Thoroughbreds | Page 2

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