Thoroughbreds

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THOROUGHBREDS

by W. A. Fraser

Dedicated to a THOROUGHBRED MY WIFE

I

Less than a hundred miles from the city of Gotham, across broad green
fields, dotted into squares and oblong valleys by full-leafed maple, and
elm, and mulberry, was the village of Brookfield. A hundred years of
expansion in the surrounding land had acted inversely with the little
hamlet, and had pinched it into a hermitical isolation.

The Brookfieldians had discovered a huge beetle in the amber of their
serene existence; it was really the Reverend Dolman who had unearthed
the monster. The beetle in the amber was horse racing, and the prime
offender, practically the sole culprit, was John Porter.

By an inconsistent twist of fate he was known as Honest John. His father
before him had raced in old Kentucky to considerable purpose, and with
the full vigor of a man who races for sport; and so to the son John, in
consequence, had come little beyond a not-to-be-eradicated love of
thoroughbreds. To race squarely, honestly, and to the glory of high-
couraged horses was to him as much a matter of religion as the
consistent guardianship of parish morals was to the Reverend George
Dolman. Therefore, two men of strong beliefs were set on opposite sides
of the fence.

Even in the Porter household, which was at Ringwood Farm, was divided
allegiance. Mrs. Porter was possessed of an abhorrent detestation of
horse racing; also an assertive Christianity. The daughter, Allison,
had inherited the horse taint. The swinging gallop of a striving horse
was to her the obliteration of everything but sunshine, and the smile of
fields, and the blur of swift-gliding hedges, and the driving perfume of
clover-laden winds that passed strong into spread nostrils. For Alan
Porter, the son, there were columns of figures and musty-smelling
bundles of tattered paper money where he clerked in the bank. There had
been great unison in the Porter household over the placing of Alan. In
addition to horse lore, John Porter was a fair judge of human nature,
and, beyond doubt, there was a streak of velvet in Alan which would have
twisted easily in the compressive grip of the race course.

The Porter family were not the only dwellers of Brookfield who took part
in racing. Philip Crane, the banker, wandering from the respectable
highway of finance, had allowed himself to become interested in race
horses. But this fact was all but unknown in Brookfield, so the full
resentment of the place was effusively tendered to John Porter.

In his younger days some money had come to Philip Crane. The gambler
spirit, that was his of inheritance, had an instinctive truth as allied
to finance; but, unfortunately for Philip Crane, chance and a
speculative restlessness led him amongst men who commenced with the
sport of kings. With acute precipitancy he was separated from the
currency that had come to him. The process was so rapid that his racing
experience was of little avail as an asset, so he committed the first
great wise act of his life-turned his back upon the race course and
marched into finance, so strongly, so persistently, that at forty he was
wealthy and the banker of Brookfield.

Twenty years of deliberate reminiscence convinced him that he could
gratify the desire that had been his in those immature days, and
possibly work out a paying revenge. Thus it was that he had got
together a small stable of useful horses; and, of far greater moment,
secured a clever trainer, Dick Langdon.

Crane's latter-day racing had been successful--he made money at it. No
man was ever more naturally endowed to succeed on the turf than was
Banker Philip Crane. Cold, passionless, more given to deep concentrated
thought than expression, holding silence as a golden gift--even as a
gift of rare rubies--nothing drew from him an unguarded word, no sudden
turmoil quivered his nerve. It was characteristic of the man that he
had waited nearly twenty years to resume racing, which really came as
near to being a passion with him as was possible for anything to be.
There is a saying in England that it takes two years of preparation to
win a big handicap; and these were the lines upon which Philip Crane, by
instinctive adaptation, worked.

Quite by chance Dick Langdon had come into his hands over a matter of
borrowed money. It ended by the banker virtually owning every horse
that raced in the trainer's name. In addition, two or three horses ran
in Philip Crane's own name. If there had been any distinctive project
in the scheme of creation that gave Dick Langdon to the world, it
probably was that he might serve as the useful tool of a subtle thinker.
Now it did seem that Langdon had come into his own--that he had found
his predestined master.

John Porter had not been successful; ill fortune had set in, and there
was always something going wrong. Horses would break down, or get
beaten by accident--there was always something. The steady financial
drain had progressed even to an encumbrance on Ringwood.

Ringwood was simply a training farm, located close to an old disused
race course, for there had been no racing in Brookfield for years.

