In for a penny, in for a pound." The slightest weakness in carrying out her bold plan might cause it to fail.

Twice she took up a pair of scissors, and each time laid them down again, wondering if it were little short of a madcap freak; then, shrinking from the grinding hiss of the cutting blades, she clipped with feverish haste the hair that had been her pride. It was a difficult task, and but a rough job at best when finished, but the change in her appearance was marvelous; the metamorphosis, so successful, almost drowned the lingering regret. She drew a cap over her shorn head, packed her own garments and a few of her brother's in a large bag, buttoned her newmarket coat tight up to her throat, and once more surveyed herself in the glass. From head to foot she was ready. Ah, the truthful glass betrayed the weak point in her armor—the boots. In an instant she had exchanged them for a pair of Alan's. Now she was ready to pass her mother as Allis in her own long cloak, and appear before Dixon without it as a boy. That was her clever little scheme.

Before going up to her room she had asked that the stableman might be at the door with a buggy when she came down, to take her to the station. When she descended he was waiting.

"I'm taking some clothes back with me, mother," she said. "Let Thomas bring the bag down, please."

"You're getting dreadfully mannish in your appearance, daughter; it's that cap."

"I have to wear something like this about in the open;" answered Allis.

"But for traveling, girl, it seems out of place. Let me put a hat on you. I declare I thought it was Alan when you came into the room."

"I can't wait; this will do. I must be off to catch my train. Goodbye, mother; wish me good luck," and she hurried out and took her seat in the buggy.



XXXI

Some hours later Dixon, sitting in his cottage, oppressed by the misfortune that had come to his stable, heard a knock at the door. When he opened it a neatly dressed, slim youth stepped into the uncertain light that stretched out reluctantly from a rather unfit lamp on the center table.

"Is this Mr. Dixon?" the boy's voice piped modestly.

"Yes, lad, it is. Will you sit down?"

The boy removed his cap, took the proffered chair, and said somewhat hesitatingly, "I heard you wanted a riding boy."

"Well, I do, an' I don't. I don't know as I said I did, but,"—and he scanned the little figure closely, "if I could get a decent lightweight that hadn't the hands of a blacksmith, an' the morals of a burglar, I might give him a trial. Did you ever do any ridin'—what stable was you in?"

"I've rode a good deal," answered the little visitor, ignoring the second half of the question.

"What's your name?"

"Mayne."

"Main what?"

"Al Mayne," the other replied.

"Well, s'posin' you show up at the course paddocks to-morrow mornin' early, an' I'll see you shape on a horse. D'you live about here—can you bring your father, so if I like your style we can have things fixed proper?"

The boy's face appealed to Dixon as being an honest one. Evidently the lad was not a street gamin, a tough. If he had hands—the head promised well—and could sit a horse, he might be a find. A good boy was rarer than a good horse, and of more actual value.

"I guess I'll stay here to-night so as to be ready for the mornin'," said the caller, to Dixon's astonishment; and then the little fellow broke into a silvery laugh.

"By Jimminy! If it isn't—well, I give in, Miss Allis, you fooled me."

"Can I ride Lauzanne now?" the girl asked, and her voice choked a little—it might have been the nervous excitement, or thankfulness at the success of her plan in this its first stage.

"Do they know at home?" the Trainer asked.

"No, nobody is to know but you, Mr. Dixon—you and Mrs. Dixon."

This suggested a thought to the Trainer. "The good wife's at work in the kitchen; I'll bring her in. Perhaps she'd like to hire a help," and he chuckled as he opened a door and called, "Come here for a minute. This is a boy"—he turned his head away—"I'm takin' on for Lauzanne."

"Oh," said Mrs. Dixon. Then, with severe politeness, "Good evenin', young man."

The two figures in male attire broke into a laugh simultaneously. The good lady, oblivious to the humorous side of her greeting, flushed in anger. "Appears to be mighty funny," she said. "What's the joke?"

"Oh, nuthin'," replied the husband, speaking hastily. "Can you give the lad a bed? He wants to bunk here."

"Why, Andy, you know I can't. There's only Miss Allis's room."

"Give her—him that."

"Are you crazy, Andy?"

"It's too bad, Mrs. Dixon; I sha'n't let your husband tease you any more. I am Allis; but I'm glad you didn't know."

"Oh, Miss Allis, where's your beautiful hair gone? Surely you didn't cut that off just for a joke?"

Then she was taken fully into their confidence; and before Allis retired Dixon had been quite won over to the plan of Allis's endeavor.

In the morning the Trainer asked the girl whether she would ride Lauzanne a working gallop to get accustomed to the new order of things, or would she just wait until race day and take her place in the saddle then.

"I'm afraid Mike'll spot you," he said—"even Carter may."

