Thoroughbreds.

by W. A. Fraser.

I

Less than a hundred miles from the city of Gotham, across broad green fields, dotted into squares and oblong valleys by full-leafed maple, and elm, and mulberry, was the village of Brookfield. A hundred years of expansion in the surrounding land had acted inversely with the little hamlet, and had pinched it into a hermitical isolation.

The Brookfieldians had discovered a huge beetle in the amber of their serene existence; it was really the Reverend Dolman who had unearthed the monster. The beetle in the amber was horse racing, and the prime offender, practically the sole culprit, was John Porter.

By an inconsistent twist of fate he was known as Honest John. His father before him had raced in old Kentucky to considerable purpose, and with the full vigor of a man who races for sport; and so to the son John, in consequence, had come little beyond a not-to-be-eradicated love of thoroughbreds. To race squarely, honestly, and to the glory of high-couraged horses was to him as much a matter of religion as the consistent guardianship of parish morals was to the Reverend George Dolman. Therefore, two men of strong beliefs were set on opposite sides of the fence.

Even in the Porter household, which was at Ringwood Farm, was divided allegiance. Mrs. Porter was possessed of an abhorrent detestation of horse racing; also an a.s.sertive Christianity. The daughter, Allison, had inherited the horse taint. The swinging gallop of a striving horse was to her the obliteration of everything but sunshine, and the smile of fields, and the blur of swift-gliding hedges, and the driving perfume of clover-laden winds that pa.s.sed strong into spread nostrils. For Alan Porter, the son, there were columns of figures and musty-smelling bundles of tattered paper money where he clerked in the bank. There had been great unison in the Porter household over the placing of Alan. In addition to horse lore, John Porter was a fair judge of human nature, and, beyond doubt, there was a streak of velvet in Alan which would have twisted easily in the compressive grip of the race course.

The Porter family were not the only dwellers of Brookfield who took part in racing. Philip Crane, the banker, wandering from the respectable highway of finance, had allowed himself to become interested in race horses. But this fact was all but unknown in Brookfield, so the full resentment of the place was effusively tendered to John Porter.

In his younger days some money had come to Philip Crane. The gambler spirit, that was his of inheritance, had an instinctive truth as allied to finance; but, unfortunately for Philip Crane, chance and a speculative restlessness led him amongst men who commenced with the sport of kings. With acute precipitancy he was separated from the currency that had come to him. The process was so rapid that his racing experience was of little avail as an a.s.set, so he committed the first great wise act of his life-turned his back upon the race course and marched into finance, so strongly, so persistently, that at forty he was wealthy and the banker of Brookfield.

Twenty years of deliberate reminiscence convinced him that he could gratify the desire that had been his in those immature days, and possibly work out a paying revenge. Thus it was that he had got together a small stable of useful horses; and, of far greater moment, secured a clever trainer, d.i.c.k Langdon.

Crane's latter-day racing had been successful--he made money at it.

No man was ever more naturally endowed to succeed on the turf than was Banker Philip Crane. Cold, pa.s.sionless, more given to deep concentrated thought than expression, holding silence as a golden gift--even as a gift of rare rubies--nothing drew from him an unguarded word, no sudden turmoil quivered his nerve. It was characteristic of the man that he had waited nearly twenty years to resume racing, which really came as near to being a pa.s.sion with him as was possible for anything to be. There is a saying in England that it takes two years of preparation to win a big handicap; and these were the lines upon which Philip Crane, by instinctive adaptation, worked.

Quite by chance d.i.c.k Langdon had come into his hands over a matter of borrowed money. It ended by the banker virtually owning every horse that raced in the trainer's name. In addition, two or three horses ran in Philip Crane's own name. If there had been any distinctive project in the scheme of creation that gave d.i.c.k Langdon to the world, it probably was that he might serve as the useful tool of a subtle thinker. Now it did seem that Langdon had come into his own--that he had found his predestined master.

John Porter had not been successful; ill fortune had set in, and there was always something going wrong. Horses would break down, or get beaten by accident--there was always something. The steady financial drain had progressed even to an enc.u.mbrance on Ringwood.

Ringwood was simply a training farm, located close to an old disused race course, for there had been no racing in Brookfield for years.

Inadvertently the Reverend Mr. Dolman had intensified the strained relationship that existed between the good people who frowned upon all racing endeavor and those who saw but little sinfulness in John Porter's way of life.

The church was in debt--everything in Brookfield was, except the town pump. The pastor was a nervous, zealous worker, and it occurred to him that a concert might lighten the financial load. The idea was not alarmingly original, and the carrying out of it was on conventional lines: local volunteer talent, and a strong appeal to the people of Brookfield for their patronage.