* * * * * *

Inadvertently the Reverend Mr. Dolman had intensified the strained
relationship that existed between the good people who frowned upon all
racing endeavor and those who saw but little sinfulness in John Porter's
way of life.

The church was in debt--everything in Brookfield was, except the town
pump. The pastor was a nervous, zealous worker, and it occurred to him
that a concert might lighten the financial load. The idea was not
alarmingly original, and the carrying out of it was on conventional
lines: local volunteer talent, and a strong appeal to the people of
Brookfield for their patronage.

The concert in the little old clap-boarded church, it's sides faded and
blistered by many seasons of tempest and scorching sun, was an
unqualified success up to the fifth number. Nothing could have been
more successful, or even evoked greater applause, than the fourth
effort, "Anchored," as rendered by the village pride in the matter of
baritone singing; even De Reszke never experienced a more genuine
triumph. The applause gradually fell away, and programmes were
consulted preparatory to a correct readiness for the fifth offering.
The programmes confided that "The Death of Crusader," by Miss Allis
Porter, was the next item,

In the front row of seats a prim little body, full of a severe
quaintness in every quirk of dress, tilted her head toward a neighbor,
and whispered, "It's that racin' gal of John Porter's."

The neighbor answered in a creak meant for a whisper: "I'm right glad
she's took to religion for onct, an' is givin' us somethin' about them
Crusaders. They was in Palestine, you know. She's been away to
boardin' school all winter, an' I guess it'll be a high-falutin' account
of the war."

The quaint little old lady jerked her head up and down with decisive
bobbiness. On the third upward bob her eyes opened wide in
astonishment--a small, slim figure in a glaring red coat stood in the
center of the improvised platform.

From beneath the coat fell away in long graceful lines a black riding
skirt; a dark oval face, set with large wondrous gray eyes--the Porter
eyes--confronted the quaint little old lady.

"That's the Porter gal," her neighbor squeaked; "I've seen her a-top
them race horses more'n a hundred times. My! you'd think butter
wouldn't melt in her mouth, she's that prim now."

"The coat would melt it," commented the quaint one.

Then a clear, soft girlish voice, with just a tremble of apprehensive
nervousness, giving it a lilt like a robin's, said:--

THE RUN OF CRUSADER

I

Full weight they had given the gallant big Black--a hundred
and sixty he carried;
And the run for the "Hunt Cup" was over three miles, with
mud-wall and water-jump studded.
The best racing days of the old horse were past--there'd
never been better nor braver
But now once again he must carry the silk I was needing the
help of Crusader.
Could he win at the weight, I whisperingly asked, as I
cinched up the saddle girt' tight;
He snuggled my hand as I gathered the rein, and I laughed
when they talked of defeat.
To the call of the bugle I swung to his back--like a rock was
the strength of his quarters.
At sight of the people he arched his lean neck, and they,
cheered for my King of all Hunters.

II

Ten horses would strive for the prize--a big field, and the
pace would be killing.
From the West came Sweet Silver, a gray, gallant, and
fearless in jumping.
A rakish old nag who walked over the sticks, had been sent
for the Cup from Kentucky;
On a bay, Little Jack, who was fast, they had put but a
hundred and thirty.
But I knew that North Star, a big brown--even the Black was
no gamer-
With a pull of ten pounds in the weight, was almost a match
for Crusader.
We made a brave troop, long-striding and strong, with the
pick of cross-country riders,
As we filed past the Stand in stately parade, with its
thousands of eager admirers,
And down to the turn on the lower far side, where a red flag
was flicking the sunlight;
For twice we must circle the green-swarded field, and finish
close under the paddock.

III

Just once we lined up; then down cut the flag, and "Go!"
hoarse-voiced the Starter;
And the thunder of hoofs, and the clanking of bits, made
music to me on Crusader.
Quick to the front, like a deer, sped a mare, a chestnut,
making the running;
But I steadied my mount, and took him far back--with his
weight he would need all my nursing.
They took the first hedge like sheep in a bunch, bit to bit,
and stirrups a-jingle;
And so past the Stand to the broad water-jump, where three
went down, in a tangle.
I trailed at the heels of the Silver Gray--but Crusader was
begging for halter
And flew the wide ditch with the swoop of a bird, and on
again, lapped on his quarter.
Then over the Liverpool, racing like mad,--where Sweet
Silver fell fighting for lead,
And his rider lay crushed, white-faced to the sky; and to
miss him Crusader jumped wide.

