Down in front a bell was clanging viciously; people were rushing with frenzied haste from the betting ring, and clambering up the steps of the stand; in the stand itself the whole vast mob had risen to its feet, and even now the rolling beat of eager hoofs was in the aid, hushed of the mob's clamor.
Yes, Crane had spoken truly; a great striding black, along whose neck hung close a tiny figure in yellow and red, was leading the oncoming horses. Allis strained her eyes trying to discover the little mare, but she was swallowed up in the struggling mob that hung at Diablo's heels. As they opened a little, swinging around the first turn, Allis caught sight of the white-starred blue jacket. Its wearer was quite fifth or sixth.
“Lucretia is doing well,” said Crane; “she's holding her own; she's lapped on White Moth.”
It seemed strange to Allis that any other thought should come into her mind at that time other than just concern for Lucretia, but she caught herself wondering at Crane's professional words of description. For the time he was changed; the quick brevity of his utterance tokened an interested excitement. He was not at all like the Crane she knew, the cold, collected banker.
“Lucretia's doing better,” her companion added a few seconds later. “If I were given to sentiment, I should say her gallop was the poetry of motion. She deserves to win. But honestly, Miss Allis, I think she'll never catch the Black; he's running like a good horse.”
Allis could not answer; the strain was too great for words. It would be all over in a minute or so; then she would talk.
“Your mare is creeping up, Miss Allis; she's second to the Black now, and they've still a good three furlongs to go. You may win yet. It takes a good horse to make all his own running for a mile and a quarter and then in. His light weight may land him first past the post. There are only four in it now, the rest are beaten off, sure. Diablo is still in the lead; White Moth and Lucretia are a length back; and The King is next, running strong. It's the same into the stretch. Now the boys are riding; Lucretia is drawing away from White Moth—she's pressing Diablo. You'll win yet!”
His voice was drowned by the clamor that went up from every side. “Diablo! White Moth! Lucretia!” What a babel of yells! “He's beat! Come on!” It was deafening. All the conjecture of months, all the hopes and fears of thousands, compressed into a few brief seconds of struggling endeavor.
Allis had sat down. There was less frenzied excitement thus.
“God of Justice!” it was Crane's voice, close to her ear; his hot breath was on her cheek; he had leaned down, so that she might hear him. “Your jockey has sold you, or else Lucretia quit. I thought I saw him pull her off. I'm sorry, Miss Allis, God knows I am, though I've won—for Diablo is winning easily.” Then he straightened up for an instant, only to bend down again and say, “Yes, Diablo has won, and Lucretia is beaten off. Perhaps it wasn't the boy, after all, for it's a long journey for a three-year-old mare. Can I do anything for you? Let me see you down to the paddock.”