Thoroughbreds | Page 8

with two great jewels of eyes, in which were honesty and
courage, and eager longing for the battle of strength and stamina, and
stoutness of heart; even the nostrils, with a red transparency as of silk,
spread and drank eagerly the warm summer air that was full of the
perfume of new-growing clover and green pasture-land.
Surely the spectacle of these lovely creatures, nearest to man in their
thoughts and their desires, and superior in their honesty and truth, was a
sight to gladden the hearts of kings. Of a great certainty it was a sport
of kings; and also most certainly had it at times come into the hands of
highway robbers.
Some such bitter thought as this came into the heart of John Porter as
he stood and watched his beautiful brown mare, Lucretia, trailing with
stately step behind the others. He loved good horses with all the fervor
of his own strong, simple, honest nature. Their walk was a delight to
him, their roaring gallop a frenzy of eager sensation. There was nothing
in the world he loved so well. Yes--his daughter Allis. But just now he
was thinking of Lucretia--Lucretia and her rival, the golden-haired
chestnut, Lauzanne.
He passed through the narrow gate leading from the paddock to the
Grand Stand. The gate keeper nodded pleasantly to him and said:
"Hope you'll do the trick with the little mare, sir. I'm twenty years at the
business, and I haven't got over my likin' for an honest horse and an
honest owner yet."
There was covert insinuation of suspicion, albeit a kindly one, in the

man's voice. The very air was full of the taint of crookedness; else why
should the official speak of honesty at all? Everyone knew that John
Porter raced to win.
He crossed the lawn and leaned against the course fence, to take a
deciding look at the mare and the Chestnut as they circled past the
stand in the little view-promenade which preceded the race.
His trained eye told him that Lauzanne was a grand-looking horse; big,
well-developed shoulders reached back toward the huge quarters until
the small racing saddle almost covered the short back. What great
promise of weight-carrying was there!
He laughed a little at the irrelevance of this thought, for it was not a
question of weight-carrying at all; two-year-olds at a hundred pounds in
a sprint of only five furlongs. Speed was the great factor to be
considered, and surely Lucretia outclassed the other in that way. The
long, well-ribbed-up body, with just a trace of gauntness in the flank;
the slim neck; the deep chest; the broad, flat canon bones, and the
well-let-down hocks, giving a length of thigh like a greyhound's--and
the thighs themselves, as John Porter looked at them under the
tucked-up belly of the gentle mare, big, and strong, and full of a driving
force that should make the others break a record to beat her.
From the inquisition of the owner's study Lucretia stood forth
triumphant; neither the Chestnut nor anything else in the race could
beat her. And Jockey McKay--Porter raised his eyes involuntarily,
seeking for some occult refutation of the implied dishonesty of the boy
he had trusted. He found himself gazing straight into the small shifty
eyes of Lucretia's midget rider, and such a hungry, wolfish look of
mingled cunning and cupidity was there that Porter almost shuddered.
The insinuations of Mike Gaynor, and the other things that pointed at a
job being on, hadn't half the force of the dishonesty that was so
apparent in the tell-tale look of the morally, irresponsible boy in whose
hands he was so completely helpless. All the careful preparation of the
mare, the economical saving, even to the self-denial of almost
necessary things to the end that he might have funds to back her
heavily when she ran; and the high trials she had given him when asked
the question, and which had gladdened his heart and brought an
exclamation of satisfaction from his phlegmatic trainer; the girlish
interest of his daughter in the expected triumph--all these contingencies

were as less than nothing should the boy, with the look of a demon in
his eyes, not ride straight and honest.
Even then it was not too late to ask the Stewards to set McKay down,
but what proof had he to offer that there was anything wrong? The
boy's good name would be blasted should he, John Porter, say at the
last minute that he did not trust him; and perhaps the lad was innocent.
Race people were ready to cry out that a jockey was fixed-that there
was something wrong, when their own judgment was at fault and they
lost.
Suddenly Porter gave a cry of astonishment. "My God!" he muttered,
"the boy has