The concert in the little old clap-boarded church, it's sides faded and blistered by many seasons of tempest and scorching sun, was an unqualified success up to the fifth number. Nothing could have been more successful, or even evoked greater applause, than the fourth effort, "Anch.o.r.ed," as rendered by the village pride in the matter of baritone singing; even De Reszke never experienced a more genuine triumph. The applause gradually fell away, and programmes were consulted preparatory to a correct readiness for the fifth offering. The programmes confided that "The Death of Crusader," by Miss Allis Porter, was the next item.

In the front row of seats a prim little body, full of a severe quaintness in every quirk of dress, tilted her head toward a neighbor, and whispered, "It's that racin' gal of John Porter's."

The neighbor answered in a creak meant for a whisper: "I'm right glad she's took to religion for onct, an' is givin' us somethin' about them Crusaders. They was in Palestine, you know. She's been away to boardin'

school all winter, an' I guess it'll be a high-falutin' account of the war."

The quaint little old lady jerked her head up and down with decisive bobbiness. On the third upward bob her eyes opened wide in astonishment--a small, slim figure in a glaring red coat stood in the center of the improvised platform.

From beneath the coat fell away in long graceful lines a black riding skirt; a dark oval face, set with large wondrous gray eyes--the Porter eyes--confronted the quaint little old lady.

"That's the Porter gal," her neighbor squeaked; "I've seen her a-top them race horses more'n a hundred times. My! you'd think b.u.t.ter wouldn't melt in her mouth, she's that prim now."

"The coat would melt it," commented the quaint one.

Then a clear, soft girlish voice, with just a tremble of apprehensive nervousness, giving it a lilt like a robin's, said:--

THE RUN OF CRUSADER

I

Full weight they had given the gallant big Black--a hundred and sixty he carried; And the run for the "Hunt Cup" was over three miles, with mud-wall and water-jump studded.

The best racing days of the old horse were past--there'd never been better nor braver But now once again he must carry the silk I was needing the help of Crusader.

Could he win at the weight, I whisperingly asked, as I cinched up the saddle girt' tight; He snuggled my hand as I gathered the rein, and I laughed when they talked of defeat.

To the call of the bugle I swung to his back--like a rock was the strength of his quarters.

At sight of the people he arched his lean neck, and they, cheered for my King of all Hunters.

II

Ten horses would strive for the prize--a big field, and the pace would be killing.

From the West came Sweet Silver, a gray, gallant, and fearless in jumping.

A rakish old nag who walked over the sticks, had been sent for the Cup from Kentucky; On a bay, Little Jack, who was fast, they had put but a hundred and thirty.

But I knew that North Star, a big brown--even the Black was no gamer- With a pull of ten pounds in the weight, was almost a match for Crusader.

We made a brave troop, long-striding and strong, with the pick of cross-country riders, As we filed past the Stand in stately parade, with its thousands of eager admirers, And down to the turn on the lower far side, where a red flag was flicking the sunlight; For twice we must circle the green-swarded field, and finish close under the paddock.

III

Just once we lined up; then down cut the flag, and "Go!"

hoa.r.s.e-voiced the Starter; And the thunder of hoofs, and the clanking of bits, made music to me on Crusader.

Quick to the front, like a deer, sped a mare, a chestnut, making the running; But I steadied my mount, and took him far back--with his weight he would need all my nursing.

They took the first hedge like sheep in a bunch, bit to bit, and stirrups a-jingle; And so past the Stand to the broad water-jump, where three went down, in a tangle.

I trailed at the heels of the Silver Gray--but Crusader was begging for halter And flew the wide ditch with the swoop of a bird, and on again, lapped on his quarter.

Then over the Liverpool, racing like mad,--where Sweet Silver fell fighting for lead, And his rider lay crushed, white-faced to the sky; and to miss him Crusader jumped wide.

IV

At the bank something struck, and a cloud of white dust hid the wall as though it were shrouded; But the big gallant Black took off with a swing--full thirty feet ere we had landed.

As we rounded the turn I could see Little Jack go up to the mare that was leading; Then I let out a wrap, and quickened my pace, to work clear of those that were tiring.

Once again past the Stand we drove at the ditch that some would never get over; And a cheer shook the air as the Bay landed safe; with the mare on her back in the water.

Then over went North Star--though he pecked, and nearly emptied his saddle.

As I lifted the Black at his heels, he frothed the Brown's flank with his nozzle.

V

Then down the back stretch, o'er hedge and o'er bank, we three were racing together; Till at the next rail the Bay jostled the Brown, and riderless crashed through the timber.

So we rounded the turn, and into the straight--North Star's lean flank we were lapping But we shot to the front when I gave the Black head, and I saw that the other was stopping.

We raced as one horse at the very last hedge--just a nose in front was Crusader; I felt the big Brown b.u.mp twice at my side, and knew he was ready to blunder.

With stirrups a-ding, empty-saddled the Bay, stride for stride, galloped and floundered.

Just missing his swerve, I called on the Black, and drew out as he bravely responded.

VI

Just the last jump! and Crusader took off twenty feet from the brush-covered timber.