IV

At the bank something struck, and a cloud of white dust hid
the wall as though it were shrouded;
But the big gallant Black took off with a swing--full thirty
feet ere we had landed.
As we rounded the turn I could see Little Jack go up to the
mare that was leading;
Then I let out a wrap, and quickened my pace, to work clear
of those that were tiring.
Once again past the Stand we drove at the ditch that some
would never get over;
And a cheer shook the air as the Bay landed safe; with the
mare on her back in the water.
Then over went North Star--though he pecked, and nearly
emptied his saddle.
As I lifted the Black at his heels, he frothed the Brown's
flank with his nozzle.

V

Then down the back stretch, o'er hedge and o'er bank, we
three were racing together;
Till at the next rail the Bay jostled the Brown, and
riderless crashed through the timber.
So we rounded the turn, and into the straight--North Star's
lean flank we were lapping
But we shot to the front when I gave the Black head, and I
saw that the other was stopping.
We raced as one horse at the very last hedge--just a nose in
front was Crusader;
I felt the big Brown bump twice at my side, and knew he was
ready to blunder.
With stirrups a-ding, empty-saddled the Bay, stride for
stride, galloped and floundered.
Just missing his swerve, I called on the Black, and drew out
as he bravely responded.

VI

Just the last jump! and Crusader took off twenty feet from
the brush-covered timber.
Then the Bay jumped--too short for his stride--and fell,
with his head on my wither.
Down, down! almost to earth,--brought to his knees in the
struggle,
The Black lost a length, the Brown forged ahead, and I was
half out of the saddle.
How I sat down and rode! how the old horse strove! and the
Brown rolling tired in his gallop.
On, gallant Black! on, my brave pet! We were almost under
the paddock.
Then we nosed the Brown's dank; then we reached to his girt';
neck and neck I rode at his shoulder.
As we flashed past the post I had won by a head. How they
cheered, "Bravo, Crusader!"

VII

But Crusader stopped short; gave a sigh and fell dead; I
stood all alone in the winning.
And a hush came over the clamorous mob; like a babe on his
neck I was sobbing.
He had run his last race; game to the end, his brave heart
broke in the striving.

The girl's voice faltered and died away to a broken whisper as she told
of the death of Crusader. For a full minute there was a noiseless hush.
The full pathos of the gallant horse's striving had crept into the
hearts that were flesh and blood; and, carried away by their feelings,
the people had forgotten all about their tortured convictions of the
sinfulness of making a horse go faster than a sharp trot. Gradually
into their awakening senses stole a conviction that somehow they were
countenancing the sin of racing.

Before the complete horror of the situation had mastered the audience, a
strong pair of hands, far back in the church, came together with an
explosive clap. Like the rat-rat-tat of a quick-firing gun was the
appreciative volley of recognition from the solitary applauder. It went
rolling and crackling through the church defiantly, derisively,
appreciatively. Halfway up the aisle a softer pair of hands touched the
rattle with what sounded like a faint echo; then there was sudden
silence. The entire audience turned and looked disparagingly,
discouragingly, at the man who had figuratively risen as a champion of
the scandalous recitation. Resentment had taken hold of the good
Christians. That Crusader had enlisted their sympathies for a few
minutes showed the dangerous subtlety of this "horseracin' business"

The rest of the programme might just as well have been eliminated; the
concert, as a concert, would be discussed for all time to come as having
projected "The Death of Crusader."

The people flowed from the church full of an expressive contentiousness,
seeking by exuberant condemnation of the sacrilege to square themselves
somehow with their consciences for the brief backsliding.

Where the church path turned into the road a group of men had drawn
together, attracted by the magnet of discussion. They quite blocked the
pathway, oblivious to everything but their outraged feelings. Like a
great dark blotch in the night the group stood; and presently two slight
gray shadows slipping up the path, coming to the human barricade,
stopped, wavered, and circled out on the grass to pass. The shadows
were Allis Porter and her brother Alan.

