In the early dawn there had been a slight shower of rain, but by the
time the sun was high enough to shine over the town's highest buildings,
the clouds parted, and presently drifted away altogether, leaving the
golden disc full freedom in giving a brilliant look to the clean-washed
streets. By noon everything was as bright as a newly-scoured kitchen.
It was at that time of the year when spring is kissing a greeting to
summer. There was not too much heat. Growth and activity were not yet
subdued by the later lassitude of midsummer. In the parks the trees
were full of blossoms, the flowers were spelling out the runes that the
gardners had contrived for the Sunday sight-seers, and the roadways were
alive with well-equipped traps of every sort. The avenue was colorful
and kaleidoscopic. Dog-carts, driven by smartly-gowned, square-sitting
girls, bowled along noiselessly, the footmen looking as stolid as if
carved in wood. Landaus, with elderly women leaning far back into the
cushions, and shading their complexions under lace-decked parasols, went
by with an occasional rattling of chains. The careful observer might
have noticed that the number of smart vehicles was a trifle larger than
usual; there were more coaches out, and the air resounded more often to
the various military and hunting-calls that the English grooms were
executing on their horns.
It was Derby Day.
Dick was walking along the avenue watching, with his artist eyes open
for all the picturesque effect of the whole--the yellow haze of the sun
that filled the atmosphere in and out of which all these rapid
color-effects flashed swiftly, the thin strip of sky-reflecting water to
the east, the line of grass and the sky-touching horizon of huge
buildings--when he heard someone calling out his name.
"Lancaster!" It was Stanley, driving a dog-cart and a neat bay cob. "The
very man! Jump in, won't you? Going down to the Derby. Thing you
shouldn't miss; lots of color and all that sort of thing! Asked
Vanstruther to go down with me, but one of his dime-novel heroes is ill
or something of that sort, and he's off the list. That's good of you.
Look how you're stepping. This brute has been eating his head off all
week, and isn't really fit for a Christian to drive. That's it! Now."
They went spinning along the avenue.
In the instant or two before he climbed into the dog-cart, Dick had
reflected that while he was not over-fond of Stanley in a good many
ways, the man was undeniably a clever fellow, always to be depended on
for bright talk; besides he did feel very much like studying the scene
of a Derby Day with its many-colored facets.
Watching the rapid, shifting beauties of the boulevard, Dick burst into
a little sigh of admiration. "Ah," he said, "this is good! This is
living!"
"Youthful enthusiasm," muttered the other man. "Delightful
thing--youthful enthusiasm--to get over."
"Oh, no! I hope I never shall! What is life worth if one is not to show
that one enjoys it? How can you look at a day like this--a splendid,
champagnelike day--and yet--"
"My dear fellow," interrupted Stanley, with a queer smile, "when a man
gets to my time of life there is always something melancholy to him in
the picture of a spring day. It reminds him of his own youth: all tears
and sunshine. Today there are neither tears or sunshine; it is all just
contemplation. I don't seem to belong to the play at ail, any more,
myself; I'm merely a spectator. To the spectator there is always
something pathetic about joy."
"Your lunch was indigestable, that's all that is the matter with you,"
laughed Dick. "It's a dogma of mine that pessimism is merely another
word for indigestion."
"Dogma!" sighed Stanley, "Don't you know that all dogmas are obsolete?
Don't you know that in this rapid age we believe everything, accept
everything and yet doubt everything?"
"Isn't that a trifle paradoxical?"
"No; only modern! We believe everything that inventors or scientists may
tell us; but in the world spiritual we believe nothing. Is that a
paradox?"
"But indigestion is surely, h'm, material rather than spiritual?" Dick
enjoyed the verbal parries that he was always sure of with Stanley. He
was always trying to get at the secret man's cynicism, a cynicism that
was the essence of what many other men of the world he lived in seemed
to feel, but were not all, perhaps, so well able to express.
