as usual, the appearance of the trainer, she found that she had alighted
and hastily sought the compartment set aside for Cassandra; and, that
it was her glossy, silvery little head, that was now swaying so gently
within her arms. Memory again reverted to her husband. To the time when
his hands fondled the same head, his eyes sparkled at her playful pranks,
his lips uttered the word that had named her.
The voice of the trainer suddenly sounding in her ears startled her and
she turned rather abruptly toward him.
“She’s improving, ma’am,” he said, after his usual salutation, “with
every day. The climate is telling on her, for she leaves a clean trough
now after each meal; and her speed—well, no longer than daylight this
morning she showed her heels for better’n a quarter to some of the very
best ones in the barn, ma’am.”
“But you do not intend to race her, do you?” she exclaimed. “She’s too
pretty and to much of a plaything, I should think, for that?”
“True, she is a beauty, ma’am,” replied the trained, “but as for
plaything”—he laughed aloud at the thought as he muttered brokenly—“well,
if I can get the proper weight on her in that big handicap Saturday,
and the track’s right, she might be about the most playful proposition
these cracks have yet got up against. And then, there ought to be a good
price, too.”
“Oh, but you must not sell her.”
“Sell her! I could have thumped that lawyer for selling her. No, ma’am; I
mean there ought to be heavy odds against her in such company.”
“Thomas tells me that Hildreth won yesterday.”
“So she did, ma’am; but at short price, odds on, a favorite you know.”
“Mr. Grannan, though,” he went on, “so his trainer told me, lost pretty
heavily on his entry. He said he telegraphed him to place ten thousand on
his entry and that he, of course, lost it. Mr. Grannan’s been playing in
tough luck all round, so they say.”
At the mention of Grannan’s name the mistress gave a perceptible start,
a shudder passed over her, and a moment later, with some stifled remarks
she ended the interview, and was moving away in her carriage.
Long after she had retired to her apartments in the home of her aunt, did
she hear the words that had escaped the lips of the trainer, sounding
within her ears. Grannan had had bad luck! The scene in front of the
cathedral was again evolving in her mind. The funeral cortege, the coffin
piled high with the floral wreaths. A sudden trepidation seized upon her.
She had again dropped the handkerchief. She saw the handsome face of the
tall figure beside her bending forward to recover it and then gather the
fatal flower.
Could it be that Grannan’s fate—ill fortune, perhaps ruin—had been sealed
by the fall of a handkerchief, as many another horseman’s had by the fall
of a flag? And that handkerchief dropped by her hand? Could she then be
unwittingly instrumental in the downfall which seemed to threaten him?
The thought distracted her. She arose from her seat and walked the floor
of her room in a fit of petulancy. Her brain teemed with myriad vague
and indescribable fancies. The fingers of her hand grew numb, deadened,
as though she had but withdrawn them from his parting grasp. She saw the
same expression of his face that had touched her, when she had refused
his gift. The look of entreaty in his eyes as he turned away.
“Alas!” she at length exclaimed aloud, muttering to herself strangely in
her bewilderment. “Alas! alas! for the doctrines of pernicious fatalism.
How oft do we entangle ourselves in our own sophisms; and, after all,
what poor strugglers we are in the eternal web of destiny. The devils
must, indeed, oft laugh out at the fool who has boasted wisdom.”
V
Saturday morning dawned. Dashes of sunlight at length began to dart
through the rifts in the lifting clouds. It had rained heavily during the
night, and the mistress, though she had ordered out her carriage for a
drive to the race course, felt that the condition of the track would, no
doubt, preclude the possibility of Cassandra’s start in the handicap. She
remembered that the trainer had said, “if the track’s right.” However,
she must go. The spell, the fascination that drew her thither seemed
irresistible. Her aunt persuaded her to remain for lunch; but one o’clock
found her gazing with intensity into the depths of the bewitching eyes,
while she tenderly stroked the shapely little head that Cassandra had at
sight of her thrust through the doorway of her apartment.
“I was just starting,” said the trainer, who now addressed her, “for a
last inspection of the track before deciding what’s best to do. You know,
ma’am,” he continued, “this is to be a hard-fought race, and while I
believe the little girl”—nodding at Cassandra—“is well conditioned to go
the route of a mile and a quarter, and will stand the punishment, still,
in heavy going the chances are all against her. There’s Helen Orland,”
he went on, “and Empress and Annabel—the track to-day, ma’am’s to their
liking.”
