With Jean he went out to the track early in the afternoon. Here and there in the crowd he noted the tall figures of the French brothers.

Apparently, they were still taking all the money they could get. On their way to the stand to secure seats, they came upon Chetwood, who was eying the motley crowd whose costumes ranged from blankets to Bond Street coats, with pure delight. But being introduced to Jean, the young Englishman lost all interest in the crowd, and accompanied them.

Kathleen French waved greeting to them, and they found seats beside her.

It appeared that she had met Chetwood.

"Well, Angus, do you want any Flambeau money?" she laughed.

"I wouldn't bet much, if I were you," he advised her seriously.

"I will bet every dollar I can. That's what the boys are doing, and they're good judges of a horse."

"I think Dorgan is a better one."

"What does he know about Flambeau?" she asked.

"He seems to be satisfied with knowing Chief."

A little line came between Kathleen's eyes, but she shook her head.

"Flambeau carries all the money we can get up."

Angus having given her his advice said no more, and went to have a final look at Chief.

"I've had Dave bet my roll for me," Dorgan told him. "I ain't a regular rider no more, and I need the money. Barring accidents, Chief wins handy."

"The Frenches are just as sure of Flambeau."

"Yeh," Dorgan replied calmly. "I just seen the boy burglar that's ridin'

for 'em. There's tracks he couldn't work on, but I ain't makin' no kick.

If he puts anything over on me, it'll be new stuff. But I guess they figure they got the race won in the stable."

When Flambeau came on the track, Angus admitted to himself that he justified Kathleen's confidence. Knowing quite well what he had to do, the horse was eager. Up on his withers crouched a hard-faced boy in maroon and silver, who eyed the other horses and riders with cool contempt.

But Chief was being led through the gate, and up on his back flashed Dorgan's old black-and-yellow silk. The big horse stepped forward, looking at track and crowd with surprised and inquiring but quite calm eyes. Dorgan patted his neck and spoke to him, and he came past the stand in the long, singing, stretching canter which was deceptive by its very ease. Angus looked at Kathleen.

"He's a grand horse!" she admitted, and once more the little line lay between her eyes.

It became evident at the start that it was a fight between Dorgan and French's boy. Neither would concede the slightest advantage. Both were warned. As they wheeled back, after half a dozen abortive starts, French's boy was spitting insults from the corner of his mouth, and old Dorgan was grinning at him. Side by side, watching each other like boxers, they wheeled and came down on the line. Crouched, arms extended, the harried starter caught the bunch fair at last.

"G'wan!" he yelled as his flag swept. "G'wan outa here!" And the dust of the flurrying hoofs hid him.

At the turn Flambeau was running third, and slightly behind and a little wide and thus out of a possible danger zone, was the black and yellow.

But in the stretch on the first round Flambeau had drawn level with the leading horse. As they swept past the stand, Chief, still behind and well out, was running like a machine. Dorgan turned his face, twisted in a grin, up to the stand.

"By George, the old boy thinks he has the race on toast!" Chetwood exclaimed.

"He can't catch Flambeau now!" Kathleen a.s.serted.

But to Angus came the recollection of a piece of the old jockey's wisdom.

"Not every jock that knows pace is a good jock," he had said; "but no jock is a good jock that don't. If you know pace and know you're makin'

the time, you don't need to worry. Your leaders will come back to you. I never was no star rider, but pace is one thing I do know."

At the turn it was plainly a fight between the two horses. Angus saw French's boy turn his head, and then sit down to ride. Dorgan was motionless, lying flat, but the gap began to close. Angus glanced at Kathleen. She was leaning forward, tense, eager, her lips drawn straight, the color pinched from them. When he looked at the horses again Chief's head was lapping Flambeau. French's boy went to his bat.

It rose and fell. At the same moment Dorgan seemed to sink into and become part of his horse's neck.

For an instant they seemed to be running together. Then steadily, surely, inch by inch the black and yellow crept past the maroon and silver, and the chestnut head appeared in front of the bay. Into the stretch they came, French's boy riding it out and fighting it out to the last inch with Flambeau game to the core under terrific punishment. But as they thundered past the stand Dorgan, his ear hugging Chief's neck, was looking back beneath his arm, and there was clear daylight between the horses.

Once more Angus glanced at Kathleen. She smiled as she met his eye.

"Well, you were right," she said.

"I hope you didn't lose much."

"We--I lost--plenty, thanks. Anyway, I'm proud of Flambeau. He was outrun, but he ran game to the last foot."

With Chetwood, Angus went to see Dorgan. On the way they came upon Gavin and Gerald French. The latter was tearing up a bunch of tickets. At sight of them he laughed, tossing the fragments aloft.

"Good paper--once," he observed. "Give you a check to-night, Chetwood."

"Give you mine, too," said Gavin, lighting his pipe. "Good race, wasn't it?"

"Rippin'," Chetwood agreed. "No hurry about settlements, you know."

"Oh, we may as well clean up," Gerald returned carelessly. "See you later."

"So you did bet," Angus observed to his companion as they moved on.

"I told you it was a sound scheme to get back what you lost. I was jolly right, too. The money is quite at your service if you need it."

"I've raised the money, thanks all the same."

"In the quaint idiom of the country, far be it from me to horn in, but if I'm not impertinent, how did you do it?"

"Borrowed it on my note."

"Oh, my sacred aunt!" Chetwood groaned. "Now listen to reason, old chap.

Here's this money, just the same as if I'd found what you lost. Take it and----"

"Cut it out!" Angus interrupted. "That doesn't go."

"What an obstinate beggar you are!" Chetwood observed in disappointment.

"Well, we'll say no more about it, then. Do you know, I fancy the Frenches have come rather a cropper to-day. Of course, I don't know anything of their finances, but they were doing some dashed heavy betting. I fancied Miss French was hard hit."

"So did I," Angus agreed.

"Stood up to it like a major," Chetwood nodded. "Like to see 'em game."

They found Dorgan and Rennie rubbing and sponging the big horse, fussing over him like two hens with one chick.

"Well, I win me a whole barrel of kale," Dorgan chuckled. "I'll bet them Frenches will find her a hard winter unless they're well fixed." He eyed the big chestnut contemplatively for a moment. "And yet, mind you, he ain't a racin' horse," he said, "and don't you never fool yourself that he is. He can run now, and he'll always run as long as an eight-day clock, because he's got the works. But he's a weight carrier, that's what he is. He's a white man's horse, and I hate like poison to see him go back to them Lo's. Why don't you buy him? He'd carry your weight, and you'd be ridin' a real horse."