Thoroughbreds Part 32

For hours the trains had borne to Long Island crowd after crowd of eager, impatient New Yorkers. Lovers of horses, lovers of gambling, pure and simple; holiday makers, and those who wished to see the Brooklyn run out of sheer curiosity; train after train whirled these atoms of humanity to the huge gates of the Gravesend arena, wherein were to battle that day the picked thoroughbreds, old and young.

Even like bees, black-coated and buzzing, the eager ones swarmed from the cars and rehived in the great stand. Betting ring, and paddock, and lawn became alive because of their buzz; tier after tier, from step to roof, the serrated line of whitefaced humanity waited for the grand struggle.

The first race was but a race, that was all. Horses galloped, but did they not gallop other days? It was not the Brooklyn. And also the second was but another race. How slow, and of what little interest were the horses! Verily, neither was it the Brooklyn, and it was the Brooklyn forty thousand pairs of eyes had come to see.

Down in the betting ring men of strong voices bellowed words of money odds, and full-muscled shoulders pushed and carried heads about that were intent on financial businesses. But what of that? It was not the Brooklyn, it was gambling.

Out in the paddock a small brown mare of gentle aspect, with big soft eyes, full of a dreamy memory of fresh-shooting gra.s.s, walked with easy stride an elliptical circle. Her fetlocks fair kissed the short gra.s.s in an unstable manner, as though the joints were all too supple. Inside of the circle stood Allis Porter and a man square of jaw and square of shoulder, that was Andy Dixon. Presently to them came Mike Gaynor.

"We're gittin' next it now, Miss Allis; we'll soon know all about it."

"We're all ready, Mike," said Dixon, with square solemnity. "When they've beat the little mare they'll be catchin' the judge's eye."

"There's nothing left now, Mike, but just a hope for a little luck,"

added the girl.

"Ye'r talking now, Miss Allis. Luck's the trick from this out. The little mare'll have a straight run this trip. Here's the b'y comin' now, and a good b'y he is."

A little man in blue jacket and white stars joined them, saluting Miss Allis with his riding whip. "Are you going to win, Redpath?" asked the girl.

"I'm going to try, Miss. She's a sweet mare to ride, but it's a big field. There's some boys riding that ought to be in the stable rubbing horses."

"You'll have to get out in front," said Dixon, speaking low; "your mare's too light to stand crowdin', an' even if you have to take her back for a breather after you've gone half the journey, she'll come again, for she's game."

"Them Langdon fellows thinks they've got a great chance wit' our cast-off, Diablo," volunteered Mike. "I had a peep at him in the stall, an' he's lookin' purty fit."

"He never was no cla.s.s," objected Dixon.

"If ye'd see him gallop the day he run away, ye'd think he had cla.s.s,"

said Mike. "Bot' tumbs up! ye'd a t'ought it was the flyin' Salvator."

"Well, we'll soon know all about it," declared Dixon. "There's the saddlin' bell. Have you weighed out, Redpath? Weight all right, ninety-two pounds?"

"All right, sir. It was a close call to make it, though; there was a few ounces over."

"All the better; it's a hot day, an' if they're long at the post it'll take them spare ounces out of you, I fancy."

Dixon held up his finger to the boy that was leading Lucretia, and nodding his head toward the stall led the way.

"We're number seven, Mike," said Allis, looking at the leather tag which carried the figure on Jockey Redpath's right arm.

"'There's luck in odd numbers, said Rory O'Moore,'" quoted Mike.

"I've a superst.i.tious dread of seven," the girl said; "it's the one number that I always a.s.sociate with disaster--I don't mind thirteen a bit."

"We'll break the bad luck seven to-day," a.s.serted little Redpath, bravely.

"I hope so," answered Allis. "Let me put my finger on the number for good luck," and she touched the badge on his arm. "Now I'm going up to get a good seat in the stand," she continued; "I'll leave Lucretia to you, Redpath."

XXIV

As the slight figure, looking slighter still in a long trailing race coat, pa.s.sed through the paddock gate to the stand enclosure, Mike Gaynor spoke to the jockey.

"Redpath, me b'y, it's up to ye to put yer best leg for'ard to-day. Ye'r ridin' for the greatest little woman in this big country. In all the stand up there, wit' their flounces and jewels, there isn't a lady like her. Not wan av them judys kin touch her as a rale proper lady. G.o.d bless me, she's de sweetest--" then he checked himself; he was going to say the sweetest filly, but even to his rough-hewn mind, tutored only by horse lore, it seemed sacrilege to speak of Miss Porter as anything but a lady.

"You're right, Mike," concurred the little man; "I'd rather ride the mare for her than White Moth, or The King, or any of the favorites for their owners."

"An' the ould man lyin' there at home on his back, eh, Redpath? He's as good as gold hisself; that's where the girl gets it; not sayin' a word ag'in Mrs. Porter; she don't understand, that's all. But ye'll put up the ride of your life, me b'y, won't ye?"

"I'll do that, old chap."

"Mike'll stand by ye," affirmed Gaynor. "Say, b'y," and he turned and looked squarely into the eyes of the little man, "I know if they beats ye to-day, 'twon't be yer fault 'cause why?"--and he put his hand on Redpath's shoulder-="'cause ye'r like many another man, sweet on the young Missis. Now, now, now stop that!" and he held up his finger warningly, as the other raised his voice in mild protest; "it's to yer credit. It'll do ye no good in wan way, av coorse, for, as ye say, she'll never know it." Redpath had not made the statement Mike attributed to him, but the latter was giving him a kindly pointer. "But it'll do ye no harm. The likin' av a good woman will sometimes make a man av a scoundrel, but ye'r a long way from bein' that, me b'y; so it'll do ye tons av good. There's the bugle; go an' mount, an' I'll watch how ye get on; an' good luck to ye."