The trainer paused, for he could not help but note unmistakable traces of
disappointment on the face of the mistress.
Indeed, nothing could have more delighted her now than merely the
appearance of her “little pet” upon the track, if only to receive the
words of praise from the spectators she felt sure she would. But, as it
was a matter to be left entirely with the trainer, she now turned towards
him, and handed him a roll of bills from her purse, saying as she did so:
“You are doubtless in need of money for expenses. I shall send Thomas to
you for your final decision.” So saying, she stepped into her carriage,
which moved off in the direction of the clubhouse.
“Gad!” said the trainer. “Five thousand dollars! This reminds me of old
times, when the master was living. Only when he gave me a roll like this
it was with instructions to keep my eyes on ‘Bookies,’ and make them keep
their odds right.”
The crowd had now commenced to flow into the grounds in droves and
bunches. As the mistress, calm and collected, swept down the top balcony
of the clubhouse to a position that commanded a full view of the course,
admiring glances from every direction followed after her. Unattended as
she was, and with manner of complete reserve and composure, she seemed
wholly absorbed with her own thoughts.
Seated in a group just to her left, and but a few feet in front of her
was Colonel Townsend, an old gentleman, with Major Campbell and two
others—evidently horsemen, all earnestly engaged in a discussion of
horses and races in general.
As she sat listening—as she was compelled to do—to some of the
loud-spoken utterances of the group, she surveyed with interest the
crowd below her, which was now growing larger and larger. She chanced to
observe a man and a boy walking slowly along the track over in front of
the stables.
Adjusting her field glasses she saw that it was her trainer and jockey.
They appeared to be examining the track carefully, while the trainer
pointed to a spot along the outside rail. They then disappeared. As they
were leaving the track she could see the trainer shaking his head slowly,
with his eyes bent upon the ground.
The pang of disappointment now rankled within her. She knew that
Cassandra’s start had been discussed and that it was abandoned. She
had never realized till now how thoroughly expectant she had been. Her
thoughts took on the coloring of her insatiate longing with which she
battled. Her mind passed in review all the struggles, all the regrets,
all the vague fancies it had conjured when coupled with the bare name
Cassandra.
“Yet,” thought she, “my husband named her. She was his favorite. Why
shouldn’t she be mine? I could not help my attachment. Besides, I’m sure
it must have grown strong—as it has—on his account. How I had wished to
see her start, wished to hear her beauty praised by others!”
The band in the amphitheatre now struck up a lively air and the
horses entered for the first race passed for review before the judges
preparatory to going to the post. A stranger, who came pressing his way
along the balcony until he had joined the group with Major Campbell,
seated himself and looked intently at a programme he carried in his hand.
“Major,” he asked, “what entry is this in the handicap that I hear them
call ‘the ghost’?”
“Oh,” replied the Major, “that is the little mare ‘Cassandra.’”
At the mention of the name the mistress inclined her ear instantly.
“That’s singular,” continued the stranger. “What’s the significance,
Major—or do you know?”
“Why, that’s the name the boys here at the track gave to her and by which
she is now generally known. You see,” he continued, “her owner, who was
greatly attached to her as a mere weanling, is now dead. Have you never
seen her, sir?”
The stranger shook his head.
“Well, she’s a little marvel of beauty, sir, a perfect dream; milk-white
from tip to tip and as trim and shapely as a gazelle.”
“Does she start this evening?” inquired the stranger.
“Townsend told me but a while ago that he had just heard she would not
start.”
“I’m sorry,” replied the stranger, “but after your description of her,
Major, I think I shall make a special trip to the stable to see her.”
“You knew her owner, did you not?” asked the major.
“I can’t recall him,” said the stranger, thoughtfully.
“Why, he’s been with us often—a jolly good fellow he was, too, full of
life and—”
“Was he married?” interrupted the stranger.
“No—that is, I think not,” said the Major, “for I heard something once to
the effect that he was much in love with Judge Taggart’s daughter. By the
way,” he continued, “that young lady is, I believe, married now.”
“Yes,” replied the stranger. “I knew her—Miss Cassie.”
“They’re off!” came the shout from the crowd below, and instantly there
was a general careening of necks from the balcony. A minute later and the
crowd below surged toward the railing of the track and gathered about the
judges’ stand, as the horses rushed toward the wire.
