It occurred to Mortimer that whenever the discussion took broader lines, Dolman drew it back into the narrow cell of his own convictions.

Porter scratched his head perplexedly. They had been discussing the moral influence of racing; this seemed more like theology. "It is certainly unchristian," commented Mrs. Porter, severely. "I haven't seen much Christian spirit in any business," said Porter, quietly; "they all seem more a matter of written agreements. In fact there's more done on honor in racing than in any of the business gambles. A man that's crooked in racing is sure to come to grief in the long run."

Crane shifted in his chair, and Dolman coughed deprecatingly. "For my part," continued Porter, "I've never found it necessary to do anything I'm ashamed of in racing."

His wife saw an opening. "But, John dear, you were treated most shamefully last year; a dishonest boy hauled your horse--"

"Pulled, mother," interposed Allis; "pulled father's horse, you mean."

"Perhaps, though I fail to see where the difference can be, if the horse ran the other way and your father lost."

Porter smiled indulgently. "The boy was punished, Helen," he said.

"Dishonesty is not tolerated on the race course."

"Yes, but something is always happening," she continued in lament. "It's contrary to the law of the church, John. It seems just like a visitation of divine wrath the way things happen. And you're so sanguine, John; last year you were going to win a big race with Diablo when he threw his leg--"

"Threw a splint, mother," prompted Allis.

"I thought your father said it was his leg had something the matter with it," argued Mrs. Porter.

"The splint was on his leg, mother dear."

"Well, I'm not familiar with racing phrases, I must say, though I should be, goodness knows; I hear little else. And talk of cruelty to animals!"

she turned to Mr. Dolman; "they burned the poor beast's leg with hot irons--"

The minister held up his hands in horror.

"It didn't give him as much pain as the doctor gave Mr. Mortimer setting his arm," declared Allis.

"But it was racing injured the horse's leg," interposed Dolman.

"But your horse has got a ringbone, Mr. Dolman," said Allis, "and a spavin, too. I've been looking at him. That's because you drive him too fast on hard roads. And his feet are contracted from neglect in shoeing.

It's just cruel the way that poor old horse has been neglected. Race horses are much better taken care of."

Allis's sudden onslaught switched Mr. Dolman from the aggressive to the defensive with great celerity.

"I confess I know very little about horses," he was forced to apologize; then, with something of asperity, "the spiritual welfare of my congregation takes up my entire time."

This rebuke caused a momentary silence, and Dolman, turning to Mortimer, said, "I hope you don't approve of racing, sir."

Mortimer didn't, but a look from Allis's eyes inexplicably enough caused him to hedge very considerably in his reply.

"I know nothing about the race course," he said, "but from what I see of the thoroughbreds I believe a man would have to be of very low order if their n.o.ble natures did not appeal to him. I think that courage, and honesty, and gentleness--they all seem to have it--must always have a good influence. Why, sir," he continued, with a touch of excitement, "I think a man would be ashamed to feel that he was making himself lower than the horses he had to do with."

Allis looked grateful. Even Porter turned half about in his chair, and gazed with a touch of wonderment at the battered young man who had subst.i.tuted common sense for sophistical reasoning.

The reverend gentleman frowned. "It's not the horses at all," he said, "it's the men who are disreputable."

Mrs. Porter gave a little warning cough. In his zealousness Mr. Dolman might anger her husband, then his logic would avail little.

"The men are like the horses," commented Porter, "some bad and some good. They average about the same as they do in anything else, mostly good, I think. Of course, when you get a bad one he stands out and everybody sees him."

"And sometimes horses--and men, too, I suppose--get a bad name when they don't deserve it," added Allis. "Everybody says Lauzanne is bad, but I know he's not."

"That was a case of this dreadful dishonesty," said Mrs. Porter, speaking hastily. She turned in an explanatory way to Crane. "You know, Mr. Crane, last summer a rascally man sold my husband a crooked horse.

Now, John, what are you laughing at?" for her husband was shaking in his chair.

"I was wondering what a crooked horse would look like," he answered, and there were sobs in his voice.

"Why, John, when you brought him home you said he was crooked."

As usual, Allis straightened matters out: "It was the man who was crooked. Mother means Lauzanne," she continued.

"Yes," proceeded the good woman, "a Mr. Langdon, I remember now, treated my husband most shamefully over this horse."

Crane winced. He would have preferred thumbscrews just then. "John is honest himself," went on Mrs. Porter, "and he believes other men, and this horse had some drug given him to make him look nice, so that my husband would buy him."

"Shameful," protested Dolman. "Are men allowed to give horses drugs?" he appealed to Mr. Porter.

"No; the racing law is very strict on that point."

"But evidently it is done," contended Dolman.

"I think there's very little of it," said Porter.

This turn of the conversation made Crane feel very uneasy. "Do you think, Mr. Porter," he asked, "that there was anything of that sort over Lauzanne? Do you think Langdon would--" He hesitated.

"Mr. Langdon has a tolerable idea of what I think," answered Porter.

"I shouldn't trust that man too much if I were you. He's got cunning enough, though, to run straight with a man like yourself, who has a horse or two in his stable, and doesn't go in for betting very heavily."

"I know very little about him," protested Crane; "and, as you say, he will probably act quite straightforward with me, at least."

"Yes," continued Porter, half wearily, as though he wished to finish the distasteful discussion; "there are black sheep in racing as there are in everything else. My own opinion is that the most of the talk we hear about crooked racing is simply talk. At least nine out of ten races are honestly run--the best horse wins. I would rather cut off my right hand than steal a race, and yet last summer it was said that I had pulled Lucretia."

"I never heard of that, John," cried Mrs. Porter, in astonishment.

"No, you didn't," dryly answered her husband.

Allis smiled; she had settled that part of it with her father at the time.

"If you'll excuse me," began Crane, rising, "I think Mr. Wortimer is getting tired. I believe I'll jog back to Brookfield."

Reluctantly the Reverend Dolman rose, too. He felt, somehow, that the atmosphere of racing had smothered his expostulation--that he had made little headway. The intense honesty that was John Porter's shielded him about almost as perfectly as, a higher form of belief might have done.

But with almost a worldly cunning it occurred to the clergyman that he could turn the drawn battle into a victory for the church; and as they stood for a minute in the gentle bustle of leave-taking, he said: "The ever-continuing fight that I carry on against the various forms of gambling must necessarily take on at times almost a personal aspect--"

he was addressing Mr. Porter, ostensibly--"but in reality it is not quite so. I think I understand your position, Mr. Porter, and--and--what shall I say--personally I feel that the wickedness of racing doesn't appeal to you as a great contamination; you withstand it, but you will forgive me saying so, thousands have not the same strength of character."

Porter made a deprecatory gesture, but Dolman proceeded. "What I was going to say is, that you possibly realize this yourself. You have acted so wisely, with what I would call Christian forethought, in placing your son, Alan, in a different walk in life, and--" he turned with a grave bow in Crane's direction--"and in good hands, too."