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.”