Then there was a wild commotion, followed later by a general movement in
the direction of the “board pencilers.”
Thus the evening passed on, race by race, with a repetition of the usual
scenes and events, until at last there sounded the bugle call for the
handicap.
There was a distinct bustle and stir now among the expectant throng,
which said plainly that the race of the evening was about to come off.
“Colonel Townsend,” asked the Major, “have you seen Grannan since his
arrival to-day?”
“Yes,” responded the Colonel. “I had a short talk with him this morning.
I’m sorry for Grannan,” he continued, “he has been singularly unlucky of
late, and he says there seems to be no end of it.”
At the mention of the name of Grannan the mistress leaned over and
listened. She had long been sitting motionless, stolid, oblivious to
everything save her thoughts. Some one touched her upon the arm, and
turning sharply, with a startled look in her face, she beheld the
outstretched hand of Thomas, holding a batch of tickets.
“The trainer said, ma’am, to tell you that he just could not help it,
ma’am; when he saw twenty to one posted against Cassandra’s chances,
he made the ‘pencilers’ rub it off, and here, ma’am are the tickets.
Mr. Grannan, he said, had placed a large sum on the Empress,” continued
Thomas, “and that he took the liberty to purchase pools on Cassandra at
the tempting odds.”
She clutched the tickets nervously in her hand and quickly thrust them
into her purse, trembling visibly as she did so.
“Ah,” said Colonel Townsend, “we were speaking of Grannan. There is his
mare now—Empress—out for the handicap. I think, though,” he continued,
“that Helen Orland—Briggs’ mare—is going to have decidedly the best of it
in the going to-day.”
“Well,” said the Major, “I like Rosalind or Houston’s entry—Geraldine.”
“What’s the matter with Annabel?” chimed in the stranger. “There she is
now. She certainly looks a winner, and the distance just suits her.”
A wild cheer now suddenly burst from the crowd as Helen Orland passed
in front of the judges’ stand. She was evidently a favorite with the
spectators, for the cheer was repeated.
“Ho! ho!” shouted the Major. “She is going to start. There comes the
‘little ghost.’”
And simultaneously with his words, a bevy of swipes and stable boys set
up a yell.
“Mother of Moses!” ejaculated the stranger. “Major, but you were right.
She is a dream.”
“Yes, and a beautiful dream at that,” added the Major.
“Evidently she’s no nightmare,” echoed a shrill voice from the crowd.
Poor little Cassandra! She was prancing to the music of the band as
proudly as a queen, tossing her dainty head from side to side as gamely
and defiantly as a sparrow.
The mistress turned with a look, intense in its anxiety, to Thomas, who
was still standing, and thrusting her purse into his hand instructed him
to hurry with it to Mr. Grannan, tell him what the trainer had done and
say to him that as he was Cassandra’s rightful owner she desired him to
do as he wished with purse and contents.
Then lifting her glasses to her eyes with trembling hands, she scanned
eagerly the horses as they gathered at the post. Soon, from sheer
trembling and weakness, her hands dropped into her lap. Now, for the
first time, she beheld Grannan with his back turned toward the track and
searching with an anxious gaze the balcony upon which she was seated.
He raised his glasses to his eyes and began slowly to sweep the crowd. As
he did this her head sank involuntarily upon her breast. The blood rushed
to her face. She was abashed—painfully so. What had she done? Could she
stop Thomas? Would that she had seen him before she had sent Thomas. Yet
he had placed a large sum on Empress. Thomas had said so. What if he
should lose? The thought chilled her. She shuddered violently. He has
already lost heavily. It may ruin him.
“They’re off!” roared the throng, and then came the portentous silence.
She raised her eyes and saw the form of Grannan now facing with earnest
gaze the approaching horses. On they came, as if some terror-inspiring
object had suddenly stampeded them.
“Rosalind a neck, Lucinda a length, Helen Orland a head,” commenced the
song of the “caller,” from below.
Another moment and they were sweeping past the judges’ stand.
The stranger, with a manifest anxiety in the tone of his voice, now
observed that Annabel was lapped on Helen Orland and that Empress had
moved up well to the front. Lucinda, he said, had fallen back.
“The ‘little ghost,’” said the Major eagerly, “keeps well up to the
bunch, but she’s too small, though, too small.”
