“It's a false start,” said Crane, quietly, turning toward the girl. “It would have been well for you, Miss Allis, had the starter let them go. Lucretia was well out in the lead; it was Diablo's fault, too, that they had to go back—he was left standing.”
Crane's voice was Fate's voice. Would there never be anything but Lucretia and Diablo, seven and thirteen, thirteen and seven?
“Diablo's a bad horse at the post, sure,” ejaculated Crane, letting his field glass rest for an instant on his knee; “he just backs up and shakes his head viciously; evidently he doesn't like the idea of so much company.”
“How is Lucretia acting, Mr. Crane?”
“Perfectly. You must have instilled some of your own patience into her.”
The girl hardly heard the implied compliment.
Would the patience be rewarded? Or would thirteen, that was symbolical of evil, and its bearer, Diablo, who was an agent of evil, together snatch from her this prize that meant so much? It was strange that she should not think of the other horses at all. It was as though there were but two in the race—Lucretia and Diablo—and yet they were both outsiders.
“The Starter is having a bad time of it; that makes six false breaks,” said Allis's companion; “it will end by his losing patience with the boys, I fear, and let them go with something off in a long lead. But they say this Fitzpatrick is a cool hand, and gives no man the best of it. He'll probably fine Diablo's rider a hundred dollars; I believe it's customary to do that when a jockey persistently refuses to come up with his horses. Just look at that!—the black fiend has lashed out and nearly crippled something.”
“Not Lucretia, Mr. Crane!” gasped Allis.
“No, it's a chestnut—there they go! Good boy, Westley. I mean Diablo's jockey has done a fiendish clever thing. He came through his horses on the jump, carried them off their feet, they all broke—yes, the flag's down, and he's out with a clean lead.”