"I'll ride to-day," declared Allis; "I musn't take any chances of losing this race through my inexperience. Even Lauzanne will hardly know me, I'm afraid. Mike and Carter needn't see much of me—I can slip away as soon as I've ridden the gallop."

"Here's a boy's sweater, then," said Dixon; "the collar'll half hide your face. I'll get a pair of ridin' breeches an' boots for you by tomorrow. The little mare's in for it sure," he added; "her legs are swellin', an' she's off her feed—just nibbles at a carrot. I feel as bad as if it was a child that was sick, she's that gentle. She can't start, an' I'll just tell Redpath that he can take another mount if he gets it. You're still bound to ride the Chestnut?" he asked, by way of assurance.

"Yes, I am."

"Well, we'll get five pounds off the weight for 'prentice allowance—that's somethin'. I'll arrange about a permit for you. What did you say your name was, mister?"

"Al Mayne, please, sir," this in the humble tone of a stable-boy.

"Well, Miss—Al, I mean—you can carry Lauzanne around the course at nine o'clock sharp; then you'd better come back here an' rest up all day—lay low."

"A new boy, I'm tryin'," Dixon explained to Gaynor, after he lifted a little lad to Lauzanne's back at the paddock gate, and they stood watching the big Chestnut swing along with his usual sluggish stride.

"He's got good hands," said Mike, critically, "though he seems a bit awkward in the saddle. Ye couldn't have a better trial horse fer a new b'y. If Lauzanne's satisfied with him he can roide onythin'."

When Allis, who was now Al Mayne, the boy, came around and back to the paddock, she slipped quietly from the horse, loitered carelessly about for a few minutes, and then made her way back to Dixon's quarters. Nobody had paid any attention to the modest little boy. Riding lads were as plentiful as sparrows; one more or less called for no comment, no investigation. Even Mike lost interest in the new boy in wondering why Miss Allis had not made her usual appearance.

"How did the horse like it?" Dixon asked of the girl when he returned home.

"Oh, he knew. I whispered in his ear as we cantered along, and he'll be all right—he'll keep my secret."

"Well, I think he's due for a pipe opener to-morrow. It's just three days till the Derby, an' we've got to give him a strong workout. Besides, it'll put you next what you've got to do in the race. To-morrow mornin' you had better canter him just slow around once, an' then send him a full mile-an'-aquarter as though there was money hung up for it. I'll catch his time, an' we'll get wise to what he can do."

This programme was carried out; and as Dixon looked thrice at his watch after the gallop to make sure that he was not mistaken in the time, 2:11, he began to wonder if, after all, the girl was not nearly right in her prophetic hope that the despised Lauzanne would win the Brooklyn Derby.

"He can move; he surprised me," the Trainer said to Allis as she dismounted. "He's not blown, either; he's as fresh as a daisy. Gad! we'll do those blackguards up yet, I believe."

The gallop had attracted Mike's attention also. As Allis moved away he called after her, "I say, b'y, hould on a minute. What's yer name, ennyway?"

"Al," answered the small voice.

"Well, by me faith, ye didn't put up no bad roide. Ye handled that horse foine. Don't run away, lad," he added, hurrying after the retreating Allis.

Before she could escape him, he had her by the arm, and turned about face to face. Even then he didn't recognize her, for Allis had taken a most subtle precaution in her make-up. The delicate olive of her cheeks was hidden under a more than liberal allowance of good agricultural cosmetique. It had been well rubbed in, too, made of a plastic adherence by the addition of mucilage.

"Lord, what a doirty face!" exclaimed Mike. "But ye kin ride, b'y; so dirt don't count; clean ridin's the thing."

If Allis hadn't laughed in his face, being full of the happiness of hope, Mike would not have recognized her—even then he didn't hit it off quite right.

"Alan Porter!" he gasped. "Bot' t'umbs up! Is it ye, b'y?"

"Hush!" and a small warning finger was held up.

"Don't fear, b'y, that I'll give it away. Mum's the word wit' me. But I'm dahmned if I t'ought ye could roide like that. It's jus' in the breed, that's what it is; ye take to it as natural as ducks—" Mike had a habit of springing half-finished sentences on his friends. "Yer father could roide afore ye; none better, an' Miss Allis can sit a horse foiner nor any b'y as isn't a top-notcher. But this beats me, t'umbs up, if it doesn't. I onderstand," he continued, as Allis showed an inclination to travel, "ye don't want the push to get on to ye. They won't, nayther—what did ye say yer name was, sonny?"

"Al Mayne."

"Ye'r a good b'y, Al. I hope Dixon lets ye roide the Chestnut in the Derby. I'd give wan av me legs—an' I needs 'em bot'—to see ye beat out that gang av highway robbers that got at the mare. They'll not git at the Chestnut, for I'll slape in the stall me self."

As Allis moved away, Mike stood watching the neat figure.

