With Edge Tools

by H. C. Chatfield-Taylor

"We shall soon know, for there go the horses to the post."

Five of the starters trotted past the Club House, and there was a perceptible movement among the people on the veranda and lawn as the contestants for the great event passed before them. The Marquis was the favorite and he was greeted by a round of applause, as Jockey Gannon urged him into a brisk hand gallop. The sleek sides of the chestnut gelding glistened in the sunshine, and he certainly looked a winner. Close at his heels was the bay Kentucky filly, Belle of Newport, ridden by the veteran Forest, and the knowing ones could see that the Southern mare was in prime condition. The first horses were followed by three stragglers who had been late in saddling, and then the starter's carriage rolled across the green turf of the field toward the half-mile post at the opposite side of the course. Hundreds of glasses were leveled at the bunch of racers over by the stables, restlessly tugging at their bits. Then there was a scramble and a rush of horses past the red flag, but one horse was slow in getting away and the flag still fluttered in the breeze. The jockeys pulled up their mounts and turned them back to the starting-post. After much manœuvring for positions, they scrambled away again, scattering the dust behind them. They were well bunched, the red flag dropped, and away they went on the mile and a half gallop for the American Derby. The crowd surged wildly and eager eyes were strained toward the mass of horses scampering over the first half-mile of the course.

Down they came to the Grand Stand, a cloud of dust enveloping them and almost concealing the bright colors of the riders. Men rushed to the railings and strained their eyes down the course; a faint murmur broke from the crowd and grew louder and louder. "Marquis! Marquis wins!" was shouted by the favorite's friends, as they saw the long stride of the chestnut gelding in front. Then the racers clattered past the Grand Stand, urged on by cheers and applause.

It was nobody's race yet, but Marquis still led, with Belle of Newport a good second. They passed the Club House with Marquis close to the inside railing for the turn, when he swerved against the railing and stumbled. There was a shout of horror, and the women at the Club House turned their heads away. The racers rushed on to the finish, but the favorite lay there in the dust, with the blood gushing from a broken knee, and Jockey Gannon motionless at his side. Some men ran on to the course and carried Gannon away. The poor Marquis tried to rise and looked pleadingly at his owner who had rushed to his side. From the distance came a cheer. It was for the Belle of Newport, the winner of the great race. Jockey Forest had seen the Marquis go down before him, and pressing his knees to the sides of the Belle, had raised the filly and carried her over the fallen favorite. The other riders had seen the accident in time, and, swerving their mounts aside, they had rushed on to the finish, while the Marquis lay there in the dust pleading for help with his mournful eyes. A veterinary bent over the horse's wound. He held a hurried consultation with the owner; then some one placed a revolver against the poor beast's head; there was a loud report, a convulsive kick, and the noble racer lay dead on the field he had striven so hard to win. A pair of work-horses was brought on to the course and all that remained of the Marquis was dragged away, while over by the little lake, under the shade of an elm, Jockey Gannon lay stretched on the turf. A physician was by his side, and a crowd of curious people gazed at the pale face before them. "He may live till morning," the physician said, and then the wounded jockey was silently borne away. The band played again, the blood stains on the course were covered by fresh dirt, and the bell rang for the next race. People asked a few questions about the dying man, and then he was forgotten in the excitement of the sport. It was only a jockey.

"You see, you brought me luck, Mrs. Sanderson," Duncan said to Marion, after he had returned from getting his Belle of Newport ticket cashed. "Two hundred dollars for forty. That is luck, isn't it?"

"Yes, but that reminds me of the accident. Do you know, I feel quite unnerved after that sight."

"You had better walk with me on the lawn. It will do you good, I am sure."

"I hope so," said Marion as she rose to go with him.

For perhaps a quarter of an hour they walked up and down the lawn, chatting away unconcernedly about the people around them. It was the first time they had been alone together since Duncan's return, but he made not the slightest reference to their last meeting. He was careless and unconcerned, and Marion tried to appear the same, but there was a strange feeling in her heart, half of fear and half of resentment, which told her that indifference had no place there. She laughed and chatted, but waited anxiously, thankful that so many people were there, but hopeful that he might say something to tell her that he remembered the words he had spoken at the Patricians' ball.

Suddenly Duncan stopped at a secluded part of the lawn where there was an empty bench. "Let us sit down here in the shade. You must be tired," he said, and then, after they had taken seats, a moment of silence came, and Marion could feel that Duncan was looking into her face, but she did not dare to meet his glance. He leaned toward her and spoke in the soft tones she remembered so well. "You are cruel," he said.