"You think, Mike--" began Mr. Porter, questioningly; but Gaynor interrupted him with: "I don't think nothin', sir, an' I ain't sayin'

nothin. I ain't never been before the Stewards yet for crooked work, or crooked talk; but there's a boy ridin' in dat bunch to-day w'at got six hundred for t'rowing me down once, see? S'elp me G.o.d! he pulled Blue Smoke to a standstill on me, knowin' that it would break me. That was at Coney Island, two years ago."

"And you don't remember his name, I suppose, Mike?"

"I don't remember not'in' but that I got it in th' neck. But ye keep yer eye open, sir. Ye t'ink that none of the b'ys would t'row ye down cause ye've been good to 'em; but some of 'em are that mean they'd steal th'

sugar from a fly. I know 'em. I hears 'em talk, cause they don't mind me--t'ink I'm one of th' gang."

"Thank you very much, Gaynor; I appreciate your kindly warning; but I hope you're mistaken, all the same," said Porter. Then he proceeded on his way toward stall five, in which was Lauzanne.

"How are you, Mr. Porter?"

It was Philip Crane, standing just outside of the stall, who thus addressed him. "Got something running today?" he continued, with vague innocence.

Langdon, just inside the box, chuckled softly. Surely Crane was a past master in duplicity.

"I'm starting Lucretia in this race," replied Honest John.

"Oh!" Then Crane took Porter gently by the sleeve and drew him half within the stall. "Mr. Langdon, who trains a horse or two for me, says this one'll win;" and he indicated the big chestnut colt that the Trainer was binding tight to a light racing saddle. "You'd better have a bit on, Mr. Porter," Crane added.

"Lucretia carries my money," answered Porter in loyalty.

Langdon looked up, having cinched the girth tight, and took a step toward the two men.

"Well, we both can't win," he said, half insolently; "an' I don't think there's anything out to-day'll beat Lauzanne."

"That mare'll beat him," retorted Porter, curtly, nettled by the other's c.o.c.ksureness.

"I'll bet you one horse against the other, the winner to take both,"

cried Langdon in a sneering, defiant tone.

"I've made my bets," said Lucretia's owner, quietly.

"I hear you had an offer of five thousand for your filly, Mr. Porter,"

half queried Crane.

"I did, and I refused it."

"And here's the one that'll beat her to-day, an' I'll sell him for half that," a.s.serted the Trainer, putting his hand on Lauzanne's neck.

Exasperated by the persistent boastfulness of Langdon, Porter was angered into saying, "If he beats my mare, I'll give you that for him myself."

"Done!" snapped Langdon. "I've said it, an' I'll stick to it."

"I don't want the horse--" began Porter; but Langdon interrupted him.

"Oh, if you want to crawl."

"I never crawl," said Porter fiercely. "I don't want your horse, but just to show you what I think of your chance of winning, I'll give you two thousand and a half if you beat my mare, no matter what wins the race."

"I think you'd better call this bargain off, Mr. Porter," remonstrated Crane.

"Oh, the bargain will be off," answered John Porter; "if I'm any judge, Lauzanne's running his race right here in the stall."

His practiced eye had summed up Lauzanne as chicken-hearted; the sweat was running in little streams down the big Chestnut's legs, and dripping from his belly into the drinking earth spit-spit, drip-drip; his head was high held in nervous apprehension; his lips twitched, his flanks trembled like wind-distressed water, and the white of his eye was showing ominously.

Langdon cast a quick, significant, cautioning look at Crane as Porter spoke of the horse; then he said, "You're a fair judge, an' if you're right you get all the stuff an' no horse."

"I stand to my bargain whatever happens," Porter retorted.

At that instant the bugle sounded.

"Get up, Westley," Langdon said to his jockey, "they're going out."

As he lifted the boy to the saddle, the Trainer whispered a few concise directions.

"Hold him steady at the post," he muttered; "I've got him a bit on edge to-day. Get off in front and stay there; he's feelin' good enough to leave the earth. This'll be a matter of a couple of hundred to you if you win."

"All out! all out!" called the voice, of the paddock offcial. "Number one!" then, "Come on you, Wesltey! they're all out."