"That's the game, eh?" he muttered to himself; "the gal don't trust Redpath no more'n I do; palaver don't cut no ice wit' her. The b'y didn't finish on Lucretia, an' that's all there is to it. But how's Alan goin' to turn the trick in a big field of rough ridin' b'ys? If it was the gurl herself" a sudden brilliant idea threw its strong light through Mike's brain pan. He took a dozen quick shuffling steps after Allis, then stopped as suddenly as he had started. "Mother a' Moses! but I believe it's the gurl; that's why the Chestnut galloped as if he had her on his back. Jasus! he had. Ph-e-e-w-w!" he whistled, a look of intense admiration sweeping over his leather-like face. "Bot' t'umbs! if that isn't pluck. There isn't a soul but meself'll git ontil it, an' she all but fooled me."



XXXII

The news that Lucretia was sick had got about. The Porter's stable traveled out in the betting for the Brooklyn Derby until a backer—if there had been one—could have written his own price, and got it.

Langdon had informed Crane of this change in their favor, though he said nothing about the deal with Shandy which had brought about the poisoning of the mare.

"I'm sorry that Porter's mare has gone wrong," Crane said. "I think we would have won anyway, but it'll just about ruin them."

Figuratively, Langdon closed one eye and winked to himself. Crane must know that it was his implied desires that had led up to the stopping of Lucretia. Langdon thought Crane just about the most complete hypocrite he'd ever met; that preacher face of his could look honorably pious while its owner raked in a cool forty thousand over the Trainer's dirty work. However, that cut no figure, it was his ten thousand dollars Langdon was after.

Just as they thought they had destroyed the chances of their strongest opponent, came a new disturbing feature. Other eyes than Dixon's has seen Lauzanne's strong gallop; other watchers than his had ticked of the extraordinary good time, 2:11 for the mile and a quarter, with the horse seemingly running well within himself, never urged a foot of the journey, and finishing strong, was certainly almost good enough to warrant his winning.

This information had been brought to Langdon, but he also had observed the gallop. And the same boy was to ride Lauzanne in the race, he understood, for Redpath had been released, and was looking for another mount. It wasn't in the natural order of things that one small stable would have in it two horses good enough to win the Derby, especially when one of them was a cast-off; but there was the gallop; time, like figures, didn't lie, not often; and as he thought of it Langdon admitted that he had never seen such an improvement in a horse as had been made in Lauzanne. Shandy had told him that it was Miss Porter's doing, that she had cured him of his sulky moods; the gallop Langdon had witnessed seemed to bear out the truth of this. What was he to do? They couldn't repeat the trick they had played on Lucretia. The Dutchman might win; he had worked the full Derby distance, a mile and a half, in 2:45, nearly all out at the finish. Lauzanne's gallop was only a mile and a quarter; he might not be able to stay the additional quarter. But there was ten thousand dollars at stake—for Langdon. He sought to discover the identity of Lauzanne's rider; but nobody knew him—Dixon had picked him up somewhere. Perhaps he could be got at; that would simplify matters greatly.

The morning after her fast work on Lauzanne, Allis, draped as she was into the personification of Al Mayne, arrived at the course before their horses. As she was leaning over the paddock rail waiting for Lauzanne to come, Langdon, who had evidently determined upon a course of action, sauntered up carelessly to the girl and commenced to talk. After a free preliminary observation he said, "You're the boy that's ridin' for Andy Dixon, ain't you?"

The small figure nodded its head.

"I seen you gallop that Chestnut yesterday. Where you been ridin—you're a stranger here, I reckon?"

"Out West," answered Allis, at a hazard.

"Oh, San Francisco, eh? Are you engaged to Dixon?"

"I'm just on trial."

"Goin' to ride the Chestnut in the race?"

Again the boy nodded; under the circumstances it wasn't wise to trust too much to speech.

"He ain't no good—he's a bad horse. I guess I've got the winner of that race in my stable. If he wins, I'd like to sign you for a year. I like the way you ride. I ain't got no good lightweight. I might give you a thousand for a contract, an' losin' and winnin' mounts when you had a leg up. How do you like ridin' for Dixon?" he continued, the little chap not answering his observations.

"I ain't goin' to ride no more for him after this race," answered the other, quite truthfully enough, but possessed of a curiosity to discover the extent of the other's villainy.

"I don't blame you. He's no good; he don't never give his boys a chance. If you win on the Chestnut, like as not they'll just give you the winnin' mount. That ain't no good to a boy. They ain't got no money, that's why. The owner of my candidate, The Dutchman, he's a rich man, an' won't think nothin' of givin' a retainer of a thousand if we won this race. That'll mean The Dutchman's a good horse, and we'll want a good light boy to ride him, see?"

Allis did see. Langdon was diplomatically giving her as A1 Mayne to understand that if she threw the race on Lauzanne, she would get a place in their stable at a retainer of a thousand dollars.

