Thoroughbreds Part 31

But all the newborn awakening, all the sweet strength of soul and life that was borne to the waiting land on the wings of soft winds, brought not the hoped-for allotment to John Porter.

At Ringwood they had waited for the springtime. That would work the cure the doctor's skill had failed of. A man of outdoors, it was the house caging that was killing him, keeping him back.

These things were said; but Doctor Rathbone only shook his wise, old head, with its world of good sense, and answered: "It is none of these things. The trouble is in his mind; he is fretting. A sensitive man, well in body, may be brought to illness by antic.i.p.ated disaster. That could not have been the case with John Porter well, but John Porter ill is quite a different matter. It's as I have said before, give him hope, win him races."

So Allis was really glad at the near approach of the time of her trial.

The day was coming fast, soon, when She was to go forth with her little band of horses, as a man almost in everything, to strive for the fulfillment of that which had been put upon her.

The nearness of the not-to-be-shirked responsibility drove into her veins an unlooked-for exhilaration of strength. She had thought that she would look with dread upon the going away from Ringwood; that a feeling much akin to stage fright would quite unnerve her at the very last. The riding at home, the horse lore, and the almost constant companionship with her father, always among horses and hors.e.m.e.n, though it appeared somewhat dreadful to the village folks had been as nothing to her. Now that she needed strength for the newer, stranger endeavor, it came to her, even as the blossoms came to the swaying apple trees, great and small.

What wouldn't she do? she asked herself many times, to bring a strength-giving peace to her father's troubled mind. Even Mrs. Porter, implacably bitter against racing, must condone what was so evidently Allis's study, if it tended to their happiness; the mother had softened somewhat in the austerity of her opposition.

Evening after evening they had discussed the gloomy outlook, with, always from Allis's side, a glimmer of hopeful light. The girl's patient resolve had worn down the mother's pessimistic dread of antic.i.p.ated evil.

"You know, Allis," she had said, "how I look upon this thoroughly unchristian pursuit. Nothing can justify it from a true woman's point of view, absolutely nothing--not even poverty. I would willingly suffer the loss of all we possess--that it is so little is due to this dreadful, immoral horse racing--but I would sacrifice even what remains, if your father were well and willing to start afresh in some occupation befitting his n.o.ble character. I would help him, to endure every hardship, even deprivation, without a murmur."

"But, mother," interrupted Allis, "it's impossible now; I think it always was, for, as you know, father knew nothing of other business.

Nothing would tempt him to be dishonest in racing, and he always enjoyed it because of his love for horses. But with all that, mother, if he had been in a position to please you, if he had felt that we--you, and Alan, and I--would not have suffered, I am sure he would have listened to your pleadings and given it up. He might perhaps have gone on breeding horses, for you wouldn't have objected to that, would you, mother?"

"No, it's the wicked a.s.sociations of the race course which I felt degraded a man of your father's character. But I'm not going to dishearten you, Allis, nor hamper you now in your brave acceptance of the task that has come to you, because of wrong done before. It is distasteful to me, of course; it would be to any right-minded mother, to have her daughter in a position so repellant; but, strange as it may seem I'd rather you went with the horses than Alan."

"Alan couldn't go, mother; he couldn't give up his place in the bank; besides, father has purposely kept him from racing."

"I know it, Allis; I wasn't thinking of that, though. Alan has the gambling spirit born in him; it's not his fault; it's the visitation of the sins of the father upon the son. It came to your father in just the same way. No, I'm not even blaming your father for it; it has come down from generation to generation; but there has never been dishonor, thank G.o.d--there has never been a dishonest Porter in my husband's family, and, please G.o.d, there never may be. That would be too much! It would kill me. And it's better that you go, Allis, for Alan is but a boy, and the temptations to a young man at the race course must be almost impossible to resist. Besides, your going may bring new life to your father; the doctor is so hopeful--he says it will. He was afraid that he had shocked me, when he said you were to win races for your father's good. It displeased the pastor; I know it did, but perhaps he doesn't quite understand how much we have at stake."

"He's so narrow, mother."

"The Reverend Mr. Dolman thinks only of our souls, daughter; naturally, too, and one can hardly be a Christian and race horses. But we have got so much to consider. I hope I am not wrong in feeling glad that you are able to look after our interests. I should like to pray for your success even, Allis. It might be wrong; I might feel guilty; but if it makes your father better, don't you think I'd be forgiven?"

"I'm sure you would, mother, and it would make me stronger. I'm so glad.

I didn't want to displease you. I wanted you to feel that I was doing right. It will be lighter now; I sha'n't mind what anybody says if you're with me, mother. Now everything will come out right; I know it will. And if it does, if father gets strong, just out of thankfulness, I'll coax him to try something else, for your sake, mother."

"No, for his own, Allis. I think only of him in this matter." The prospective commencement of the racing campaign seemed to foreshadow a complete fulfillment of the doctor's prophecy should success smile upon this modern Joan of Arc; for the bustle of preparation was music to the ears of the stricken man, and he fought the lethargic fever of discontent that was over him until his eyes brightened and his face took on a hopeful look of interest.

"Brave little woman," he said to Allis, "it's a shame for a great hulk as I am to lie up here, while you fight the sharks that were almost too much for your father."

Then he spoke a little lower, as a man utters unfamiliar words for the first time. "Your mother said that Providence would look after you.

Sounds strange, doesn't it, girl? But I'm glad. Your mother was so bitter--I don't blame her--now she's turned right around. And, Allis, I believe with a little tempting, a little coaxing, she'd almost have a bet on Lucretia in your hands. Funny, isn't it?" And he gave a little chuckle.