"Oh well," was Stanley's answer, "after all, it doesn't matter. Nothing
makes any difference." He looked blankly ahead as if all the world was
contained in the space occupied between the cob's ears. Then he went on,
in his minor monotone, "No, nothing, except--"
Dick, thinking to be cheery, put in "Except marriage?"
"No!" came from Stanley, with a sudden flick of the whip over the cob's
flanks, "that only makes differences."
Dick laughed somewhat impatiently. "Oh!" he urged, "why sit there and be
dismal? Why not wake up and live? Surely the air is full of it, of this
fair Life? Enjoy it, brace up, be young!"
"Ah, if I only could again, if I only could! Oh, to be young again! He
is the Autocrat of today, the young man." He lapsed into his sneer once
more. "The young man of today thinks he has the experience of the
centuries at his fingertips, whereas he really has only the gloves that
were made yesterday and will split tomorrow."
"You are not only unjust," protested Dick, "you are flippant."
"Of course I am! The keynote of this end of the century is lightness.
The modern declares that life is but a joke, and a bad one at best. How
to live without ever allowing oneself to suspect that life is more than
a game in which the odds are heads, Death wins; tails, Man loses: that
is the great problem of the decade. The universal solution of the
difficulty is the practice of superficiality. Skim! Be light! Never
penetrate below the surfaces! Never search the deep! Make love as if it
were a tourney of jests; die as if it were a riddle well guessed! Be
scintillantly versatile, rather than thorough; hide your ignorance with
bland blasédom; treat tragedy as an intruder, comedy as a chum, and as a
reward you will be called 'up-to-date.' Nay, more: your fashionable
friends may even mispronounce French in your behalf and dub you _fin de
siècle_!"
Dick shuddered laughingly. "A horrible philosophy," he said. And yet he
was glad of the other's bitterness; it showed, through all its veil of
sneers and scorn, something of the point of view of the foremost in that
race toward Death that some of the town-dwellers are wont to call Life.
Yet he could not keep his thoughts long on the serious import of the
other's scornful flippancy. How shall two-and-twenty years, and health,
and sunshine, and a spirit susceptible to enjoyments that the very
atmosphere seemed redolent of, allow a young man to brood on the
progress of the world's cancer? No; there were too many distractions!
Tandems whirling by with horsy young men handling the ribbons; brakes
full of laughing girls and straw-hatted young men; hackney carriages
with four occupants unmistakably of the bookmaker guild.
Just before they rolled into sight of the grand-stand, Stanley said,
"Oh, who do you suppose I had a letter from yesterday?"
"No idea."
"The most noble A.B. Wooton, of the late lamented '_Torch_'."
"You don't say so. His nerve never dies, eh?"
"As I said before, his is not a case of 'nerve'; it is genius. He has
the prettiest story you ever read, swears his advertising man deceived
him and got the paper into all manner of tight places; found himself
forced to get away from the ruins so that he could the better repay his
creditors, which he states he has instructed his lawyers to do, and all
the rest of it! I don't believe a word of it; but he has got grit!"
"That is a national fault," said Dick soberly, "the admiration of 'grit'
in scoundrels. For that is all that Wooton is, after all!"
"Oh, well, why split hairs? He never did you any harm, did he? However,
about his letter. He writes from Dresden. Says he has just met some
Americans--name of Ware, I think. Enjoying himself immensely--girl in
the party--moonlight rides and all that sort of thing. Wonder how long
he'll last over there?"
"I know some Wares," said Dick quietly; "but I hardly think it could be
the same ones. Though they are in Europe just now, that's true." His
thoughts tried to hark back to Lincolnville, to his parting with Dorothy
Ware, and to her return; but the present was too strong for him. They
were driving across the course at this moment, and over into the field,
which was already a motly, colored mass of vehicles, white dresses,
parasols and stamping horses. The tops of coaches were made over into
sitting room for summer-dressed girls, of whose faces one caught only
the white under-half--the chin and the mouth, in high sun relief--while
the eyes were in shade of the huge parasols. One caught glimpses of
light shoes and hose; of young men walking, in earnest converse over
betting tickets held in hand; of wicker lunch-baskets being brought
from the inner chambers of the coaches and prepared for a future hunger;
and, beyond, in the grand stand, of a black, indistinguishable mass of
spectators, noisy, tremendous.
