Thoroughbreds Part 5

"They're off!" exclaimed the baritone.

"Not this trip," objected the falsetto.

"The spurs--the young fiend!" fiercely e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed John Porter.

"What is it, father?"

"The boy on Lucretia is jabbing her with the spurs, and she's cutting up."

"That's the fourth false start," said Ned, the baritone. "I don't think much of your Lauzanne, he's like a crazy horse."

Allis heard the woman's shrill voice, smothered to a hissing whisper, answer something. Two distinct words, "the hop," carried to her ears.

There was a long-drawnout baritone, "Oh-h!" then, in the same key, "I knew Lauzanne was a sluggard, and couldn't make out why he was so frisky to-day."

"d.i.c.k's got it down fine"--just audibly from the woman; "Lauzanne'll try right enough this time out."

"The mare's actin' as if she'd a cup of tea, too," muttered her companion, Ned.

This elicited a dry chuckle from the woman.

Allis pinched her father's arm again, and looked up in his face inquiringly, as from the seat behind them the jumbled conversation came to their ears. Porter nodded his head understandingly, and frowned. The stephanotis was choking his nostrils, and an occasional word was filling his heart with confirmation of his suspicions.

"I don't like it," he muttered to Allis. "They've had four breaks, and the mare's been left each time. The Chestnut's the worst actor I ever saw at the post. But I'm thinking he'll leave the race right there, the way he's cutting up."

"My G.o.d!" he exclaimed in the next breath. He had startled the girl with the fierce emphasis he threw into the words; she sprang to her feet in excitement.

A bell had clanged noisily, there was the shuffle of thousands of eager feet; a hoa.r.s.e cry, "They're off!" went rolling from tier to tier, from seat to seat, to the topmost row of the huge stand.

"Lauzanne is off with a flying lead of three lengths, and the mare is left absolutely-absolutely last. The boy whipped her about just as the flag fell." There was the dreary monotone of crushed hope in Porter's voice as he spoke.

"Yes, we're out of it, Little Woman," he continued; and there was almost a tone of relief, of resignation. Suspense was gone; realization of the disaster seemed to have steadied his nerves again. Allis attempted to speak, but her low voice was hushed to a whisper by the exultant cries that were all about them.

"Didn't I tell you--Lauzanne wins in a walk!" the falsetto voice was an exultant squeak of hilarious excitement.

"You called the turn." Even Ned's baritone had risen to a false-keyed tenor; he was standing on his toes, peering over the heads of taller men in front.

Allis brushed from her eyes the tears of sympathy that had welled into them, and, raising her voice, spoke bravely, clinging to the vain hope: "Lucretia is game, father--she may win yet--the race is not lost till they're past the post."

Then her voice died away, and she kept pleading over and over in her heart, "Come on Lucretia--come on, brave little mare! Is she gaining, father--can you see?"

"She'll never make it up," Porter replied, as he watched the jumble of red, and yellow, and black patterned into a trailing banner, which waved, and vibrated, and streamed in the glittering sunlight, a furlong down the Course--and the tail of it was his own blue, whitestarred jacket. In front, still a good two lengths in front, gleamed scarlet, like an evil eye, the all red of Lauzanne's colors.

"Where is Lucretia, father?" the girl asked again, stretching her slight figure up in a vain endeavor to see over the shoulders of those in front.

"She had an opening there," Porter replied, speaking his thoughts more than answering the girl, "but the boy pulled her into the bunch on the rail. He doesn't want to get through. Oh!" he exclaimed, as though some one had struck him in the face.

"What's wrong? Has she--"

"It's the Minstrel. His boy threw him fair across Lucretia, and knocked her to her knees." He lowered his gla.s.ses listlessly. "It's Lauzanne all the way, if he lasts out. He's dying fast though, and Westley's gone to the whip."

He was looking through his gla.s.ses again. Though beaten, his racing blood was up. "If Lauzanne wins it will be Westley's riding; the Hanover colt, The Dutchman, is at his quarter. He'll beat him out, for the Hanovers are all game."

"Come on you, Lauzanne!" Even the exotic stephanotis failed to obliterate the harsh, mercenary intensity of the feminine cry at the back of Allis.

