“I slipped into the bettin’ ring to put down an extra wad, father. It looks now like everywan thinks Nowell will get through all right. All the big plungers is bettin’ on him, and they know what’s afoot. I thought maybe the little church might be needin’ some money now, and I put down a bet for ye,” he said, with a sly smile.
“Thank God!” was the bishop’s fervent ejaculation. But he was not referring to the wager.
“That was the call to the post, father,” said Halloran. “Come down here by the rail, so ye can get a good look at the boy. It’s the only chance ye’ll have. Right here, up against the rail, with me.”
Leaning over the rail, forgetful of all else, the bishop watched in the direction indicated by his companion for the horses and riders. Soon he saw them trooping out of the paddock gate on the track, in single file, a brave show. He thought he recognized the figure on the leading horse. A mist came before his eyes.
“That’s him—the wan on the big chestnut in front, No. 1, that’s Nowell. Ye’ll be havin’ a good look presently,” whispered the Irishman. “That’s him—the jock with the blue jacket, brown sash, brown cap.”
The bishop’s highly imaginative brain had preconceived this first glimpse of his son. He imagined the boy he had known would be transformed into a rough, profane creature, with heartless laughter and obscene jest to catch the applause of the crowd—young in years, old in crime, a tool of gamblers and blacklegs.
What the father saw, as with trembling fingers he clutched the rail near the judges’ stand, was a bright-faced young man, or, rather, a youth, with the father’s calm, deep blue eyes looking out from under the peak of his jockey cap straight ahead, fearless and confident.
The face had lost its boyish laughter—it wore an earnest, business-like expression. The father felt a thrill of—was it pride? His son was still a Chalmers, going to what might prove his death with unmoved countenance, just as his cavalier ancestor had gone generations before.
The horses—twelve of them—“a big Derby field,” some one said—passed by in parade, one after the other, on their way to the starting post, a half-mile distant around the circular track on which the Derby was to be run. There had been yells for Ixion and Nowell, handclapping and cheering, but the jockey had ridden on without noticing the favor with which he was received; past the grand stand, the field stand and around the turn.
At last the bishop was roused from his contemplation by the voice of Halloran. The plunger explained to him the manner of starting, the positions at the post. Most of it was meaningless to the bishop. He endeavored to understand. It had been his intention first to remain only until he had seen his son, and then go. The startling information given him had changed that.