As soon as they had found a place for the dog-cart, from which they
would be able to see the finish with tolerable comfort and completeness,
Stanley said, with a noticeable alacrity succeeding the languid
pessimism that had distinguished him all during the drive down.
"Now then, Lancaster, let's hurry over to the betting-shed!"
For a moment only Dick hesitated. "Going to bet, or just to look on?" he
asked.
"Bet, of course, you innocent infant! But, Scotland, you don't have to!
You can just soak in the--what do you call it--the impressionistic view
of it. But hurry up, whatever you are going to do, I don't want the odds
to tumble down too far before I get there!"
Not so long ago Dick would have cavilled, hesitated, perhaps refused.
Now he caught his half-uttered objections being met by a whisper in his
own mind of 'Don't be a prig!' and he followed Stanley silently. It
occurred to him, presently, that to warn oneself of becoming a prig was
in itself evidence of priggishness. Impatiently he shook his head, as if
to get all analytical reflections out of his head altogether. He looked
at the scene around him, and forgot everything else.
The scene in the betting-shed was, just as is the stock exchange floor,
the boiling-point of the kettle of froth called metropolitan life.
Around the bookmakers' stands was a seething, struggling mass of
humanity. Each member of this mob was pushing, striving, perspiring for
--what?--the chance to get something for nothing! The bookmakers
themselves were straining every nerve to keep pace with the public's
feverish desire to get rid of it's money. On their little stands, their
heads on a level with the black-board that furnished the names of the
horses and the odds against, they stood; one hand busy taking in money
that was handed in to the inner part of the stand, the other grasping
the piece of chalk that ever and again touched the black-board to effect
some change in the odds. One man inside was busy with pencil and paper,
registering each ticket as it was handed out; another covered the face
of the ticket with the hasty hieroglyphics that stood for the horse
chosen and the amount wagered and the amount that might be won. Here and
there a bookmaker encouraged the "plunge" on some horse that he
professed to scorn by shouting forth his odds and the horse's name. The
blind struggle of the majority was an amusing spectacle; it certainly
seemed to vouch for the truth of the saying that man is a gambling
animal. Like serpents, the "touts," professional vendors of spurious
stable information, went winding in and out through the throng,
sometimes displaying judgment in the would-be bettors they approached,
but as often as not displaying most lamentable indiscretion. Dick
watched, with an amused smile, how one of these fellows sided up to a
quiet man, who, program in hand, was leaning against a pillar watching
the boards and the changes in odds. The quiet man listened to the tout's
hoarse whisperings, and then threw his coat back showing an "owner's"
badge. The tout slunk sheepishly into the crowd.
"If you take my advice," said Stanley who was fighting his way towards
some remote goal or other, "you'll take a little flyer on Dr. Rice.
That's what I'm going to do. There's a fellow on the other side of the
ring has him a point higher than anyone else."
Dick, without having made up his mind as to his own betting or not
betting, helped his companion in his struggle to get through the crowd.
Desperate energy was necessary. There was never any time for apologies;
elbows were pushed into sides, toes were trodden on, scarfs twisted and
sleeve-links broken; no matter, there was money to be won and there was
no time either to consider passing annoyances or the possibility of
loss.
"Ah," said Stanley, finally, as they found themselves in front of a
black-board that had a figure "7" chalked to the left of the name Dr.
Rice and a "3" to the right. "Here we are! Now then, what are you going
to do?" He whipped out a twenty dollar bill and crumpled it carefully
into the palm of his hand.
Dick thought quickly. After all, it was merely the foregoing of some
luxury or another; he would postpone joining that polo club, perhaps,
or go without that new edition of Menzel's drawing's that he had been
promising himself. He took a bill out of his card-case and handed it,
without a word, to Stanley.