"We can afford it if we win the race," he continued, "for we stand a big stake. Come and see me any time you like to talk this over."

After he had gone, just as Allis was leaving the rail, she was again accosted; this time by Shandy. She trembled an instant, fearing that the small red-lidded ferret eyes would discover her identity. But the boy was too intent on trying to secure his ill-earned five hundred dollars to think of anything else.

"Good mornin', boy," he said, cheerily. "I used to be in Dixon's stable. It's hell; and he's a swipe. I see my boss talkin' to you just now. Did he put you next a good thing?"

Allis nodded her head, knowingly.

"He's all right. So's the other one—the guy as has got the mun; he's got a bank full of it. I'm on to him; his name's Crane—"

Allis started.

"You don't know him," continued the imp; "he's too slick to go messin' about. But if the old man promised you anything, see, God blast me, you'll git it. Not like that other skin-flint hole where you don't git nothin'. I stand in five hundred if our horse wins the Derby."

"Do you ride him?" asked Al Mayne.

"Ride nothin'. I don't have to. I've did my job already."

"I don't believe they'll give you five hundred for nothin'," said Allis, doubtingly, knowing that the boy's obstinate nature, if he were crossed, would probably drive him into further explanation.

"Say, you're a stiff. What'd the ole man want you to do—pull Lauzanne?"

Allis nodded.

"I knowed it. What was the use of stoppin' the mare an' let the Chestnut spoil the job?"

"Is that what you get the five hundred for?" asked Allis, a sudden suspicion forcing itself upon her.

"Say, what d' you take me fer, a flat car? But she's sick, ain't she? An' you jes' take care of the Chestnut now, an' I'll give you a hundred out of my five, God bli' me if I don't."

As he spoke Shandy looked hastily about to see that no one was listening, then he continued: "If you give me the double cross an' peach, I'll split yer head open." His small eyes blazed with venomous fury. "Besides, it won't do no good, my word's as good as yours. But I'll give you the hundred, s'help me God! I will, if you don't ride the Chestnut out. Mum's the word," he added, bolting suddenly, for Dixon had entered the paddock with his horses.

With the horses also came Mike Gaynor. While their blankets were being taken off and saddles adjusted, he came over to Allis. There was a suppressed twinkle of subverted knowledge in his weatherbeaten eyes.

"Good mornin', Al," he said, nodding in a very dignified manner, and putting a strong accent on the name.

Now Mike had determined to keep from the girl the fact that he had penetrated her disguise. With proper Irish gallantry, crude as it might be in its expression, but delicate enough in its motive, he reasoned that his knowledge might make her uncomfortable.

"I see that fly-by-night divil Shandy talkin' to ye as I come in. What new mischief is he up to now?"

"He wants me to pull Lauzanne."

"He ain't got no gall, has he? That come from headquarters; it's Langdon put him up to that."

"He was talkin' to me, too."

"I t'ought he would be. But he didn't know ye, Miss Allis—"

Heavens! It was out. Mike's sun-tanned face turned brick-red; he could have bitten off his unruly Irish tongue. The girl stared at him helplessly, her cheeks, that were scarlet, tingling under the hot rush of blood.

"There ye are, an' believe me, I didn't mean it. I was goin' to keep me mouth shut, but I never could do that."

"You knew then, yesterday?"

"Indade I didn't, an' that's a good sign to ye nobody'll know. But whin I t'ought wit' meself I knowed that Alan couldn't ride Lauzanne the way ye did; an' ye didn't deny ye was him, an' if ye wasn't him ye must be yerself, see?" which more or less lucid explanation seemed to relieve Mike's mind mightily. "I think ye're Jes doin' roight, Miss—Al, I mean; I must get used to that name; s'help me, I believe ye'll win on the Chestnut—that gallop was good enough."

"Do you think I can do it, Mike, among all those jockeys?"

"Sure thing, ye can, A—Al, me b'y; he won't need no ridin' in yer hands; all ye'll have to do is sit still an' keep him straight. He'll win the race in the stretch, an' there won't be many there to bother—they'll all be beat off. Now, it's a good thing that I do know about this, for I'll just kape close to ye an' kape any wan that's likely to spot ye away, if I have to knock him down."

Mike had worked himself up to a fine frenzy of projected endeavor; he cast about for further services he could render his admired mistress.

"An' ye know Carson the starter; he's jes the loveliest Irishman; there isn't a b'y on earth could git an inch the best av it from him on a start, not if they was to give him gold enough to weigh a horse down. But I'll jes' tip him the wink that ye'r a gurl, and—"

"Mike, what are you saying? Do you mean to ruin everything?"

The rosy hue of eager joyousness that had crept into Gaynor's suntanned face vanished; his jaw drooped, and a pathetic look of sheepish apology followed.

