The parade filed out, and on consulting the program Jack found that Miriam’s race was two hours hence. He determined to visit the stalls below.
Among the noticeable horses was a roan, belonging to the maharaja, seventeen hands, to be ridden in the ninth race by a Mohammedan groom as big as Jack himself. Jack took a fancy to him, and, though warned by the groom, entered his stall and petted him. He was a natural horse-tamer. After a few moments the formidable creature responded to his advances, and the groom stared.
When he returned to the arena the royal party had withdrawn and the spectators, freed from court etiquette, were visiting one another and strolling about the lobbies. But Miriam was nowhere to be seen. However, as he was ascending the tower on one of the escalators, he saw, through the carved interstices, a party descending on the opposite side. An exclamation broke from him.
She was there, with her father and the maharaja. Her back was toward Jack. But as they passed she turned slowly, and for the second time their eyes met. Oh, the poignant delight to him of that moment! As she averted her glance she seemed to notice the rose in his doublet, and he thought she smiled. The next moment the relentless machinery of the escalators had separated them and hope of overtaking her was vain.
Returning to the arena he found Miriam absent from her father’s box; the latter was talking animatedly with the prince, and near by stood the big Mohammedan groom with a dejected air. It seemed that he had just stabbed another attendant and was under arrest. The official was sorry, but an assault with a deadly weapon could not be overlooked. As no one else could ride the roan, the animal must be withdrawn from the race. The maharaja smiled and bowed politely, shrugged his shoulders, and resigned himself to the will of Allah; but gave the groom a glance that boded no good for his near future.
Jack had an inspiration; he flung a leg over the railing of the box and strode up to its astonished occupants. “I’ll ride for you,” he said to the maharaja, “I know your horse and can manage him.” His highness gazed at him with an inscrutable Oriental smile. Mayne, his Celtic temper already somewhat ruffled, growled out in the brogue that always more pronounced in emotional junctures, “An’ who might you be, me frien’? Ye have yer nerve wid ye, anyhow!”
Before Jack could reply a long-legged, athletic figure came striding down the aisle with a grin of amusement on his aquiline features. It was Uncle Sam!
“It’s all right, Terence!” he called out, a laugh in his deep voice. “That’s only my nephew, Jack. How do, prince? Oh, the boy can ride, all right. If you want to win that race, the youngster can come nearer doing the trick for you than any other jockey on the track!”
The atmosphere changed. None ventured to dispute Sam Paladin. Terence smoothed his hostile front. The maharaja bowed with engaging grace. “My horse has killed six men,” he observed in liquid tones, “but I see your nephew is a big, brave man. I am content—Bismillah!”
Jack lifted his head and his chest expanded; his eyes shone with joy. “Thanks, uncle; thanks, prince!” he said. “I’ll fix it!” and he was off. He remembered afterward that he ought to have said something nice to Miriam’s father; but it was too late.