The little bishop, sadder than ever—more sanctified, the women of his flock said—went about his work with renewed vigor, if it were possible. They did not know of the derelict.
And the son? Never until this day had the father heard of him.
Try as hard as he had done, the bishop could not put from him the desire, the consuming, yearning wish, once more to look on the face of his only child, even if engaged in his ungodly pursuit. The bishop considered this would be his only chance; he was certain his heart was affected.
Suddenly he came to himself. He was here, but as yet he had seen no horses or jockeys. His son was apparently as far away from him as he had been when he first had become a professional rider. The bishop had supposed men and women, horses and jockeys, were all wallowing together in one slough.
Neither did Bishop Chalmers distinguish the face of an acquaintance. Vaguely he had supposed he would be seen by some who had heard him preach the night before, and who would express astonishment at meeting him there. Where was Miss Danvers?
If he had only known, he would have been aware that the people who would recognize him were in their boxes or grand-stand seats, or in the paddock, where society condescends to jostle elbows with stable boys, proving the truth of the adage enunciated by a true sage: “On the turf, and beneath it, all men are equal.” At least, the bishop was saved from explanation.
It was just after the third race he had arrived. Even now that he had come, he saw no prospect of accomplishing his design. He knew nothing of a paddock.
Looking about him helplessly, his black garments contrasting strangely with the bright costumes of the women, and the “horsy” garb of the male portion, his eyes rested on the figure of a man near him. He was a big, burly fellow, with a good-natured Irish face, the most noticeable feature of which was a huge red mustache. Certainly here was one who could help him, for the man’s attire was as typical of his calling as the bishop’s own. A glittering diamond pin in the shape of a horse’s head was in the cravat, a horseshoe watch charm rested on the double-breasted waistcoat of “loud” pattern.
Chalmers’ eyes caught those of the turf gambler as the latter lifted them, after making an apparently satisfactory calculation on the back of his program.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the bishop. “I—er—as you possibly may guess, I am not well versed in racing matters. Would you please enable me to understand a few things? I believe a jockey named Nowell——” he paused, interrogatively.