One of the men, overfilled with his exceeding wrath, seeing the girl,
gave expression to a most unchristian opinion of her modesty. The sharp
ears of the boy heard the words of the man of harsh instinct, and his
face flushed hot with resentment. He half turned, bitter reproach
rising to his lips. How could men be so brutish? How could they be so
base? To speak ill of his sister Allis, who was just the purest,
sweetest little woman that ever lived--too brave and true to be anything
else but good!

As he turned he saw something that checked his futile anger. A tall
shadow that had come up the path behind them stretched out an arm, and
he heard the vilifier's words gurgle and die away, as one of the strong
hands that had beat the tattoo of approbation clutched him by the
throat. The boy would have rushed to the assistance of this executive
friend if the girl had not clasped his arm in detention.

"It's Mortimer!" he cried, as a voice from the strong-armed figure cut
the night air with sharp decision.

Then the shadowy forms twisted up grotesquely, weaving in and out.
There were voices of expostulation and strong words of anger; but the
new serious business that had materialized had most effectually put a
stop to reflections upon the innocent girl who had so unwittingly
offended.

"It's George Mortimer--he's in our bank," Alan confided to his sister,
as they moved away. "He's all right--he's strong as a horse; and I bet
Crandal'll have a kink in his neck to-morrow, where George pinched him."

"What was it about?" the girl asked.

"Crandal was jawing about people who own race horses," the boy answered,
evasively. "It's Crandal, the butcher."

II

It was the May meeting at Morris Park, and Morris Park is the most
beautiful race course in all America.

John Porter, walking up the steps of the Grand Stand, heard some one
call him by name. Turning his head, he saw it was James Danby, an
owner, sitting in his private box. Porter turned into the box, and
taking the chair the other pushed toward him, sat down.

"What about Lucretia?" asked Danby, with the air of an established
friendship which permitted the asking of such questions.

"She's ready to the minute," replied Porter.

"Can she get the five furlongs?" queried Danby. "She's by Assassin, and
some of them were quitters."

"She'll quit if she falls dead," replied the other man, quietly. "I've
worked her good enough to win, and I'm backing her."

"That'll do for me," declared Danby. "To tell you the truth, John, I
like the little mare myself; but I hear that Langdon, who trained
Lauzanne, expects to win."

"The mare'll be there, or thereabouts," asserted her owner; "I never
knew a Lazzarone yet much good as a two-year-old. They're sulky brutes,
like the old horse; and if Lucretia's beat, it won't be Lauzanne that'll
turn the trick."

The bell clanged imperiously at the Judges' Stand. Porter pulled out
his watch and looked at it.

"That's saddling," he remarked, laconically; "I must go and have a bit
on the mare, and then take a look at her before she goes out."

As Porter went down the steps his companion leaned over the rail and
crooked his fingers at a thin-faced man with a blond mustache who had
been keeping a corner of his eye on the box.

"What are they making favorite, Lewis?" queried Danby, as the thin-faced
man stood beside him.

"Lucretia."

"What's her price?"

"Two to one."

"What's second favorite?"

"Lauzanne--five to two."

"Porter tells me Lucretia is good business," said Danby, in a tentative
tone.

"Langdon thinks it's all over bar the shouting; he says Lauzanne
outclasses his field," retorted Lewis.

"Langdon's a betting man; Porter's an owner, and a good judge," objected
Danby; "and he's got a good boy up, too, McKay," he added, slowly
focusing his field glasses on the jockey board opposite the Stand.

"Crooked as a dog's hind legs," snarled Lewis, biting viciously at his
cigar.

"Bob, it's damned hard to find a straight-legged dog," laughed Danby.
"And when John Porter starts a horse, there's never anything doing.
Here's six hundred; put' it on the mare--straight."

As Lewis pushed his way into the shoving, seething, elbowing crowd in
the betting ring, he was suddenly struck in the chest by something which
apparently had the momentum of an eight-inch shell; but it was only John
Porter, who, in breaking through the outer crust of the living mass, had
been ejected with more speed than was of his own volition.

Bob smothered the expletive that had risen to his lip when he saw who
the unwitting offender was, and asked, "What are they doin' to the mare
in the ring?"

"Not much," answered his assailant, catching his breath; "there's a
strong play on Langdon's horse, and if I didn't know my boy pretty well,
and Lucretia better, I'd have weakened a bit. But she can't lose, she
can't lose!" he repeated in the tone of a man who is reassuring himself.