The ticket that Stanley presently handed him had "Rice" almost illigibly
scrawled across it, and the figures "70" and "10." Dick stood to lose
ten or to win seventy dollars.
By the time they had got comfortably ensconsed in their seats in the
dog-cart once more, the horses were at the post for the great event of
the day, the American Derby. Dick had begun to feel something of the
torment of expectation and fear and hope that makes the gambler's nerves
either like a sheet of reeds in the wind or like a tightly-drawn wire.
If he won it would be, as he heard some men in the betting-shed remark,
"just like finding money." He could allow himself all sorts of
extravagances. He observed the horses making false start after false
start without even a suspicion of qualmishness as to the moral aspect of
the case coming over him. He had grown, to use his own phase, broader.
Down beyond the turn into the stretch was the bunch of restless horses,
the vari-colored jackets, the starter's carriage, and the assistant
starter's flag. There was the sky-blue jacket that showed where the
favorite, The Ghost, was pirouetting on his hind legs; the black and
yellow bars of Ætna's jockey, and many others. But Dick's eyes were
focused on Dr. Rice; the horse's jockey was in all-black.
"Ah--h!" The vast crowd roars and cheers as a start is made. All
together, like a herd of cattle, they sweep on toward the grand-stand.
It is not racing yet. Favorite and second favorite are back in the
centre of the bunch. In front of the grand-stand one jockey sends his
horse out a length in front. It is an outsider, but there are plenty of
backers of outsiders, and a cheer goes up. "He'll walk away from them!"
"The others are standing still!" and such-like shouts go up. The pace
begins to get killing. At the half Ætna is seen to move up to the
leader, finally to pass him. The favorite is also creeping from out the
ruck. Slowly, surely he forges past all the leaders but Ætna; the latter
shoots ahead again for the distance of a length and The Ghost drops back
to fourth place. It was evidently merely a feeler to find out whether
Ætna was going too fast or whether there was still time to get up when
the stretch was reached.
Round the turn they sweep into the stretch. It is a dangerous picture,
with so many horses so close together, with such speed, and such
possibility of collisions. But the turn is made in a second; now they
are in the straight road for home. The Ghost is creeping up again,
wearing down horse after horse, finally reaching Ætna's throatlatch.
Neck and neck these two race up the last furlong; then a sudden,
surprised roar breaks out from the mob of onlookers; another horse has
cut loose from the bunch that has now become a straggling, attenuated
string of tired horses. The shout goes up: "Look at Dr. Rice!" "Dr.
Rice!"
Now he is up to Ætna's flanks and going under a pull; his jockey has
never yet touched spur to him. The whip comes down on Ætna; it is no
use; he is raced out. Now Dr. Rice has reached The Ghost, and the
latter's jockey begins using the whip. In the grand-stand there is an
inferno of cheering; men are shouting themselves hoarse, and jumping up
and down in nervous paroxysms. Dr. Rice's jockey never moves a muscle to
all appearances. The cries go up from the mob: "Come Rice!" "Come
Ghost!" The judges begin to strain their their attention to the viewing
of a very close finish. Then with a final mighty lift, Dr. Rice, in the
very last stride, snoots forward under the wire a neck in front of The
Ghost.
Dr. Rice has won.
* * * * *
On the way home Stanley was another man. He talked as if such a thing as
a regret for a lost youth had never entered his head; he was young
again. He recounted his impression of the race, asked Dick what he had
thought of it all, was full of amusing anecdotes about men who had tried
to get him to back the favorite, and was fertile in suggestions for what
they should do that evening. Of course it was understood they must
celebrate in some way. Surely! Surely!
"Oh," he said, finally, "I know what we'll do. We'll go along to the
Imperial Theatre. I know some of the girls in the burlesque there. I'll
introduce you. We'll enjoy ourselves."
Dick began to demur.
"Don't be a d-----d idiot," said the other man, half smiling, half
frowning.