Allis hadn't heard her father laugh for a long time. It wasn't much of a laugh, very dry, and very short lived, hardly lighting up his face at all, but still it was the feeble pulsation of humor which showed that the old John Porter spirit was not quite broken.

"About the betting, Allis, you must have Dixon come down here to see me, for the horses are to go to his stable again, aren't they?"

"Yes, father."

"That's right. I thought we had arranged it that way, but I seem to forget things since that bad tumble."

"You don't forget much now, father; you're getting stronger in every way."

"Blarney, girl. But I don't mind; your blarney is like the sunshine, that comes through the window every day at ten. Ah, I know to the very minute when to look for it. But about Dixon. Have him come down, for we must arrange to back Lucretia--she's worth it. She's been doing well, hasn't she, girl? O G.o.d! why can't I go out into the open and see the little mare do just one gallop? And then I'd like to sit and look at the trees sway back and forth in the wind. Their swing is like the free gallop of a good horse."

He dropped the brief, fretful remonstrance against fate with an apologetic turning away of his head, and continued about the Trainer.

"Lucretia's in the Brooklyn, Allis; you know that, of course. If Dixon starts her, the stake alone will be about enough to run for, for a three-year-old has a tough job ahead in that mob of picked horses.

But you'll get a line on her there--I think she'll win with ninety-two pounds up; but if she shows good form, then she'll have to be backed for the Brooklyn Derby. Lucretia's the best three-year-old in the land, I know. We'll have to arrange for that money. There will be a couple of thousand to be had if it seems safe business. You and Dixon will judge of that. You're taking Lauzanne, girl. Is it worth while?"

"Lauzanne is going to do great things for us, father. I'm sure of it."

"Still young, Allis. I talked like that when I was your age. Fancy and horse racing go arm in arm always, and they're like an experienced man of forty hobn.o.bbing with the little love G.o.d; they're just about as well mated."

Porter's irrelevant simile caused Allis to start, and Crane's relentless eyes came and peeped at her through the narrow-slitted lids.

"All right, though, little girl; your faith may make Lauzanne win, and I think Lucretia's speed will carry her to the front, so you may strike a bit of luck at last."

XXIII

A few days later Mike Gaynor took the stable up to Gravesend. Dixon had a cottage there, which he occupied with his wife, and Allis was to stop with them.

On the 20th of May the horses were settled in their racing quarters.

Only four days remained for introducing Lucretia to the Gravesend track; on the 24th she would take up her ninety-two pounds and be tested to the utmost in the great Brooklyn Handicap.

Dixon felt that several things were in her favor. She was as quiet as an old cow at the post; many false starts would improve rather than diminish her chances, for nothing seemed to excite the gallant little brown mare. Her great burst of speed would enable the jockey to get out of the ruck and steal a good place to lie handy at the leader's heels.

She could be nursed to the last furlong of the stretch, for the sight of horses in front would not daunt her brave spirit.

Against the mare were two or three rather important factors; she was slight of build, not overstrong, and the crush of contending horses might knock her out of her stride, should they close in. Then there was just a suspicion of lack of staying power in the a.s.sa.s.sin strain; Lucretia might not quite last the mile and a quarter so early in the season, being a mare. However, she had a chance.

"But I'd hardly call it a betting chance," Dixon said, speaking to Allis; "there's never been a three-year-old won the Brooklyn yet.

There'll be openings enough to put down the money later on--in the Derby, if the mare pans out well."

Andy Dixon was first of all 'a careful man. "There are risks enough in racin' without lookin' for them," he said. "When one has got an absolute lead-pipe cinch, it's two to one against its coming off." That was another of his conservative aphorisms.

Andy made no big wins, had never been booked as a successful plunger, had never skinned the ring; on the other hand, bringing the scales of equity to a dead level, he had never been forced to ask any man to pay his feed bills for him, nor let an account stand over for a time.

Allis was in good hands, and, what added to the value of the situation, she knew it, and would take Dixon's advice. The Trainer's opinion was borne out by the betting market; Lucretia stood a long way down in the list. Even Diablo, bad horse as he was supposed to be, was at a shorter price; the heavy outlay of his owner, and some intangible rumors having caused the bookmakers to feel inclined to hold him close up against their chests. His work since his trial with The Dutchman had been quite satisfactory. He looked upon Westley, the jockey, as a friend, and strode along in his gallops as though he had never sulked or shown temper in his life.

Favoritism for the Brooklyn was divided between The King, a five-year-old that had won it the year before, and White Moth, a three-year-old, winner of the last year's Futurity. Jockey Redpath had been riding Lucretia in her gallops since she had come to Gravesend.

At last Dixon had been singularly fortunate in the matter of jockeys.

Redpath was just making his reputation, making it as all jockey reputations are made, by winning races.

This somewhat unstudied factor in racing had loomed large on his mental vision. It might be possible to acquire a reputation in other professions by good fortune or favor. As a jockey, a light weight might possibly make money by dishonest methods, though that itself seemed doubtful, but there was no way to rise to the top of the tree except by riding winners; verily there was one royal road to fame in the field.

Knowing all this, Redpath rode to win.

On the 22d Dixon gave Lucretia a good strong three-quarter gallop over the handicap course; on the 23d she had a quiet canter; and on the morning of the 24th, the eventful day, she poked her mouse-brown nozzle over the bar of her stall when Allis came to look at her and seemed to say, "I'll do my part to-day."

Nothing could have been wished for in Lucretia's appearance that wasn't there, except just the faint suspicion of a sacrifice of strength to speed. But if the frame wasn't there, the good strong heart was; the courage and the gentleness, and the wisdom, and the full glow of perfect health.