Halloran gave an inarticulate cry—a burst of dismay and sympathy came from the backers of the favorite.
“Bumped into, by——!” was the Irishman’s sharp exclamation, coupled with a fierce oath. One of the flying racers, urged on to terrific pace by its rider, with no thought of saving for the heartbreaking finish, had struck Ixion on the quarter with his shoulder. For a moment the favorite was seen to falter and fall back; the next, under the superb handling of his rider, he had regained his stride and recovered the ground lost to the leaders.
The bishop had merely guessed something had happened. He was brought to full realization by Halloran saying, impersonally:
“They’re up to their devil’s tricks early in the game. They don’t care for foulin’ in this Derby.”
Some man alongside answered, with a sneer:
“I guess they’ll fix Blaisdell’s kid-glove jock to-day. I see his finish. The other boys will see to him, all right—his uppishness.”
Halloran, letting fall the glasses from his face, grabbed the strap, turned on the speaker like a tiger, and said in a tone of deepest menace:
“Ye know me, Cantrell. Another word the like av that, an’ I’ll brain ye right in the presence of his riverence, here. Don’t forget that little jock is a friend av him an’ av me.”
The man was silent.
“Watch yerself, Nowell,” the big fellow cautioned, as if the jockey was in earshot. “It’s all right in the straight. Watch yourself on the last turn for home; it’s there they’ll try to do the dirty work.”