But Crusader stopped short; gave a sigh and fell dead; I
stood all alone in the winning.
And a hush came over the clamorous mob; like a babe on his
neck I was sobbing.
He had run his last race; game to the end, his brave heart
broke in the striving.
The girl's voice faltered and died away to a broken whisper as she told
of the death of Crusader. For a full minute there was a noiseless hush.
The full pathos of the gallant horse's striving had crept into the
hearts that were flesh and blood; and, carried away by their feelings,
the people had forgotten all about their tortured convictions of the
sinfulness of making a horse go faster than a sharp trot. Gradually
into their awakening senses stole a conviction that somehow they were
countenancing the sin of racing.
Before the complete horror of the situation had mastered the audience,
a strong pair of hands, far back in the church, came together with
an explosive clap. Like the rat-rat-tat of a quick-firing gun was the
appreciative volley of recognition from the solitary applauder. It
went rolling and crackling through the church defiantly, derisively,
appreciatively. Halfway up the aisle a softer pair of hands touched
the rattle with what sounded like a faint echo; then there was
sudden silence. The entire audience turned and looked disparagingly,
discouragingly, at the man who had figuratively risen as a champion
of the scandalous recitation. Resentment had taken hold of the good
Christians. That Crusader had enlisted their sympathies for a few
minutes showed the dangerous subtlety of this “horseracin' business.”
The rest of the programme might just as well have been eliminated; the
concert, as a concert, would be discussed for all time to come as having
projected “The Death of Crusader.”
The people flowed from the church full of an expressive contentiousness,
seeking by exuberant condemnation of the sacrilege to square themselves
somehow with their consciences for the brief backsliding.
Where the church path turned into the road a group of men had drawn
together, attracted by the magnet of discussion. They quite blocked the
pathway, oblivious to everything but their outraged feelings. Like a
great dark blotch in the night the group stood; and presently two
slight gray shadows slipping up the path, coming to the human barricade,
stopped, wavered, and circled out on the grass to pass. The shadows were
Allis Porter and her brother Alan.
One of the men, overfilled with his exceeding wrath, seeing the girl,
gave expression to a most unchristian opinion of her modesty. The sharp
ears of the boy heard the words of the man of harsh instinct, and his
face flushed hot with resentment. He half turned, bitter reproach rising
to his lips. How could men be so brutish? How could they be so base? To
speak ill of his sister Allis, who was just the purest, sweetest little
woman that ever lived--too brave and true to be anything else but good!
As he turned he saw something that checked his futile anger. A tall
shadow that had come up the path behind them stretched out an arm, and
he heard the vilifier's words gurgle and die away, as one of the strong
hands that had beat the tattoo of approbation clutched him by the
throat. The boy would have rushed to the assistance of this executive
friend if the girl had not clasped his arm in detention.
“It's Mortimer!” he cried, as a voice from the strong-armed figure cut
the night air with sharp decision.
Then the shadowy forms twisted up grotesquely, weaving in and out. There
were voices of expostulation and strong words of anger; but the new
serious business that had materialized had most effectually put a stop
to reflections upon the innocent girl who had so unwittingly offended.
“It's George Mortimer--he's in our bank,” Alan confided to his sister,
as they moved away. “He's all right--he's strong as a horse; and I bet
Crandal'll have a kink in his neck to-morrow, where George pinched him.”
“What was it about?” the girl asked.
“Crandal was jawing about people who own race horses,” the boy answered,
evasively. “It's Crandal, the butcher.”