Faust was in a quandary. First Crane had confided in him over Diablo,
but now his silence seemed to indicate that he meant to have this good
thing all to himself.
Then Langdon had promised to cooperate, now he, too, had closed up like
a clam; he was as mute as an oyster.
“Crane is dealin' the cards all the time,” thought Faust; “but there's
some game on, sure.”
He determined to back Diablo for himself at the long odds, and chance
it.
Two days later Crane received a very illiterate epistle, evidently from
a stable-boy; it was unsigned:
“DERE Boss, Yous is gittin it in the neck. de big blak hors he didn't
carre the sadel you think the blak hors had on his bak. Yous got de
duble cros that time. Der bokie hes axin me wot de blak is good fer der
bokie is playin fer to trow yous downe.
“No moar at presen.”
This was the wholly ambiguous communication that Crane had found under
his door. There was no stamp, neither place nor date written in the
letter; nothing but an evident warning from some one, who, no doubt,
hoped to get into his good graces by putting him on his guard.
As it happened, Crane had just made up his mind to make his plunge on
Diablo while the odds were long enough to make it possible with the
outlay of very little capital. He smoked a heavy Manuel Garcia over
this new contingency. It did not matter about the saddles. Langdon had
confided in him fully. But how had the writer of the ill-spelled missive
known of that matter?
Yes, he had better make his bet before these whisperings came to other
ears.
But the bookmaker mentioned? That must be Faust. Why was he prowling
about among stable lads?
He sent for Faust. When the latter had come, Crane asked Diablo's price
for the Brooklyn.
“It's thirty to one now,” replied the Bookmaker; “somebody's backin'
him.”
Faust's small baby eyes were fixed furtively on Crane's pale, sallow
face, as he imparted this information; but he might as well have studied
the ingrain paper on the wall; its unfigured surface was not more
placid, more devoid of indication, than the smooth countenance he was
searching.
Crane remained tantalizingly silent for a full minute; evidently his
thoughts had drifted away to some other subject.
“Yes,” said Faust, speaking again to break the trying quiet, “some one's
nibblin' at Diablo in the books. I wonder if it's Porter; did he think
him a good horse?”
“It can't be Porter, nor any one else who knows Diablo. It's some
foolish outsider, tempted by the long odds. I suppose, however, it
doesn't matter; in fact, it's all the better. You took that five
thousand to fifty for me, didn't you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, just lay it off. You can do so now at a profit.”
“You don't want to back Diablo, then? Shall I lay against him further?”
“If you like--in your own book. I don't want to have anything to do
with him, one way or the other. I always thought he was a bad horse,
and--and--well, never mind, just lay that bet off. I shall probably want
to back The Dutchman again shortly.”
When Faust had gone, Crane opened the little drawer which held his
betting book, took it out, and drew a pencil through the entry he had
made opposite Allis's name.
“That's off for a few days, thanks to Mr. Faust,” he thought. Then
he ran his eye back over several other entries. “Ah, that's the
man--Hummel; he'll do.”
Next he consulted his telephone book; tracing his finger down the “H”
column he came to “Ike Hummel, commission broker, Madison 71184.”
Over the 'phone he made an appointment for the next day at eleven
o'clock with Hummel; and the result of that interview was that Crane
backed Diablo to win him a matter of seventy-five thousand dollars at
the liberal odds of seventy-five to one; for Jakey Faust, feeling that
he had made a mistake in backing the Black, had laid off all his own
bets and sent the horse back in the market to the longer odds. Crane had
completely thrown him of his guard.
No sooner had Faust congratulated himself upon having slipped out of his
Diablo bets than he heard that a big commission had been most skillfully
worked on this outsider for the Brooklyn. In his new dilemma he went to
Crane, feeling very much at sea.
“They're backin' your horse again, sir,” he said.
“Are they?”
“Yes; heavy.”
“If he's worth backing at all I suppose he's worth backing heavily.”
This aphorism seemed to merit a new cigar on Crane's part, so he lighted
one.
“He's travelin' up and down in the market,” continues Faust. “He dropped
to thirty, then went back to seventy-five; now he's at twenty; I can't
make it out.”
“I shouldn't try,” advised Crane, soothingly. “Too much knowledge is
even as great a danger as a lesser amount sometimes.”
Faust started guiltily and looked with quick inquiry at the speaker,
but, as usual, there was nothing in his presence beyond the words to
hang a conjecture on.
“I thought for your sake that I'd better find out.”
“Oh, don't worry about me; that is, too much, you know. I go down to
Gravesend once in a while myself, and no doubt know all that's doing.”
A great fear fell upon Faust. Evidently this was an intimation to him
to keep away from the stables. How did Crane know--who had split on him?
Was it Langdon, or Shandy, or Colley? Some one had evidently aroused
Crane's suspicion, and this man of a great cleverness had put him away
while he worked a big commission through some one else. The thought
was none the less bitter to Faust that it was all his own fault; his
super-cleverness.
“An' you don't want me to work a commission for you on Diablo?” he
asked, desperately.