Regally, one after another, in stately file, the turf kings, decked out with the silken jackets that rested a-top--crimson, and gold, and blue, and white, and magpie, pa.s.sed through the paddock gate to the newly smoothed course. Very modest and demure number seven, the little brown mare, looked beside the strong-muscled giants, bright bay, golden chestnut, and raven-wing black, that overshadowed her in the procession that caught the forty thousand pairs of eyes. Something of this thought came to Allis, sitting in the stand. What a frail little pair they were, both of them, and to be there battling for this rich prize that was so hardly fought for, by strong men athirst for gold, and great horses a-keen for the gallop!

Ah, there was Diablo, the very number Allis had said carried no dread for her, thirteen. What a strange coincidence! What a cruel twist of fate it would be if he were to win!--he looked equal to it. A man sitting at Allis's elbow suddenly cried in a voice enthused into the joyous treble of a boy's: "Look at that big Black; isn't he a beaut?

Number thirteen. That's a hoodoo number, if you like; it's enough to give a backer cold feet."

"I thought you weren't superst.i.tious, Rex;" this was a woman's voice.

"I'm not, an' I'm going straight down to back that Black, thirteen and all."

On Allis's other side one of the party was ticking off the horses by their numbers as they pa.s.sed; "One, two, that's White Moth; they say she'll win; three, Red Rover; four, what's that? that's George L.; five, six, seven; just look at that little runt. What is it? Oh, Lucretia.

Might as well run a big calf, I should think."

"She's just lovely," declared a lady in the party. "She's as graceful as a deer, and I'm sure she'll run as fast as any of them."

"Can't live in that mob; they'll smother a little thing like her,"

declared the man, emphatically. "Where are we--ten, eleven, The King, that's the winner for a hundred. Look at him. He carries my money.

It's all over now; they can't beat him. That's a fine looker, though, thirteen,--Diabo, eh? What's that horse Diablo, George?" turning to one of the men.

"No good--a maiden; I looked them all up in the dope book; how they expect to win the Brooklyn with a maiden gets beyond me."

Somewhat tortured, Allis listened to the voluble man on her left, who was short and fat, and red of face, as he graded, with egotistical self-sufficiency, the thirteen compet.i.tors for the big Handicap.

Lucretia he had pa.s.sed over in disdain. Crude as his judgment seemed, arrogantly insufficient, it affected Allis disagreeably. Now that everything had been done, that the last minute of suspense was on, she was depressed. The exhilaration of preparation had gone from her, and the words of the captious man on her left, "that little runt," hung with persistent heaviness on her soul. All the vast theater of the stand was a buzz of eager chatter. Verily it was a race; it was the Brooklyn Handicap. Lips that smiled gave a mocking lie to drawn, strained faces, and nervous, s.h.i.+fting eyes, that told of the acceptance of too deep a hazard. The weeks and months of mental speculation embodied in heavy bets would have their fruit ripened and plucked within a brief half hour.

Allis's gaze dropped to the gra.s.s lawn in front of the stand for a minute, her eyes seeking repose from the strain of watching the horses as they went down to the starting post. How fretfully erratic were the men who dotted its green sward with gray and solemn black! The deeper interest Allis had over there on the course where was the little mare, seemed to lift her to a great height above them. How like ants they were, crossing and recrossing each other's paths, twisting and turning without semblance of an objective point, creatures of an impulse almost lower than instinct, devoid of this well-directed governing motive.

Yes, they were like an army of ants that had been suddenly thrown into confusion. She saw one of them come hurriedly out of the paddock, talking impetuously with bended head--for he was tall--to a short man in gray tweed, beyond doubt a trainer. Suddenly the tall man broke away, hurried to the rail which separated the lawn from the course, leaned far over its top to take a last look at the horses, and then with a queer shuffling trot he hurried to the mob that was surging and pus.h.i.+ng about the bookmakers. Allis noted with minute observance each little act in this pantomime of the last-minute plunge. Just beneath where she sat two men were having a most energetic duel of words. A slim, darkskinned youth, across whose fox-like face was written in large letters the word "Tout," was hammering into his obdurate companion the impossibility of some certain horse being defeated. Presently the other man's hand went into his pocket, and when it came forth again five ten-dollar bills were counted with nervous reluctance and hesitatingly made over to the Tout.

Tight clutching his prize this pilot of the race course slipped from Allis's sight and became lost in the animated ma.s.s that heaved and swayed like full-topped grain in a harvest breeze.

Within all that enclosure there seemed no one possessed of any calm. To the quiet girl it was a strange revelation; no one could have as much at stake as she had, and yet over her spirit there was nothing beyond the lethargy of depression. No; no one is calm, she thought. Ah, the a.s.sertion was too sweeping. Coming up the steps, just at her right, was a man who might have been walking in a quiet meadow, or a full-leafed forest, for all there was of agitation in his presence. A sudden new thought came to Allis; she had never seen that face distraught but once.

The collected man was Philip Crane. A tinge of almost admiration tingled the girl's mind. To be possessed of calm where all was nervous strain was something.

Suddenly the unimpa.s.sioned face lighted up; the narrow-lidded eyes gleamed with brightened interest. As eagerly as a boy their owner, Crane, came forward and saluted Allis. At that instant the man of many words on her left rose from his seat to chase through the interminable crowd on the lawn a new victim.