Thoroughbreds | Page 4

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,