Lewis battled his way along till he stood in front of a bookmaker with a
face cast very much on the lines of a Rubens' cherub; but the cherub-
type ended abruptly with the plump frontispiece of "Jakey" Faust, the
bookmaker. Lewis knew that. "If there's anythin' doin', I'm up against
it here," he muttered to himself. "What's Lauzanne's price?" he asked,
in an indifferent voice, for the bookmaker's assistant was busy changing
the figures on his list.

Faust pretended not to hear him.

"Sure thing!" whispered Lewis to himself. Then aloud he repeated the
question, touching the bookmaker on the elbow.

The Cherub smiled blandly. "Not takin' any," he answered, nodding his
head in the pleasant manner of a man who knows when he's got a good
thing.

"What's Lucretia?" persisted Lewis.

"Oh! that's it, is it? I'll lay you two to one."

The questioner edged away, shaking his head solemnly.

"Here! five to two--how much--" but Lewis was gone.

He burrowed like a mole most industriously, regardless of people's toes,
their ribs, their dark looks, and even angry expressions of strong
disapproval, and when he gained the green sward of the lawn, hurried to
his friend's box.

"Did you get it on?" queried the latter.

"No; I don't like the look of it. Faust is holding out Lauzanne, and
stretched me half a point about the mare. He and Langdon are in the
same boat."

"But that won't win the race," remonstrated Danby. "Lauzanne is a
maiden, and Porter doesn't often make a mistake about any of his own
stock."

"I thought I'd come back and tell you," said Bob Lewis, apologetically.

"And you did right; but if the mare wins, and I'm not on, after getting
it straight from Porter, I'd want to go out and kick myself good and
hard. But put it on straight and place; then if Lauzanne's the goods
we'll save."

Lewis was gone about four minutes.

"You're on," he said, when he returned; "I've two hundred on the
Chestnut for myself."

"Lauzanne?"

"It's booked that way; but I'm backin' the Trainer, Langdon. I went on
my uppers two years ago backing horses; I'm following men now."

"Bad business," objected his stout friend; "it's bad business to back
anything that talks."

When John Porter reached the saddling paddock, his brown mare, Lucretia,
was being led around in a circle in the lower corner. As he walked down
toward her his trainer, Andy Dixon, came forward a few paces to meet
him.

"Are they hammerin' Crane's horse in the ring, sir?" he asked, smoothing
down the grass with the toe of one foot, watching this physical process
with extreme interest.

"Just what you'd notice," replied Porter. "Why?"

"Well, I don't like the look of it a little bit. Here's this Lauzanne
runs like a dog the last time out--last by the length of a street--and
now I've got it pretty straight they're out for the stuff."

"They'd a stable-boy up on him that time."

"That's just it," cried Dixon. "Grant comes to me that day--you know
Grant, he works the commission for Dick Langdon--and tells me to leave
the horse alone; and to-day he comes and--" he hesitated.

"And what?"

"Tells me to go light on our mare."

"Isn't Grant broke?" asked Porter, with seeming irrelevance.

"He's close next it," answered the Trainer.

"Aren't his friends that follow him all broke?"

"A good many of them have their address in Queer Street."

"Look here, Andy," said the owner, "there isn't a man with a horse in
this stake that doesn't think he's going to win; and when it's all over
we'll see Lucretia's number go up. Grant's a fool," he added,
viciously. "Didn't he break Fisher-didn't he break every other man that
ever stuck to him?"

"It's not Grant at all," replied Dixon, rubbing the palms of his hands
together thoughtfully--a way he had when he wished to concentrate in
concrete form the result of some deep cogitation--"it's Langdon, an'
he's several blocks away from an asylum."

"Langdon makes mistakes too."

"He cashes in often when he's credited with a mistake," retorted the
other.

"Well, I've played the little mare," asserted Porter.

"Much, sir?" asked Dixon, solicitously.

"All I can stand--and a little more," he added, falteringly; "I needed a
win, a good win," he offered, in an explanatory voice. "I want to clear
Ringwood--but never mind about that, Andy. The mare's well--ain't she?
There can't be anything doing with McKay--we've only put him up a few
times, but he seems all right."

"I think we'll win," answered the Trainer; "I didn't get anythin'
straight--just that there seemed a deuced strong tip on Lauzanne,
considerin' that he'd never showed any form to warrant it. Yonder he is,
sir, in number five--go and have a look at him."

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