“No; I sha'n't bet on him at present. And say, Faust, in future when I
want you to do any betting on my horses, on my account, you know, I'll
tell you. Understand? You needn't worry, that is--other people. I'll
tell you myself.”
“I didn't mean--” Faust had started to try a plausible explanation, but
Crane stopped him.
“Never mind; the matter is closed out now.”
“But, sir,” persisted Faust, “if you've got your money all on, can I
take a bit now? Is it good business? We've worked together a good deal
without misunderstanding before.”
“Yes, we have,” commented Crane.
“Yes; an' I'd like to be in on this now. I didn't mean to forestall
you.”
Crane raised his hand in an attitude of supplication for the other man
to desist, but Faust was not to be stopped.
“I made a mistake, an' I'm sorry; an' if you will tell me whether
Diablo's good business for the Brooklyn, I'll back him now at the
shorter price. There's no use of us bein' bad friends.”
“I think Diablo's a fairly good bet,” said Crane, quietly, entirely
ignoring the question of friendship.
“It won't be poachin' if I have a bet, then?” asked the Cherub, more
solicitous than he had appeared at an earlier stage of the game.
“Poachers don't worry me,” remarked Diablo's owner. “I'm my own game
keeper, and they usually get the worst of it. But you go ahead and have
your bet.”
“Thank you, there won't be no more bad breaks made by me; but I didn't
mean to give you none the worst of it. Good day, sir,” and he was gone.
“Faust has had his lesson,” thought Crane, as he took from a drawer the
stable-boy's ill-favored note.
“I wonder who sent me this scrawl? It gave me a pointer, though. I
suppose the writer will turn up for his reward; but the devil of it is
he'll sell information of this sort to anyone who'll buy. Must weed him
out when I've discovered the imp. At any rate Faust will go straight,
now he's been scorched. I'll just re-enter that bet to the Little Woman
while I think of it. 'Three thousand seven hundred and fifty to fifty,
Diablo for the Brooklyn, laid to Miss Allis Porter.'” Then he dated
it. “She loses by this transaction, but that won't matter; it will be
a pretty good win if it comes off. She may even refuse this, though she
shouldn't, for it's a part of the bargain that I was to have a bet on
for her, a small bet, of course. Yes, yes; I remember, a small bet.
But this is a small bet. There was nothing said about the size of the
winnings. She was probably thinking of gloves. Jingo, she has a lovely
hand, I've noticed it; long slim fingers, even the palm is long; sinewy
I'll warrant; nothing pudgy about that hand. Hey, Crane, you're silly!”
he cried, half audibly, taking himself to task; “doing business in big
moneys--a cool seventy-five thousand, if it materializes, perhaps even
more--and then slipping off into a mooney dream, vaporing about a girl's
slim hand. I suppose that's the love symptom. But at forty! it's hardly
my normal condition, I fancy.”
The slim hand beckoned him off into a disjointed reverie. Was he the
better for it? What would the end be? Before the new emotion he could
look back upon his past struggles with sordid satisfaction. Men in
battle were not given to uneasy qualms of compunction, nor questionings
as to the method that had led to victory. His life had been one
long-drawn-out battle; the financial soldiers that had fallen by the
wayside because of his sword play did not interest him; they were
dead; being dead, their memory harrassed him not at all. If there were
commercial blood stains upon his hand, they were hidden by the glove
of success. After a manner he had had peace; now all was disquiet; the
turmoil of an awakened gentler feeling clashing with the polemics of
self-satisfying selfishness. And all because of a girl! To him that was
the peculiar feature of the disturbance in his nature. He, Philip
Crane, the strong man of strong men, to be shorn of his indifference to
everything but success by a girl unskilled in managing anything but a
horse.
“It's all very fine to argue it out with one's self,” he thought, “but
I simply can't help it.” He was astonished to find that he was pacing up
and down the floor of his apartment. Undoubtedly he was possessed of a
tremendous regard for the girl Allis. But why not put it from him; why
not conquer himself as he had always done? To let it master him meant
the giving up of things that were almost second nature. He could not
love the girl as a good woman should be loved, and--and--well, the gray
eyes that had their strength because of supreme honesty would surely
bring him disquietude. It would indeed be difficult to change his nature
much; his habits were almost like leopard's spots; they were grown into
the woof of his existence. Even if he won her it must be almost entirely
because of a superior diplomacy. Everything told him that his love was
not returned. It seemed almost impossible that it should be; there was
not more disparity in their years than in their two selves. “All very
fine again,” he muttered, somewhat savagely; “I want her, I want her,
not because of anything but love. What she is, or what I am counts for
nothing; love is all compelling; my first master, I salute thee,” this
in sarcastic sincerity.
In his strength he relied upon his power to bring forth an answering
love, at least regard, should he win Allis. Yes, it would surely come.
He had not even a young rival to combat. Yes, he would win, first Allis,
and afterward her love.
“I'm quite silly,” he ejaculated; “but I can't help it. But I can go out
and get some fresh air, and I will.”