After his first burst of aboriginal glee, ecstatically uncouth as it
was, Old Bill's joy over the victory of Lauzanne took on a milder form
of expression.
“Let's line up fer a cash-in,” he exclaimed to Mortimer, making a break
down the steps to the lawn. On the ground he stopped, his mind working
at fever heat, changing its methods quickly.
“Let's wait till de kid's passed de scales; dere's no hurry. Dere won't
be many drawin' down money over Larcen; he's an outsider.”
They were still waiting when the rumor of an objection floated like an
impalpable shadow of evil through the enclosure. Old Bill's seamed face
shed its mask of juvenile hilarity, and furrowed back into its normal
condition of disgruntled bitterness. He had seen the slight mix-up when
the Indian swerved in the straight. The objection must have to do with
that, he thought. “What th' 'ell's th, difference,” he said in fierce,
imprecating anger; “de kid on Larcen didn't do no interferin', he jes
come t'rough de openin' an' won-dey can't disqualify him.”
“What does it mean?” asked Mortimer; “what's wrong?”
“De push's tryin' to steal de race; de favorite's beat, an' it's win,
tie, or wrangle wit' 'em. If dey take de race away from Larcen we don't
get de goods, see? Our t'ou's up de spout. Dere he goes, dere he goes;
look at de knocker,” as Langdon came down from the Stewards.
Mortimer's heart sank. An exultation such as he had never experienced in
his life had flushed his breast hot; the back of his scalp had tickled
in a creepy way as Lauzanne flashed first past the winning post. He had
felt pride in the horse, in the boy on his back, in himself at having
overcome his scruples; he would be able to save Alan Porter from
dishonor. His heart had warmed to the tattered outcast at his side,
who had been the means to this glorious end. It had been all over,
accomplished; now it was again thrust back into the scales, where it
dangled as insecure as ever. It wasn't the money alone that teetered in
the balance, but the honor of Allis Porter's brother.
He gave a sharp cry of astonishment, for going up the steps in front of
them was the boy himself, Alan. Presently he came down again, his face
looking drawn and perplexed. In his ignorance of everything pertaining
to racing Mortimer feared for an instant the theft of the thousand
dollars had been discovered, and the present inquiry had something to do
with that, else why was Alan mixed up in it.
As the boy came through the little gate Mortimer accosted him. “Hello,
Alan!” he exclaimed, very gently, “what's the trouble?”
“Just a silly mistake,” answered Porter, a weak laugh following his
words; “Langdon has claimed that I rode Lauzanne.”
“Is dat it?” interposed Old Bill; “an' did you tell dem dey was wrong-de
stiffs! Dere's cutt'roat Langdon up again; here he comes back, looking
as tough he'd been fired fer splint--de crook! Hello! it's all right
Hoo-ray! Lauzanne gits de race!” For already the cry of “All right!”
was ringing through the betting ring. “Come on, pard,” called Old Bill,
eagerly, to Mortimer; “let's go an' rake down de dough.”
“In a minute,” the other answered; and turning to Alan Porter, took
him by the arm and led him to one side. “I suppose you lost over The
Dutchman,” he said.
“Yes, I'm broke,” answered the boy, with a plaintive smile.
“Well, I've won.”
“You betting!” exclaimed Alan, in astonishment.
“Yes--strange, isn't it? But I'm going to put that money of your
father's back.”
The boy said nothing, and Mortimer fancied that his face flushed
guiltily.
“Yes, I can put it back now that Lauzanne's won,” continued Mortimer;
“but don't say a word to a soul about it, I don't want anybody to know I
was betting.”
“But what money?” began Alan.
“I've won a thousand dollars on Lauzanne--”
“Come on, pard,” said Old Bill, impatiently interrupting them, “let's
get our rake off, an' den you kin buck to yer chum after.”
Mortimer yielded to the tattered one's command, for without his guidance
he never would be able to find the man that held the money.
“I'll be back in a little while,” he said to young Porter; “don't go
away.”
There was delay over the cashing in; being late, they found a line of
Lauzanne men in front of them at the bookmaker's stand.
When Mortimer returned to the lawn with eleven hundred dollars in his
pocket Alan Porter had gone. He had dreaded that perhaps the boy might
do something desperate, fearing discovery of the theft; he had thought
even of taking Alan back to Brookfield with him; however, he had told
him that the money would be replaced, the boy would understand that
nothing could happen him and would go back, Mortimer felt sure. He spent
a short time searching for Alan, but his former fruitless quest had
shown him the hopelessness of trying to find a person in that immense
throng. He thought kindly of the enveloping mob that had kept him hidden
from Allis, as he thought. He had feared to meet her--something in his
presence might cause her to suspect that something was wrong. The whole
episode was like a fairy dream. It was a queer twist of Fate's web,
his winning enough over Lauzanne--he, a man who had never betted in his
life--to replace the money the brother had stolen.
All at once it occurred to him that some reward was due the instigator
of his success. The thousand he must keep intact. He had a few loose
dollars in his pocket beyond his original hundred, quite sufficient
to take him back to Brookfield. Taking the hundred from his pocket and
turning to Old Bill, who was still with him, he said: “I'm going
home, I've had enough horse racing for one day; you've done me a great
kindness--will you take this hundred--I need the thousand badly, so
can't spare more than this.”
“Not on yer life, pard. I give you de tip first, but you got de office
straight from Irish, an' we're quits, see? I wasn't playin' you fer
a sucker, an' yer straight goods. Jes' shove de boodle in yer breast
pocket, an' don't show it to no one. Dere's some here as would take it
off you quick enough.”
“But--”
“Dere ain't no buts in dis game--it's a straight deal, an' we've split
even. If you'd been a crook, well, God knows how we'd a-panned out. But
you ain't no geezer of dat sort--yer square, an' Old Bill wishes you
good luck till de robins nest again. Yer goin', eh? Say, pard, I'd
a-been wearin' diamon's if I could quit when I was 'head of de game. Yer
dead onto it. Here's my hand, Mr. Morton.”
“Mortimer--George Mortimer.”
“Well, shake, George. Where do you hang out?”
“Brookfield.”
“My address is New York. Dat's as close a fit as I knows at present.
If de run o' luck keeps up p'r'aps I'll write you from de Waldorf.
Good-bye, of man.”
With a light heart Mortimer hastened from Gravesend, not waiting for
the other races, and took his way to Brookfield. A genuine admiration of
buffeted Old Bill filled his mind.
In the morning he would be at the bank bright and early, and replace the
stolen thousand dollars; nobody would know that it had been taken. The
narrow escape that had come to Alan Porter might prove his salvation.
Surely it would cure him of his desire to bet. Out of all this evil
positive good would accrue.