Around the turn they whirled, till now the “caller” cried out: “At the
half; Rosalind, a neck; Empress, half length; Annabel, a length; Helen
Orland—”
“Rosalind, it seems,” exclaimed the Major, “can’t shake them off. See,
she’s falling back. Empress leads now and both Helen Orland and Annabel
are coming up on her.”
“Look at the ‘little ghost,’” screamed a voice from the crowd as they
were rounding into the stretch.
“Ah, but she’s swerved,” chimed in the stranger, “clear to the rail—too
bad, too bad; she’s out of it now; but see the Empress, how determined
she is. The fight is on now and Annabel and Helen Orland are running as
a team. Look! they’re at her throat on either side.”
“Into the stretch: Empress a head; Annabel, a head; Helen Orland—”
“The Empress will win, sure!” said the Colonel.
“Hold!” shouted the stranger. “Look at that! Look at that! They’ve bumped
into her. She’s off her stride.”
“Annabel wins easy!” now shouted a chorus of voices from below.
“But here! here! Look at the rail—at the rail!” yelled the stranger,
as the crowd below took up the shout and roared: “The Ghost! The Ghost
wins!” “No, it’s Annabel, Annabel!” shouted others, “it’s Annabel!”
And thus they flashed under the wire. The crowd now surged around the
judges’ stand. A living stream poured out from the amphitheater. Hideous
screams and yells rent the very air: “The Ghost!” “Annabel!” “Annabel!”
“The Ghost!” “Annabel!” “Cassandra!” “Annabel!” while burning eyes
strained, eager to catch the number—No. 7. Cassandra had won.
One long, shrill, deafening shriek now pierced the air, then died away,
amidst a rudely descending shower of hats, parasols, and umbrellas. A mad
rush for the “bookies,” and the race was ended.
The mistress still stood peering from the balcony as if paralyzed.
Her eyes, now fixed, stared from features as pale and immovable as if
wrought by the hand of a sculptor. Thomas stood tapping nervously upon
the sleeve of her dress, while his ungovernable heels played a tattoo
upon the sounding floor. He was unheeded. He ventured a more violent tug,
and the shapely figure swung slowly around as though poised on a pivot.
“Cassandra’s won, ma’am!”
Her lips moved, but the words were inaudible. Her eyes turned again, bent
in the direction of the judges’ stand.
“Have the judges said so, Thomas?”
“Her number’s 7, ma’am,” and pointing to where the number hung, he said:
“There’s the number. And here, ma’am,” he continued, gesturing wildly,
“are the tickets. I couldn’t find Mr. Grannan, ma’am, and didn’t know
what to do, so I lit in and pretty nigh backed Miss Cassie off them
boards like I ’lowed Mr. Grannan would have done.”
“We’ll go there at once—to the stables,” said the mistress.
“I’ll fetch the carriage to the side entrance, here, ma’am, if you wish.”
She nodded assent as he hurried away. A familiar voice now caused her to
look up into the face of Grannan.
“I must congratulate you,” he said, as he took her hand, “upon the
victory of little Cassandra, though I must say I never knew her by that
name until now. I was utterly amazed,” he continued, “when I thought I
had recognized her. How delighted I am now to know that she won.”
“I am just going to see Cassandra now; will you go with me?” asked the
mistress.
A little later, when they were driving in the direction of the stables,
she turned to him and said: “I was awfully sorry it had been decided to
start Cassandra, when my coachman told me that you had an entry in the
race. Did she in any way hinder your chances for success?”
“In no way whatever, I can assure you.”
“Did you lose very heavily on Empress?”
“Oh, nothing that I could say would so much exceed my usual losses of
late.”
“Have you ever thought,” she asked, “of the flower that fell from the
bier which you persisted in fastening to the lapel of your coat?”
“Am I to be forever doomed, then, for that one perverse act?” he
exclaimed.
“Oh, I don’t know. I believe, though, there is an old adage which they
say affords some consolation to those who recount their losses.”
“And, pray, what is the adage?”
“Let me see—I think it runs something like this: ‘Unlucky in sport, lucky
in l—’”
The word died upon her lips. It was smothered by a kiss.
There was a low whinny near the window of the carriage now as it stopped,
and little Cassandra was peering eagerly in, from beneath her gray
blanket. The boy led her closer to the window; and, as the mistress
clasped her head in her arms, Grannan clasped the mistress in his.
The History of the Hals
CHAPTER VIII.
By JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE
(NOTE—In the beginning we promised our readers that the History of the
Hals would not be confined entirely to dry statistics, but would include
stories of these horses, and practical information relating to other
horse matters. Hence, these two following papers—Editor)
Editor Trotwood’s:
In reading your very interesting and instructive “History of the Hals”
and your learned dissertation on the difference between the trot and
the pace, I am reminded of one of the most laughable and richest races
I ever saw, and which has never been in print before. Understand that
thirty-three years ago, when this true story happened, we did not know
as much about the difference between the trot and the pace as we do
to-day, and which was so ably illustrated in your preceding chapters.
Very well—now, for the place: An Illinois town near the Indiana line.
Abe Stickney and Bob Langdon, living in adjoining towns, were rival
dealers in road and track horses in a small way. Some time before my
story opens Langdon, by a little shrewd, and, perhaps, not quite fair
dealing, “singed” Abe for a couple of hundred, and the latter was “laying
for him,” as the saying goes. Abe was “game,” and never had uttered a
word of complaint, but had kept up a “deal of thinkin’.” In other words,
to use one from “The Bishop of Cottontown,” he “froze.”
He was over in Indiana one day, and at a county fair saw a horse of the
Blue Bull family, called Hoosier Boy.
In order that your readers may better understand and appreciate this
narrative (for I am sure you know the peculiarities of the Blue Bulls), I
will explain that the Blue Bull family of horses originated in Indiana,
that little was known of the ancestors of the founder of the family, Blue
Bell No. 75, that the name was a combination derived from his peculiar
color, and a nickname bestowed on him by his enemies, who called him
“Prudens Bull,” but he turned out like the “Ugly Duckling,” and surprised
his friends and shamed his enemies by founding a remarkable family, and
at one time, since I can well remember, he was the champion sire of 2:30
speed, some sixty in number. They were nearly all natural pacers, but as
pacers were not popular those days, they were made to trot by the use of
heavy toe-weights.
The horse that Abe saw was taking his morning exercise and was a nice,
smooth-gaited pacer. In the afternoon, to his astonishment, he saw the
same horse win a trotting race in pretty good time. Abe investigated the
matter at once and found that he could buy the horse very reasonably, as
he was not quite sound, and he also learned that not a step would he trot
without toe-weights, but would pace quite fast, though not nearly as fast
as he could trot. The horse was shipped home with a bunch of others he
had bought, and Abe immediately began to lay his plans. He hired a fellow
that he could trust and sent him out to the fair grounds with his horse
and then proceeded to Langdon’s town and communicated to Bob’s friends
that he had a horse that could beat anything in the county. That was
enough, and Bob was looking for Abe and he did not have any trouble to
find him.
“They tell me you have a regular streak o’ greased lightning, Abe?”
“Who in thunder’s been lying to you, Bob. Ain’t got nothing but a cheap
one, but I would bet ten on a little race between Hoozier Boy and Gray
Dan just for fun, might make it twenty the day of race if my horse is all
right.”
The ten was soon posted, and the day set a week later, as Abe was on his
way to Chicago to be gone a week.
Soon after, Langdon, knowing that Abe was away, sent a couple of friends
over to learn all they could about Hoosier Boy. They found the horse in
charge of a very sociable fellow.
Yes, that horse was a pacer, and he “lowed” he could step some. He was
going to train him a little and they could see him step if they would
stay.
So out came Hoosier Boy, and they saw him work a mile, and there was no
mistake.
Abe’s man certainly was busy for his orders were that there might be a
buyer there while he was gone, and to show him the very best mile he
could.
Bob’s friends timed him very carefully, and went home delighted. Gray Dan
could beat that time by eight seconds or more. That man of Abe’s was so
obliging, too, and they gave him a nice tip, and asked him as a special
favor not to mention their visit, as they wanted to buy the horse as
cheap as possible.
The race day came and found Abe gloriously drunk. ’Twas not a common
thing, but it seemed to always happen when there was important business
on hand.
“I ain’t got much money,” said Abe, “but, by gol, I’ll bet that lower
eighty of mine agin a thousand dollars—never did like that farm—lost the
best cow I ever owned in that pesky swamp.”
Abe had plenty of friends, and they gathered round trying every way
to prevent his losing that farm. They knew him for a man that never
whimpered when he lost his money, and Bob Langdon was a “sharper.”
“Skin ye, sure, Abe,” they said. But Abe turned a deaf ear to their
entreaties.