Crane's words had started a train of thought in Langdon's mind. All at
once he remembered that the face of Lauzanne's rider had a dream-like
familiarity. He had not given it much thought before; but his owner's
suggestion that the boy was like Alan Porter echoed in his ears. He had
wondered where Dixon had got this new boy; why he was putting him up on
Lauzanne instead of Redpath; it seemed a foolish thing to give the mount
to an apprentice when a good jockey was to be had. Could it be that it
really was Alan. The whole family were natural-born jockeys, father and
son, even the girl, Allis.
Langdon knew nothing of Alan Porter's movements--had not been interested
enough to know. He had heard derogatory remarks about Redpath's
riding of Lucretia in the Brooklyn Handicap; the Porters, no doubt
dissatisfied--suspicious of the jockey--had put up Alan to insure an
honest ride.
Langdon had thought these thoughts as he passed swiftly from the paddock
to the stand inclosure, where he stood not far from the rail, trying
to get a good look at the lad on Lauzanne. Allis's persistently averted
face thwarted this. The boy was inscribed on the jockey board “Al
Mayne;” the permit to ride must be under that name. If it were really
Alan Porter, why had he been called Mayne? But the boy had retained the
name “Al”--that was a contraction of Alan, no doubt.
While Langdon labored over the problem of Mayne's Identity he had
watched the horses at the post through his glasses. The Dutchman was
behaving well, his trifle of eagerness to break away was even better
than Lauzanne's indolent indifference. The other five were acting as
three-year-olds are wont to act--with erratic indecision; one minute
violent desire, and the next obstinate reluctance characterizing their
interminable twistings, backings, and plungings. It was not for long;
a neck or a length at the start meant little when a mile and a half
stretched its tiring length between them and the finish post.
Langdon's perplexity was cut short by the cry, “They're off!” the jingle
of a bell, and the scurrying of many feet, as eager men rushed for
higher points of observation in the stand.
As the seven horses came thundering by, pulling double in eager
ignorance of the long journey that lay before them, Langdon saw with
evil satisfaction that the Indian was well out in the lead.
The Dutchman was sixth, and behind, with a short awkward strength in his
gallop, loafed Lauzanne.
There was smoothness in the stride of Hanover's big son, The Dutchman;
and his trainer, as he watched him swing with strong grace around
the first turn, mentally fingered the ten thousand dollars that would
shortly be his.
“That skate win!” he sneered, as Lauzanne followed; “he gallops like a
fat pig. He can't live the pace--he can't live the pace,” he repeated,
and his voice was mellow with a cheerful exultation.
His observations seemed eminently truthful; Allis's horse trailed
farther and farther behind the others. Out in front galloped with
unseeming haste the Indian--a brown blotch of swift-gliding color. Two
lengths from his glinting heels raced four horses in a bunch--two bays,
a gray, and a black; so close together that they formed a small mosaic
of mottled hue against the drab-gray background of the course stables
beyond. Then The Dutchman, with his powerful stride, full of easy
motion--a tireless gallop that would surely land him the winner, Langdon
thought, as he hung with breathless interest on every move of Westley's
body.
Up in the stand Old Bill was expressing in florid racetrack speech to
Mortimer his deductions.
“Days a good kid on Larcen. See what he's doin'; he's trailin' 'em.
Dat's where our horse gits it; he's a stretch runner, he is. Dey'll have
bellows to mend when he tackles 'em.”
To Mortimer it appeared very much as though the other horses were too
fast for Lauzanne. “Isn't he losing?” he asked of his exuberant friend.
“Losin' nut'in'! De kid ain't moved on him yet. De others is gallopin'
der heads off; dey're chasm' de crazy skate in front. Dere's only two
jocks in de race worth a damn--Bill Westley an' de kid on our horse.
He knows he's got to beat Dutchy, an' he's lyin' handy by. When you see
Dutchy move up Larcen'll come away, or I'm a goat.”
Mike Gaynor had taken his place on the little platform at the top of
the steps leading to the stand. He was watching the race with intense
interest. Would Lauzanne do his best for the girl--or would he sulk?
He saw the terrific pace that the Indian had set the others. Would it
discourage their horse. His judgment told him that this fast pace could
not last, and that Lauzanne could gallop as he was going from end to
end of the mile and a half; even faster if he so wished. Would his rider
have the patient steadiness of nerve to wait for this fulfillment of the
inevitable or would she become rattled and urge the horse. Mike set
his teeth, and his nails were driven hard into his rough palms as he
strained in sympathy with the girl's quietude.
How long the Indian held on in his mad lead! Perhaps even he might upset
all clever calculation and last long enough to win. Already the gray,
White Moth, had drawn out from the bunch and was second; the other three
were dropping back in straggling order to The Dutchman, who was still
running as he had been, strong. That was at the mile. At the mile and an
eighth, White Moth was at the Indian's heels; The Dutchman had moved up
into third place, two lengths away; and Lauzanne had become merged in
the three that were already beaten. At the mile and a quarter a half
thrill of hope came to Mike, for Lauzanne was clear of the ruck, and
surely gaining on the leaders. And still his rider was lying low on the
withers, just a blue blur on the dark gold of the Chestnut.