The ten starters pa.s.sed in stately procession from the green-swarded paddock through an open gate to the soft harrowed earth, gleaming pink-brown in the sunlight, of the course. How consciously beautiful the thoroughbreds looked! The long sweeping step; the supple bend of the fetlock as it gave like a wire spring under the weight of great broad quarters, all sinewy strength and tapered perfection; the stretch of gentle-curved neck, sweet-lined as a greyhound's, bearing a lean, bony head, set with two great jewels of eyes, in which were honesty and courage, and eager longing for the battle of strength and stamina, and stoutness of heart; even the nostrils, with a red transparency as of silk, spread and drank eagerly the warm summer air that was full of the perfume of new-growing clover and green pasture-land.

Surely the spectacle of these lovely creatures, nearest to man in their thoughts and their desires, and superior in their honesty and truth, was a sight to gladden the hearts of kings. Of a great certainty it was a sport of kings; and also most certainly had it at times come into the hands of highway robbers.

Some such bitter thought as this came into the heart of John Porter as he stood and watched his beautiful brown mare, Lucretia, trailing with stately step behind the others. He loved good horses with all the fervor of his own strong, simple, honest nature. Their walk was a delight to him, their roaring gallop a frenzy of eager sensation. There was nothing in the world he loved so well. Yes--his daughter Allis. But just now he was thinking of Lucretia--Lucretia and her rival, the golden-haired chestnut, Lauzanne.

He pa.s.sed through the narrow gate leading from the paddock to the Grand Stand. The gate keeper nodded pleasantly to him and said: "Hope you'll do the trick with the little mare, sir. I'm twenty years at the business, and I haven't got over my likin' for an honest horse and an honest owner yet."

There was covert insinuation of suspicion, albeit a kindly one, in the man's voice. The very air was full of the taint of crookedness; else why should the official speak of honesty at all? Everyone knew that John Porter raced to win.

He crossed the lawn and leaned against the course fence, to take a deciding look at the mare and the Chestnut as they circled past the stand in the little view-promenade which preceded the race.

His trained eye told him that Lauzanne was a grand-looking horse; big, well-developed shoulders reached back toward the huge quarters until the small racing saddle almost covered the short back. What great promise of weight-carrying was there!

He laughed a little at the irrelevance of this thought, for it was not a question of weight-carrying at all; two-year-olds at a hundred pounds in a sprint of only five furlongs. Speed was the great factor to be considered, and surely Lucretia outcla.s.sed the other in that way. The long, well-ribbed-up body, with just a trace of gauntness in the flank; the slim neck; the deep chest; the broad, flat canon bones, and the well-let-down hocks, giving a length of thigh like a greyhound's--and the thighs themselves, as John Porter looked at them under the tucked-up belly of the gentle mare, big, and strong, and full of a driving force that should make the others break a record to beat her.

From the inquisition of the owner's study Lucretia stood forth triumphant; neither the Chestnut nor anything else in the race could beat her. And Jockey McKay--Porter raised his eyes involuntarily, seeking for some occult refutation of the implied dishonesty of the boy he had trusted. He found himself gazing straight into the small shifty eyes of Lucretia's midget rider, and such a hungry, wolfish look of mingled cunning and cupidity was there that Porter almost shuddered. The insinuations of Mike Gaynor, and the other things that pointed at a job being on, hadn't half the force of the dishonesty that was so apparent in the tell-tale look of the morally, irresponsible boy in whose hands he was so completely helpless. All the careful preparation of the mare, the economical saving, even to the self-denial of almost necessary things to the end that he might have funds to back her heavily when she ran; and the high trials she had given him when asked the question, and which had gladdened his heart and brought an exclamation of satisfaction from his phlegmatic trainer; the girlish interest of his daughter in the expected triumph--all these contingencies were as less than nothing should the boy, with the look of a demon in his eyes, not ride straight and honest.

Even then it was not too late to ask the Stewards to set McKay down, but what proof had he to offer that there was anything wrong? The boy's good name would be blasted should he, John Porter, say at the last minute that he did not trust him; and perhaps the lad was innocent. Race people were ready to cry out that a jockey was fixed-that there was something wrong, when their own judgment was at fault and they lost.

Suddenly Porter gave a cry of astonishment. "My G.o.d!" he muttered, "the boy has got spurs on. That'll set the mare clean crazy."

He turned to Dixon, who was at his elbow: "Why did you let McKay put on the steels?"

"I told him not to." "He's got them on."

"They've got to come off," and the Trainer dashed up the steps to the Stewards. In two minutes he returned, a heavy frown on his face.

"Well?" queried Porter.