"That's so," he ejaculated, mournfully; "bot' tumbs up! but it's a pity. Carson's an Irish gintleman, an' if I could till him ye was a gurl, he'd knock the head plumb off any b'y that 'ud bother ye. Ye'd git away well, too."

Then the girl told Mike all that Shandy and Langdon had said. It only confirmed Mike's opinion that between them they had poisoned Lucretia. He felt that with a little more evidence he would be able to prove both crimes—the one with Diablo and the one with Lucretia.

The Brooklyn Derby was to be run the next day. Allis was glad that it was so near; she dreaded discovery. She was like a hunted hare, dodging everyone she fancied might discover her identity. She would have to run the gauntlet of many eyes while weighing for the race, and at the time of going out; even when she returned, especially if she won. But in the excitement over the race, people would not have time to devote to a strange jockey's visage. She could quite smear her face with dirt, for that seemed a natural condition where boys were riding perhaps several races in one afternoon. The jockey cap with its big peak well pulled down over her head would add materially to her disguise. Mike would fetch and carry for her, so that she would be in evidence for very few minutes at most. Dixon even, opposed to the idea as he had been at first, now assured her quite confidently that nobody would make her out.

"It's the horses they look at," he said, "and the colors. An apprentice boy doesn't cut much ice, I can tell you. Why, I've been racin' for years," he went on with the intent of giving her confidence, "an' many a time I see a boy up on a horse that must have rode on the tracks over a hundred times, an' I can't name him to save my neck."

At any rate there was nothing more to do until she made the great endeavor, until she went to the track at the time set for the Brooklyn Derby, dressed in the blue jacket with the white stars of her father's racing colors; that was the plan adopted. A buggy, with Mike driving, would take her straight to the paddock quite in time for the race.



XXXIII

After Crane left the money for Porter's note with Mortimer the latter took the three one-thousand-dollar bills, pinned them to the note, placed them in a cigar box and put the box away carefully in the bank safe, to remain there until the 14th of June, when it became due. Incidentally Mortimer mentioned this matter to Alan Porter.

Crane in writing to the cashier about other affairs of the bank touched upon the subject of Porter's obligation, stating that he had left the money with Mr. Mortimer to meet the note when it matured.

The day before the Derby, the 12th of the month, Alan asked his day's leave and got it. The cashier more readily granted Alan's request, as Crane had intimated in his letter that it would please him if the lad were to have a holiday.

Alan went up to New York that evening. Earlier in the day he somewhat hesitatingly confided to Mortimer that he had backed Lucretia when she was well and looked to have a good chance to win her race; now she was scratched, and his money was lost. Bearing in mind what Crane had said about The Dutchman's chances of winning, even with Lucretia in the race, he felt now that it appeared almost like a certainty for Crane's horse. If he could have a bet on The Dutchman he would surely recoup his losses. Alan explained all these racing matters very minutely and with great earnestness to Mortimer, for the latter was quite unfamiliar with the science of race gambling. Having stated his predicament and hoped-for relief, as an excuse for so doing, he wound up by asking his companion for a loan of two hundred dollars.

Mortimer had little less horror of betting and its evil influence than Mrs. Porter, but under the circumstances he would perhaps have complied with the boy's request had he been provided with sufficient funds. As it was, he said: "I don't like the idea of lending you money to bet with, Alan; your mother wouldn't thank me for doing so; besides, if you lost it you'd feel uncomfortable owing me the money. At any rate, I haven't got it. I couldn't lend you two hundred, or half of it. I suppose I haven't got a hundred to my credit."

"Oh, never mind then," answered Alan, angrily, stiffening up, because of Mortimer's lecture.

"I'll lend you what I've got."

"I don't want it. I can get it some other place."

"You'd better take—"

"Take nothing—I don't want it."

"Very well, I'm sorry I can't oblige you. But take my advice and don't bet at all; it'll only get you into trouble."

"Thanks; I don't need your advice. I was a fool to ask you for the money."

"I say, Alan," began Mortimer, in a coaxing tone.

"Please don't 'Alan' me any more. I can get along without your money and without your friendship; I don't want either."

Mortimer remained silent. What was the use of angering the boy further? He would come to see that he had meant it in good part, and would be all right in a day or two.

During the rest of the day Alan preserved a surly distance of manner, speaking to Mortimer only once—a constrained request for a bunch of keys in the latter's possession which unlocked some private drawers in the vault.

The next morning it suddenly occurred to Mortimer that Porter's note fell due that day—either that day or the next, he wasn't sure. The easiest way to settle the question was to look at the date on the note.

He stepped into the vault, took out the little cigar box, opened it, and as he handled the crisp papers a sudden shock of horror ran through his frame. One of the bills was gone; there were only two one-thousand-dollar notes left.