“Bot' t'umbs! but they're a pair,” muttered the Irishman; “be me soul, I
t'ink they'll win.”
At the bottom turn into the stretch Mike could see that White Moth and
The Dutchman had closed up on the Indian, so that they swung around the
corner as one horse.
“Gad, she's shut off!” he muttered. It was a living wall, and through
little chinks in its quivering face he could see specks of blue close up
where raced Lauzanne.
“Poor gurl!” he gasped, “they've got her in a pocket. Damn them b'ys.
Why did she hug the rail--she's fair t'rowed away the last chance.”
Halfway up the steps stood Langdon, and his coarse, evil face took on a
look of unholy joy as Lauzanne was blotted into oblivion by the horses
in front.
“Pocketed, by God! Clever Mister Dixon to put up a kid like that ag'in
Westley an' the others,” he sneered.
Then a deafening roar went up from the stand. Somebody thrust a pair
of broad shoulders in front of Mike's face; he leaned out far past the
intruder, and saw the Indian sway drunkenly in his stride away from the
rail, carrying White Moth and The Dutchman out; and into the opening he
had left, glued to the rail, crept the chestnut form of Lauzanne.
A wild yell of Irish joy escaped Mike; then he waited. Now it would be a
race; but Lauzanne was trying, trying all by himself, for the rider was
as still as death. Already the clamor of many voices was splitting the
air; all over the stand it was, “The favorite wins! The Dutchman wins!”
Even yet there was no beckoning call for Lauzanne; but Mike knew. He had
said to Allis before she went out, “If ye ever get level wit' 'em in the
straight, ye can win.”
And now Lauzanne's yellow head was even with the others; and soon it
was in front. And then there were only two battling--Lauzanne and The
Dutchman; and on the Bay, Westley was riding with whip and spur.
“In a walk--in a walk, I tell you!” fairly screamed Old Bill, clutching
at Mortimer's arm; “didn't I tell you? We're a tousand to de good. Look
at him, look at him!” He had climbed halfway up Mortimer's strong back
in his excitement. “Look at de kid! Never moved--in a walk, in a walk!
Larcen all the way for a million!”
His voice generally weak and tattered like his clothes; had risen to a
shrill scream of exultation.
It was past all doubt. Lauzanne, a length in front of The Dutchman, was
opposite the stand; in two seconds they had flashed by the Judges' box,
and Lauzanne had won.
The wave of humanity that swept down the steps carried Mike in its front
wash. He took his stand close to the Judges' box; there he would be
handy for whatever might be needed. He saw Langdon with a face dark and
lowering, full of an evil discontent, standing there too. Back the seven
runners cantered. Lauzanne's rider saluted the judge with whip, and
slipping from the horse stripped him of the saddle with deft fingers,
and passed quickly into the scales. The weight was right. One after
another the boys weighed.
Watching, Mike saw Langdon pass up to the Stewards. There was a short
consultation, the hush of something wrong, and a murmur of an objection.
“What's the matter?” a voice questioned in Mike's ear. It was Alan
Porter that had spoken.
Mike pushed his way to the small gate, even through it, that led up to
the Stewards' Stand. As he did so Langdon came back down the steps. One
of the Stewards, following him with quick eyes, saw Mike and beckoned
with a finger.
“There's an objection to the rider of Lauzanne,” said the official;
“Trainer Langdon says Alan Porter rode the horse under a permit
belonging to a boy named Mayne.”
“He's mistook, sir.” answered Mike, respectfully; “there's Alan Porter
standin' down there in the crowd. I'll sind him up, sir, an' ye can ask
him yerself.”
Gaynor passed hurriedly down the steps, seized Porter by the arm, and
whispered in his ear, “Tell the judge yer name--that a b'y named Mayne
rode Lauzanne. Quick now.”
Then he stepped up to Langdon. The latter had seen Alan Porter go up
the steps, and realized he had made a mistake. Mike drew him inside the
little enclosure that surrounded the stand.
“There's Alan Porter wit' the Stewards,” Gaynor whispered close to the
man's face; “an' ye'll withdraw the objection at once. If ye don't ye'll
have to settle wit' the Stewards fer tryin' to bribe the b'y Mayne to
pull Lauzanne. And Shandy has owned up that he was to get five hundred
dollars fer dosin' Lucretia. Ye'll withdraw now, or get ruled off fer
life; besides, p'isinin' a horse is jail business; an' I'll take me oath
before God I can prove this, too. Now go an' withdraw quick. Ye're a
damn blackguard.”
Mike had meant to restrict himself to diplomatic pressure, but his Irish
was up like a flash, and he couldn't resist the final expression of
wrath.
A crowd of silent men had gathered about the box in a breathless wait.
Fortunes depended upon the brief consultation that was being held
between the Stewards.
As Alan Porter came down Langdon went up the steps with nervous haste.
“I've made a mistake, gentlemen,” he said to the Stewards, “with your
permission I'll withdraw the objection.”
“Yes, it's better that way,” returned one of the Stewards; “the best
horse won, and that's what racing's for. It would be a pity to spoil
such a grand race on a technicality.”