Crane accompanied Allis to the paddock gate; and she continued on to
the fatal number seven stall. Lucretia had just been brought in, looking
very distressed after her hard race. For an instant the girl forgot her
own trouble at sight of the gallant little mare's condition. Two boys
were busy rubbing the white-crusted perspiration and dust from her
sides; little dark rivulets of wet trickled down the lean head that hung
wearily.
“Well, we lost!” It was Dixon's voice at Allis's elbow. “That'll do,” to
the boys; “here, put this cooler on, and walk her about.”
Then he turned to Allis again. “She was well up with the leaders half
way in the stretch; I tho't she was goin' to win.”
“Was it too far for her, Dixon?”
The Trainer did not answer at once; with him at all times questions
were things to be pondered over. His knitted brows and air of hesitating
abstraction showed plainly that this question of Allis's was one he
would prefer to answer days later, if he answered it at all.
“Didn't she stop suddenly?” Allis asked, again.
“I couldn't just see from where I was what happened,” he replied,
evasively; “and I haven't asked the boy yet. She may have got shut in.
Ah, here he comes now,” as the jockey returned from the weighing scales.
Redpath seemed to think that some explanation was necessary, as he came
up to Allis and the Trainer, so he said: “The little mare seemed to have
a chance when I turned into the stretch, an' I thought once I was goin'
to win; but that big Black just kept galloping, galloping, an' I never
could get to his head; I'd a been in the money, though, if somethin'
hadn't bumped me; an' then my mount just died away--she just seemed to
die away.” He repeated this is a falling decadence, as though it best
expressed his reason for finishing in the ruck.
“Well, we're beat, an' that's all there is to it,” declared Dixon, half
savagely; then he added, “an' by a cast-off out of your father's stable,
too, Miss Allis. If there's any more bad luck owin' John Porter, hanged
if I wouldn't like to shoulder it myself, an' give him a breather.”
Then, with ponderous gentleness for a big, rough-throwntogether man, he
continued: “Don't you fret, Miss; the little mare's all right; she'll
pull your father through all this; you just cheer up. I've got to go now
an' look after her.”
When the Trainer had gone the jockey turned to Allis, hesitatingly,
and said: “Dixon's correct about the little mare; she's all right. I
wouldn't speak even afore him, though he's all right too, but” and he
looked about carefully to see that nobody was within ear-shot. Two men
were talking a little farther out in the paddock, and Redpath, motioning
to Allis, stepped close to the stall that was next to the one Lucretia
had occupied, “I could a-been in the money.”
The girl started. Crane had said that the jockey had stopped riding.
“Yes, Miss; you mustn't blame me, for I took chances of bein' had up
afore the Stewards.”
“You did wrong if you didn't try to win,” exclaimed Allis, angrily.
“I did try to win, but I couldn't. I saw that I'd never catch that big
Black; he was going too strong; his long stride was just breaking the
little mare's heart. She's the gamest piece of horseflesh--say, Miss
Porter, believe me, it just hurt me to take it out of her, keeping up
with that long-legged devil. If I could a-headed him once, just got to
him once--I tried it when we turned into the straight--he'd have quit.
But it was no use--the mare couldn't do it. With him out of the race I'd
have won; I could a-been second or third as it was, but it might have
done the little mare up so she wouldn't be any good all season. I
thought a bit over this when I was galloping. I knew she was in the
Brooklyn Derby, an' when I had the others beat at a mile, thinks I, if
the public don't get onto it, Mr. Porter can get all his losses back in
the Brooklyn Derby. That's why I eased up on the little mare. You don't
think I could do anything crooked against you, Miss? Give me the mount
in the Derby, an' your father can bet his last dollar 'that Lucretia'll
win.”
As he finished speaking Mike Gaynor shuffled moodily up to them. Usually
Mike's clothes suggested a general despondency; his wiry body, devoid of
roundness as a rat trap, seemed inadequate to the proper expression of
their original design. The habitual air of endeavorless decay had been
accentuated by the failure of Lucretia to win the Brooklyn. Mike had
shrunken into his allenveloping coat with pathetic moroseness. The
look of pity in his eye when it lighted upon Allis gave place to one
of rebellious accusation as he turned his head slowly and glared at
Redpath.
“Ye put up a bad ride there, b'y,” he commenced, speaking in a hard,
dry, defiant tone; “a bad ride, an' no mistake. Mind I'm not sayin' ye
could a-won, but ye might a-tried,” and he waited for Redpath's defense.
“She was all out, Mike, beat; what was the use of driving her to death
when she hadn't the ghost of a chance?”
“You're a little too hard on Redpath,” remonstrated Allis; “he's just
been telling me that he didn't wish to punish the mare unnecessarily.”
“His business was to win if he could, Miss,” answered Mike, not at all
won over. “It was a big stake, an' he ought to've put up a big finish.
The Black would've quit if ye'd ever got to his throat-latch; he's soft,
that's what he is. An' just where ye could have won the race, p'r'aps,
ye quit ridin' an' let him come home alone. It's queer b'ys that's
ridin' now, Miss,” Gaynor added, fiercely, nodding his head in great
decision, and, turning away abruptly, the petulant moroseness showing
deeper than ever in his wrinkled face.
“You mustn't mind Mike, Redpath,” said Allis; “he's a good friend of our
family, and is upset over the race, that's all.”
“I don't blame him,” answered the jockey; “he would have rode it out and
spoiled your chance with the mare--that would have done no good.”
“Still, I hardly like it,” answered the girl. “I know you did it for
my sake, but it doesn't seem quite right. Don't do anything like this
again. Of course, I don't want Lucretia pushed beyond her strength, nor
cut up with the whip, but she ought to get the place if she can. People
might have backed her for the place, and we've thrown away their money.”
“The bettors will look after their own interests, Miss Porter, and they
wouldn't help you a little bit if you needed it; they'd be more like to
do you a bad turn. If I'd driven the mare to death, an' been beaten
for the place, as I might have, the papers would have slated me for
cruelty. You must believe that I did it for the best, Miss.”
“I do, and I suppose I must thank you, but don't do it again. I'd rather
you didn't carry your whip at all on Lucretia; she doesn't need it;
but don't ease her up if you've got a chance till you pass the winning
post.”
As the two finished speaking, and moved away, a thin, freckled face
peered furtively from the door of stall number six. Just the ferret-like
eyes and a knife-thin nose showed past the woodwork, but there could be
no mistaking the animal. It was Shandy.
“I've got you again,” he muttered. “Blast the whole tribe of you! I'll
just pip you on that dirty work, blowed if I don't.”