The discovery paralyzed him for an instant. He was responsible; the money had been left in his charge. Then he looked at the note; it matured the next day. All the money had been in the box the morning before, for he had looked at it. Only the cashier and Alan Porter knew that it was in the vault.

The whole dreadful truth came clearly to Mortimer's mind with absolute conviction. Alan, infatuated with the prospect of winning a large sum over The Dutchman, and failing to borrow from him, had taken the money.

The gravity of the situation calmed Mortimer, and his mind worked with a cool method that surprised him. Bit by bit he pieced it out. The boy, inconsistently enough, had reasoned that the money was his father's, and that he was only borrowing family property. No doubt he had felt sure of winning, and that he would be back in time to replace the thousand before it was needed. This sophistical reasoning had, without doubt, tempted the lad to commit this—this—Mortimer felt a reluctance to bestow the proper name upon Alan's act, but undoubtedly it was stealing.

And if the boy lost the money, what would happen? He couldn't repay it; the shortage would be discovered and Allis's brother would be ruined, branded as a 'thief.

Mortimer would willingly put the money back himself for Allis's sake; but he hadn't it. What was he to do? If he could find Alan and force him to give up the stolen money he could yet save the boy. But Alan had gone to Gravesend.

Like an inspiration the thought came to Mortimer that he must go after him and get the money before it was lost. He shoved the box back in its place, and came out into the office.

It was half past ten by the clock. Luckily the cashier had not come yet. Mortimer's mind worked rapidly. He must make some excuse and get away; anything; he must even lie; if he saved the boy it would be justifiable. Why did not the cashier come, now that he was ready for him? Each minute seemed an age, with the honor of Allis's brother hanging in the balance. He would need money. He drew a check for a hundred dollars. A hasty inspection showed that he still had a trifle more than this amount to his credit. Why he took a hundred he hardly knew; fate seemed writing the check. He had barely finished when the cashier appeared. At once Mortimer spoke to him.

"I want leave of absence to-day, sir," he said, speaking hurriedly.

The cashier frowned in astonishment. "Impossible We are short-handed with young Porter away."

"I'll be back in the morning," pleaded Mortimer. "My mother is very ill. I've opened up, and Mr. Cass can manage, I'm sure, if you'll let me go. I wouldn't ask it, but it's a matter of almost life and death." He had nearly said of honor.

Unwillingly the cashier consented. It probably meant extra work for him; he would certainly have to take a hand in the office routine. Theirs was not a busy bank, and that day was not likely to be a very pressing one, but still he would have to shoulder some of the labor.

Full of the terrible situation, Mortimer cared not who worked, so that he got away in time to save Allis's brother from himself. At last he was free. He almost ran to the station.

Looking from the window of the bank, the cashier seeing Mortimer's rapid pace, muttered: "I guess the poor man's mother is pretty bad; I'm glad I let him go. He's a good son to that mother of his."

At eleven o'clock Mortimer got a train for New York. During the wait at the station he had paced up and down the platform with nervous stride. A dozen times he looked at his watch—would he be too late? He had no idea how long it would take to reach Gravesend; he knew nothing of the race track's location. As the train whirled him through Emerson, where his mother lived, he could see the little drab cottage, and wondered pathetically what the good woman would say if she knew her son was going to a race meeting. At twelve he was in New York.



XXXIV

Mortimer found that he could take an "L" train to the Bridge, and transfer there to another taking him direct to the course. At the Bridge he was thrust into a motley crowd, eager, expectant, full of joyous anticipation of assured good luck. He was but a tiny unit of this many-voiced throng; he drifted a speck on the bosom of the flood that poured into the waiting race train. He was tossed into a seat by the swirling tide, and as the train moved he looked at his fellow-passengers. There was a pleasant air of opulence all about him. Gold chains of fair prominence, diamonds of lustrous hue, decorated the always rotund figures. He fell to wondering why the men were all of a gross physique; why did the ladies wear dresses of such interminable variety of color; from whence came the money for this plethora of rich apparel?

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

True, on the train were some bearing undeniable evidences of poverty; but not many. One man of this latter unfortunate aspect sat next him. His whole appearance was suggestive of the shady side of life. With the industry of a student he pored over a disheveled sporting paper for half an hour, then throwing it under the seat he cast a furtive look at his neighbor, and presently said, "Dere'll be big fields to-day."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Never did."

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

"Why don't you stop it now, then?"

"Say, pard, do you drink?"

"No."

"Smoke?"

"No."

A hopeless air of utter defeat came into the thin, sharp face. Its owner had been searching for a simile. He wanted to point a moral and he couldn't find it. The young man at his elbow was too immaculate. He tried to explain: "Racin's like any other locoed t'ing—it's like tobacco, or drink, or stealin' money out of a bank—"

Mortimer shivered. He had felt a moral superiority in denying the implied bad habits.

