The Chestnut was a slow beginner; that was a trait which even Allis's seductive handling had failed to eradicate.
When the starter sent Lauzanne off trailing behind the other seven runners in the race that afternoon, Redpath made a faint essay, experimentally, to hold to Allis's orders, by patiently nestling over the Chestnut's strong withers in a vain hope that his mount would speedily seek to overtake the leaders. But evidently Lauzanne had no such intention; he seemed quite satisfied with things as they were. That the horses galloping so frantically in front interested him slightly was evidenced by his cocked ears; but beyond that he might as well have been the starter's hack bringing that gentleman along placidly in the rear.
“Just as I thought,” muttered the boy; “this skate's kiddin' me just as he does the gal. He's a lazy brute—it's the bud he wants.”
Convinced that he was right, and that his orders were all wrong, the jockey asserted himself. He proceeded to ride Lauzanne most energetically.
In the horse's mind this sort of thing was associated with unlimited punishment. It had always been that way in his two-year-old days; first, the general hustle—small legs and arms working with concentric swing; then the impatient admonishment of fierce-jabbing spurs; and finally the welt-raising cut of a vicious, unreasoning whip. It was not a pleasurable prospect; and at the first shake-up, Lauzanne pictured it coming. All thoughts of overtaking the horses in front fled from his mind; it was the dreaded punishment that interested him most; figuratively, he humped his back against the anticipated onslaught.
Redpath felt the unmistakable sign of his horse sulking; and he promptly had recourse to the jockey's usual argument.
Sitting in the stand Allis saw, with a cry of dismay, Redpath's whip-hand go up. That Lauzanne had been trailing six lengths behind the others had not bothered her in the slightest—it was his true method; his work would be done in the stretch when the others were tiring, if at all.
“If the boy will only sit still—only have patience,” she had been saying to herself, just before she saw the flash of a whip in the sunlight; and then she just moaned. “It's all over; we are beaten again. Everything is against us—everybody is against us,” she cried, bitterly; “will good fortune never come father's way?”
By the time the horses had swung into the stretch, and Lauzanne had not in the slightest improved his position, it dawned upon Redpath that his efforts were productive of no good, so he desisted. But his move had cost the Porters whatever chance they might have had. Left to himself, Lauzanne undertook an investigating gallop on his own account. Too much ground had been lost to be made up at that late stage, but he came up the straight in gallant style, wearing down the leaders until he finished close up among the unplaced horses.
Allis allowed no word of reproach to escape her when Redpath spoke of Lauzanne's sulky temper. It would do no good—it would be like crying over spilt milk. The boy was to ride Lucretia in the Derby; he was on good terms with the mare; and to chide him for the ride on Lauzanne would but destroy his confidence in himself for the other race.