Thoroughbreds | Page 4

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, expects to win."
"The mare'll be there, or thereabouts," asserted her owner; "I never knew a Lazzarone yet much good as a two-year-old. They're sulky brutes, like the old horse; and if Lucretia's beat, it won't be Lauzanne that'll turn the trick."
The bell clanged imperiously at the Judges' Stand. Porter pulled out his watch and looked at it.
"That's saddling," he remarked, laconically; "I must go and have a bit on the mare,