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

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

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

He detected a look of incredulous unbelief in Mortimer's face, evidently, for he added, "You t'ink I ain't got no dough, eh?" He dug down into the folds of his somewhat voluminous "pants" and drew forth a fair-sized roll. "See? That wad goes to Larcen straight. I see him do a gallop good enough for my stuf; but dey got a stable-boy on him, an' dat's why he'll be ten to one. But dat don't cut no ice wit' me. He'll be out for de goods; it's a gal owns him, an' dere'll be nut'in' doin'. Gal's name's Porter."

Again Mortimer started. What a little world it was, to be sure! Even here on the ferry boat, crowded with men of unchristian aspect, he heard the name of the woman he loved, and standing symbolical of honesty.

"What's the name of this—this horse?" he asked.

"Larcen."

"Do you mean Lauzanne?"

"Yes, dat's it. I jes' heered it, an' I t'ought it was Larcen. You've got it straight, stranger. Say, are you wise to anyt'in'?"

"Not about the horse; but I know the people—the young lady; and they'll win if they can—that's sure."

"Dere won't be many dead 'uns in de Derby. First money's good enough fer most of de owners. First horse, I see him gallop like a good 'un. An' I'm a piker; I like a bit of odds fer my stuff."

Mortimer saw the other occupants of the train moving toward the front end.

"I guess we're dere," said his companion; "perhaps I'll see you on de course. If you make a break to-day, play Larcen; he'll win. Say, I didn't catch your name."

"Mortimer."

"Well, take care of yourself, Mr. Morton. See you later."

* * * * * * * * * *

In his ignorance of a race meet Mortimer had felt sure he would be able to find Alan Porter without trouble. The true difficulty of his quest soon dawned upon him. Wedged into the pushing, shoving, hurrying crowd, in three minutes he had completely lost himself. A dozen times he rearranged his bearings, taking a certain flight of steps leading up to the grand stand as the base of his peregrinations; a dozen times he returned to this point, having accomplished nothing but complete bewilderment.

He asked questions, but the men he addressed were too busy to bother with him; some did not hear, others stared at him in distrust, and many tendered flippant remarks, such as "Ask a policeman;" "You'll find him in the bar;" "He's gone to Europe."

Even Mortimer's unpracticed mind realized speedily that it would be nothing short of a miracle if he were to find anyone in all those inpatient thousands who even knew the person he was seeking. One young man he spoke to declared that he knew Alan Porter quite well; he was a great friend of his; he'd find him in a minute. This obliging stranger's quest led them into the long race track bar room, which somehow or other suggested to Mortimer a cattle shambles.

Behind the bar young men in white coats, even some in their shirt sleeves, were setting forth on its top, with feverish haste, clinking glasses that foamed and fretted much like the thirsty souls who called vociferously for liquid refreshment. Everybody seemed on fire—burnt up by the thirst of a consuming fever, the fever of speculation.

Mortimer's new friend suggested that they indulge in beer while waiting for the sought one's appearance, and waxing confidential he assured his quarry that he had a leadpipe cinch for the next race—it couldn't lose. The trainer was a bosom friend of his; a sort of hybrid brother in friendship. He himself was no tipster, he was an owner; he even went the length of flashing a bright yellow badge, as occult evidence of his standing.

These matters did not interest the searcher in the slightest; they only wasted his precious time. If he did not find Alan Porter soon the stolen money would be lost, he felt sure.

"I must find my friend," he said, cutting the garrulous man short. "Excuse me, I'll go and look for him."

But the other was insistent; ferret-like, he had unearthed good meat—a rare green one—and he felt indisposed to let his prey escape. His insistence matured into insolence as Mortimer spoke somewhat sharply to him. Ignorant of racing as the latter was, he was hardly a man to take liberties with once he recognized the infringement. The enormity of his mission and the possibility that it might be frustrated by his undesirable tormentor, made him savage. Raised to quick fury by a vicious remark of the tout who held him in leash, he suddenly stretched out a strong hand, and, seizing his insulter by the collar, gave him a quick twist that laid him on his back. Mortimer held him there, squirming for a full minute, while men gathered so close that the air became stifling.

Presently a heavy hand was laid on Mortimer's shoulder and a gruff policeman's voice asked, "What's the matter here?"

"Nothing much," Mortimer replied, releasing his hold and straightening up; "this blackguard wanted me to bet on some horse, and when I refused, insulted me; that's all."

The other man had risen, his face purple from the twist at his throat. The officer looked at him.

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

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

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

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

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

"Could you tell me where the paddock is?"

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

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

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

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

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

"But," began Mortimer.