"He's beat!" a deep discordant voice groaned. "I knew he was a quitter;"

the woman's companion was pessimistic.

Like trees of a forest, swayed by strong compelling winds, the people rocked in excitement, tiptoed and craned eager necks, as they watched the magnificent struggle that was drawing to a climax in the stretch.

Inch by inch the brave son of Hanover was creeping up on Lauzanne. How loosely the big Chestnut galloped--rolling like a drunken man in the hour of his distress. Close pressed to his neck, flat over his wither lay the intense form of his rider--a camel's hump--a part of the racing mechanism, unimpeding the weary horse in the masterly rigidity of his body and legs; but the arms, even the shoulders of the great jockey thrust his mount forward, always forward--forward at each stride; fairly lifting him, till the very lurches of Lauzanne carried him toward the goal. And at his girth raced the compact bay son of Hanover; galloping, galloping with a stout heart and eager reaching head; straining every sinew, and muscle, and nerve; in his eye the brave desire, not to be denied.

Ah, gallant little bay! On his back was the offspring of unthinking parents--a pin-head. Perhaps the Evil One had ordained him to the completion of Langdon's villainy with Lauzanne. At the pinch his judgment had flown--he was become an instrument of torture; with whip and spur he was throwing away the race. Each time he raised his arm and lashed, his poor foolish body swayed in the saddle, and The Dutchman was checked.

"Oh, if he would but sit still!" Porter cried, as he watched the equine battle.

The stand mob clamored as though Nero sat there and lions had been loosed in the arena. The strange medley of cries smote on the ears of Allis. How like wild beasts they were, how like wolves! She closed her eyes, for she was weary of the struggle, and listened. Yes, they were wolves leaping at the throat of her father, and joying in the defeat of Lucretia. Deep-throated howls from full-chested wolves: "Come on you, Lauzanne! On, Westley, on! The Bay wins! The Dutchman--The Dutchman for a thousand!"

"I'll take--"

But the new voice was stilled into nothingness by the shrill, reawakening falsetto. "Go on, Westley! Lauzanne wins--wins--wins!" it seemed to repeat. Allis sank back into her seat. She knew it was all over. The shuffle of many feet hastening madly, the crash of eager heels down the wooden steps, a surging, pus.h.i.+ng, as the wolf-pack blocked each pa.s.sage in its thirstful rush for the gold it had won, told her that the race was over.

No one knew which horse had won. Presently a quiet came over the mob like a lull in a storm. Silently they waited for the winning number to go up.

"I believe it's a dead heat," said Porter; and Allis noted how calm and restful his voice sounded after the exultant babel of the hoa.r.s.e-throated watchers.

"Where was Lucretia, father?"

"Third," he answered, laconically, schooling his voice to indifference.

"I hope it's a dead heat, for if Lauzanne gets the verdict I've got to take him. I don't want him after that run; they made him a present of the race at the start, and he only just squeezed home."

"Why must you take the horse, father, if you don't want him? I don't understand."

"I suppose there's no law for it--I said I would, that's all. The whole thing is crooked though; they stole the race from Lucretia and planted me with a dope horse, and hanged if I don't feel like backing out. Let Langdon go before the Stewards about the sale if he dare."

"Did you give your word that you'd buy the horse, father?"

"I did; but it was a plant."

"Then you'll take him, father. People say that John Porter's word is as good as his bond; and that sounds sweeter in my ears than if I were to hear them say that you were rich, or clever, or almost anything."

"Lauzanne gets it!" called the eager grating voice behind them. "There go the numbers, Ned--three, five, ten; Lauzanne, The Dutchman, Lucretia.

I knew it. d.i.c.k don't make no mistakes when he's out for blood."

"He drew it a bit fine that time," growled Ned, still in opposition; "it was the closest sort of a shave."

"Hurrah, Lauzanne!"

Again there was more hurrying of feet as the Chestnut's backers who had waited in the stand for the Judge's decision, hurried down to the gold mart.

"You'll take Lauzanne, father," Allis said, when the tumult had stilled; "it will come out right somehow--I know it will--he'll win again."