Thoroughbreds | Page 2

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