Thoroughbreds Part 8

"But your son."

"He had a small bet; I didn't know that, even, until they were running."

"Did you tell him not to back Lucretia, for he did Lauzanne?"

"I told him not to bet at all."

"And you played the mare yourself?"

For answer Porter showed the Steward his race programme, on which was written the wager he had made on Lucretia, and the bookmaker's name.

"Ask Ullmer to bring his betting sheet," the Steward said to an a.s.sistant.

On the sheet, opposite John Porter's badge number, was a bet, $10,000 to $4,000, in the Lucretia column.

"Did this gentleman make that bet with you?" the Steward asked of Ullmer.

"He carries the number; besides I know Mr. Porter, I remember laying it to him."

"Thank you, that will do. Hit you pretty hard," he said, turning to Porter. "And you hadn't a saver on Lauzanne?"

"Not a dollar."

"What about your buying him--is there anything in that story?"

Porter explained the purchase. The Steward nodded his head.

"They seem to have been pretty sure of winning, those other people,"

he commented; "but we can't do anything to them for winning; nor about selling you the horse, I fear; and as far as you're concerned, Lucretia was supposed to be trying. Who gave your jockey orders?"

"Dixon. I don't interfere; he trains the horses."

"We'd like to have Dixon up here again for a minute. I'm sorry we've had to trouble you, Mr. Porter; I can see there is not the slightest suspicion attaches to you."

In answer to the Steward's query about the order to McKay, Dixon said: "I told McKay the boss had a big bet down, and to make no mistake--no Grand Stand finish for me. I told him to get to the front as soon as he could, and stay there, and win by as far as he liked. I got the office that there'd be somethin' doin' in the race, an' I told him to get out by himself."

After Dixon was dismissed, the Stewards consulted for a minute, with the result that McKay was suspended for the balance of the meeting, pending a further investigation into his methods.

During the carpeting of Porter and Dixon, a sea of upturned faces, furrowed by lines of anxious interest, had surrounded the Judge's box.

Wave on wave the living waters reached back over the gra.s.sed lawn to the betting ring. An indefinable feeling that something was wrong had crept into the minds of the waiting people, tense with excitement.

As the horses had flashed past the post, and, after a brief wait for decision, Lauzanne's number had gone up, his backers had hastened eagerly to the money mart, and lined up in waiting rows behind the bookmakers' stands. There they waited, fighting their impatient souls into submission, for the brief wait would end in the acquiring of gold.

Why did not the stentorian-voiced crier send through the ring the joyful cry of "All right!" The minutes went by, and the delay became an age.

A whisper vibrated the throng, as a breeze stirs slender branches, that the winner had been disqualified--that there had been an objection.

First one dropped out of line; then another; one by one, until all stood, an army of expectant speculators, waiting for the verdict that had its birthplace up in that tiny square building, the Stewards' Stand.

"It's over the pulling of Lucretia," a man said, simply to relieve his strained feelings.

"It was the most barefaced job I ever saw," declared another; "it's even betting the stable gets ruled off." He had backed Porter's mare, and was vindictive.

"Not on your life," sneered a Tout, wolfishly; "a big owner always gets off. The jock'll get it in the neck if they've been caught."

"Why don't they pay?" whined the fourth. "What's the pulling of the mare got to do with it? The best horse won." He was a backer of Lauzanne.

"Bet yer life the bookies won't part till the numbers of the placed horses an' riders are up on that board again. They've run them down, don't you see?" chimed in the Tout.

"I'll take two to one The Dutchman gets it," said a backer of that horse. "There's a job on, and they'll both get disqualified. Porter's kid won ten thousand over Lauzanne, and that's why they stiffened the mare."

"That's what the Public are up against in this game," sneered the backer of Lucretia.

"And the jock'll have to stand the shot; I know how it goes," a.s.serted the Tout.

"You ought to know," drawled Lauzanne's backer. The racing men within earshot smiled, for the Tout had been a jockey before his license had been taken away for crooked work.

"h.e.l.lo! here it comes," cried Lauzanne's backer, as a fat, red-faced man came swiftly down from the Stewards' Stand, ran to the betting ring, and pus.h.i.+ng his way through the crowd, called with the roar of a gorilla: "Al-l-l right! Lauzanne, first! The Dutchman, second! Lucretia, third!

They're al-l-l weighed in!"

A Niagara of human beings poured from the lawn to the ring; they ran as though the course was on fire and they sought to escape.

"What about Lucretia?" some one asked.

"They've broke McKay," the red-faced crier answered; "suspended him."

"What did I tell you?" sneered the Tout, maliciously; "it's the under dog gets the worst of it every time."

A Celt, is an outspoken man when the prod of his hot temper has loosened his tongue, and Mike Gaynor was a Celt in excess.

The injustice that had come to his benefactor, John Porter, had stirred a tempest in his Irish soul. A fierce exclamation of profane wrath had gone up from him as he watched the bad start from over the paddock rail.

A misguided retribution led Starter Carson to pa.s.s from the Judges'

Stand after the race, along the narrow pa.s.sage between the Club Stand and the course, to the paddock gate. There he met Mike, who forthwith set to flailing him.

"Did ye notice a little mare called Lucretia in that race, Mr.

Carson--did ye see anythin' av her at all down at the post?"

Carson's eyes twinkled uneasily. Years of starting had taught him that self-control was nine out of ten rules which should govern the Starter's actions.

"Was there anythin' th' mather wit' yer ancestor's eyes that ye come by, Mister Carson?"

The Starter made answer with a smile of good-humored tolerance. But Mike was only warming up; the hot blood was stinging his quick brain, and his sharp tongue galloped on with unbridled irresponsibility. With the deep pathos of scorn he continued:

"Ye'r Carson the Stharter--Mister Carson! S'help me, Bob! ye couldn't sthart a sthreet car down hill wit' bot' brakes off!"

Carson ceased to smile; the smile had pa.s.sed to other faces, the owners of which were listening with fiendish delight to the castigation.