The race literature that had come Mortimer's way had generally dealt with the unfortunate part of racing. Somehow he had got the impression that everybody lost money at it. He was sure Alan Porter had, also the father.

True, on the train were some bearing undeniable evidences of poverty; but not many. One man of this latter unfortunate aspect sat next him.

His whole appearance was suggestive of the shady side of life. With the industry of a student he pored over a disheveled sporting paper for half an hour, then throwing it under the seat he cast a furtive look at his neighbor, and presently said, "Dere'll be big fields to-day."

"That's too bad," Mortimer answered, through ignorance, thinking that the other referred to perhaps a considerable walk across country to reach the course.

"I like it," declared the man of sad drapery; "it means long odds if you're next somethin' good."

Mortimer confined his remarks to a brief "Oh!" for the other man might as well have been speaking Choctaw.

"Have you doped 'em out for de Derby?" asked the stranger.

Mortimer shook his head. Whatever it was it was connected with horse racing, and he felt sure that he hadn't done it.

"Well, I'll tell you somethin'--will you put down a good bet if I steer you straight?"

Mortimer was growing weary; his mind, troubled by the frightful disaster that threatened Allis's family, wanted to draw within itself and ponder deeply over a proper course of action; so he answered: "My dear sir, I'm afraid you're mistaken. I never bet on races. But I thank you for your kind offer."

The unwashed face looked at him in blank amazement, then it wrinkled in a mirthful laugh of derision. "What d' 'ell you goin' to Gravesend for, den? Blamed if I don't believe you dough--you look it. Say, is dat straight goods--did you never have a bet in your life?"

"Never did."

"Well, I'm d.a.m.ned! Say, I believe you've got de best of it, dough. Wish I'd never bucked ag'in' de bookies."

"Why don't you stop it now, then?"

"Say, pard, do you drink?"

"No."

"Smoke?"

"No."

A hopeless air of utter defeat came into the thin, sharp face. Its owner had been searching for a simile. He wanted to point a moral and he couldn't find it. The young man at his elbow was too immaculate.

He tried to explain: "Racin's like any other locoed t'ing--it's like tobacco, or drink, or stealin' money out of a bank--"

Mortimer shivered. He had felt a moral superiority in denying the implied bad habits.

"It's like any of 'em," continued the ragged philosopher; "a guy starts simply as a kid, an' he gets de t'row-down. He takes a bracer at himself, and swears he'll give it de go-by, but he can't--not on your life."

Mortimer had read much about confidence men, and half expected that his self-imposed acquaintance would try to borrow money, but he was disillusionized presently.

"But de ring ain't broke Ole Bill yet. I'll clean up a t'ousand to-day--say, I like your mug; you ain't no stiff, or I miss my guess, an' I'll put you, next a good t'ing, damme if I don't, an' you don't need to divvy up, neither. Dere's a chestnut runnin' in de Derby what dey call Larcen, an' I'm goin' to plank down a hun'red chicks on him."

He detected a look of incredulous unbelief in Mortimer's face, evidently, for he added, "You t'ink I ain't got no dough, eh?" He dug down into the folds of his somewhat voluminous "pants" and drew forth a fair-sized roll. "See? That wad goes to Larcen straight. I see him do a gallop good enough for my stuf; but dey got a stable-boy on him, an'

dat's why he'll be ten to one. But dat don't cut no ice wit' me. He'll be out for de goods; it's a gal owns him, an' dere'll be nut'in' doin'.

Gal's name's Porter."

Again Mortimer started. What a little world it was, to be sure! Even here on the ferry boat, crowded with men of unchristian aspect, he heard the name of the woman he loved, and standing symbolical of honesty.

"What's the name of this--this horse?" he asked.

"Larcen."

"Do you mean Lauzanne?"

"Yes, dat's it. I jes' heered it, an' I t'ought it was Larcen. You've got it straight, stranger. Say, are you wise to anyt'in'?"

"Not about the horse; but I know the people--the young lady; and they'll win if they can--that's sure."

"Dere won't be many dead 'uns in de Derby. First money's good enough fer most of de owners. First horse, I see him gallop like a good 'un. An'

I'm a piker; I like a bit of odds fer my stuff."

Mortimer saw the other occupants of the train moving toward the front end.

"I guess we're dere," said his companion; "perhaps I'll see you on de course. If you make a break to-day, play Larcen; he'll win. Say, I didn't catch your name."

"Mortimer."

"Well, take care of yourself, Mr. Morton. See you later."

In his ignorance of a race meet Mortimer had felt sure he would be able to find Alan Porter without trouble. The true difficulty of his quest soon dawned upon him. Wedged into the pushing, shoving, hurrying crowd, in three minutes he had completely lost himself. A dozen times he rearranged his bearings, taking a certain flight of steps leading up to the grand stand as the base of his peregrinations; a dozen times he returned to this point, having accomplished nothing but complete bewilderment.

He asked questions, but the men he addressed were too busy to bother with him; some did not hear, others stared at him in distrust, and many tendered flippant remarks, such as "Ask a policeman;" "You'll find him in the bar;" "He's gone to Europe."

Even Mortimer's unpracticed mind realized speedily that it would be nothing short of a miracle if he were to find anyone in all those inpatient thousands who even knew the person he was seeking. One young man he spoke to declared that he knew Alan Porter quite well; he was a great friend of his; he'd find him in a minute. This obliging stranger's quest led them into the long race track bar room, which somehow or other suggested to Mortimer a cattle shambles.

Behind the bar young men in white coats, even some in their shirt sleeves, were setting forth on its top, with feverish haste, clinking gla.s.ses that foamed and fretted much like the thirsty souls who called vociferously for liquid refreshment. Everybody seemed on fire--burnt up by the thirst of a consuming fever, the fever of speculation.

Mortimer's new friend suggested that they indulge in beer while waiting for the sought one's appearance, and waxing confidential he a.s.sured his quarry that he had a leadpipe cinch for the next race--it couldn't lose. The trainer was a bosom friend of his; a sort of hybrid brother in friendship. He himself was no tipster, he was an owner; he even went the length of flashing a bright yellow badge, as occult evidence of his standing.

These matters did not interest the searcher in the slightest; they only wasted his precious time. If he did not find Alan Porter soon the stolen money would be lost, he felt sure.

"I must find my friend," he said, cutting the garrulous man short.

"Excuse me, I'll go and look for him."

But the other was insistent; ferret-like, he had unearthed good meat--a rare green one--and he felt indisposed to let his prey escape. His insistence matured into insolence as Mortimer spoke somewhat sharply to him. Ignorant of racing as the latter was, he was hardly a man to take liberties with once he recognized the infringement. The enormity of his mission and the possibility that it might be frustrated by his undesirable tormentor, made him savage. Raised to quick fury by a vicious remark of the tout who held him in leash, he suddenly stretched out a strong hand, and, seizing his insulter by the collar, gave him a quick twist that laid him on his back. Mortimer held him there, squirming for a full minute, while men gathered so close that the air became stifling.

Presently a heavy hand was laid on Mortimer's shoulder and a gruff policeman's voice asked, "What's the matter here?"

"Nothing much," Mortimer replied, releasing his hold and straightening up; "this blackguard wanted me to bet on some horse, and when I refused, insulted me; that's all."

The other man had risen, his face purple from the twist at his throat.

The officer looked at him.