"Stand aside—make room, please!" from the gatekeeper, cut short his conversation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When Mortimer turned around Crane had gone. He had meant to ask about the race Porter's horse Lauzanne was in, but had hesitated for fear he should say something which might give rise to a suspicion of his errand. He heard the rolling thunder of hoof beats in the air. From where he stood, over the heads of many people he could see gaudy colored silk jackets coming swiftly up the broad straight boulevard of the race course; even as he looked they passed by with a peculiar bobbing up-and-down motion. The effect was grotesque, for he could not see the horses, could not see the motive power which carried the bright-colored riders at such a terrific pace.

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

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

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

"Do you know what race that was?" Mortimer repeated, thinking the silent one had not heard him.

"Why don't you look at your race card?" retorted the jaundiced loser, transporting himself and his troubles to the haven of liquid consolation.

His answer, curt as it was, gave Mortimer an inspiration. He looked about and saw many men consulting small paper pamphlets; they were like people in an art gallery, catalogue in hand.

By chance, Mortimer observed a young man selling these race catalogues, as he innocently named them. He procured one, and the seller in answer to a question told him it was the third race he had just seen, and the next would be the Brooklyn Derby.

There it was, all set forth in the programme he had just purchased. Seven horses to start, all with names unfamiliar except The Dutchman and Lauzanne. He had almost given up looking for Alan; it seemed so hopeless. At any rate he had tried his best to save the boy's honor; told deliberate lies to do it. Now it was pretty much in the hands of fate. He remembered what Alan had said about The Dutchman's certain chance of winning the coming race. He felt that if the horse won, Alan would put back the stolen thousand dollars; if not, where would the boy get money to cover up his theft?

It had seemed to Mortimer a foolish, desperate thing to risk money on anything so uncertain as a horse race; but here was at stake the honor of a bright, splendid young man—even the happiness of his parents, which the poor, deluded boy had wagered on one horse's chance of winning against six others. It was terrible. Mortimer shuddered, and closed his eyes when he thought of the misery, the shame, that would come to Allis and her mother when they knew, as they must, if Crane's horse were beaten, that the son was a thief. Oh, God! why couldn't he find the boy and save him before it was too late? Probably Alan had already betted the money; but even if that were so, he had vain visions of forcing the man who had received the stolen thousand to disgorge. No one had a right to receive stolen money; and if necessary, Mortimer would give him to understand that he was making himself a party to the crime.

But the mere fact that he couldn't find Alan Porter rendered him as helpless as a babe; he might as well have remained in the bank that day. How willingly he would have hastened back and replaced the money if he but had it. For Allis's sake he would have beggared himself, would have sacrificed a hundred times that sum to save her from the unutterable misery that must come if her brother were denounced as a felon. The love that was in him was overmastering him.

He was roused from his despondent train of thought by speech that struck with familiar jar upon his ear. It was the voice of the man who had descanted on the pleasures of betting during their journey from New York.

"What dye t'ink of it, pard?" was the first salutation.

Mortimer stammered the weak information that he didn't know what to think of it.

"Dere ain't no flies on us to-day—I'm knockin' 'em out in great shape. Can't pick a loser, blamed if I can. I've lined up for a cash-in tree times, an' I'll make it four straight, sure. Larcen'll come home all alone; you see if he don't."

"I hope so," rejoined Mortimer.

"I say, Mister Morton, put down a bet on him—he's good business; put a 'V' on, an' rake down fifty—dat'll pay your ex's. De talent's goin' for De Dutchman, but don't make no mistake about de other, he'll win."

In an instant the young man knew why this persistent worrier of a tortured spirit had been sent him. Fate gave him the cue; it whispered in his ear, "Put down a hundred—you have it—and win a thousand; then you can save Alan Porter—can keep this misery from the girl that is to you as your own life."

Mortimer listened eagerly; to the babbler at his side; to the whisper in his ear; to himself, that spoke within himself. Even if it were not all true, if Lauzanne were beaten, what of it? He would lose a hundred dollars, but that would not ruin him; it would cause him to save and pinch a little, but he was accustomed to self-denial.

"Will the betting men take a hundred dollars from me on this horse, Lauzanne?" he asked, after the minute's pause, during which these thoughts had flashed through his mind.

"Will dey take a hundred? Will dey take a t'ousand! Say, what you givin' me?"

"If Lauzanne won, I'd win a thousand, would I?"

"If you put it down straight; but you might play safe—split de hundred, fifty each way, win an' show; Larcen'll be one, two, tree, sure."

"I want to win a thousand," declared Mortimer.

"Den you've got to plump fer a win; he's ten to one."

Mortimer could hardly understand himself; he was falling in with the betting idea. It was an age since he stood at his desk in that bank, abhorrent of all gambling methods, to the present moment, when he was actually drawing from his pocket a roll of bills with which to bet on a horse.

He took a despairing look through the thicket of human beings that made a living forest all about, in a last endeavor to discover Alan Porter. Not three paces away a uniquely familiar figure was threading in and out the changing maze-it was Mike Gaynor.