A hopeless air of utter defeat came into the thin, sharp face. Its owner had been searching for a simile. He wanted to point a moral and he couldn't find it. The young man at his elbow was too immaculate. He tried to explain: “Racin's like any other locoed t'ing—it's like tobacco, or drink, or stealin' money out of a bank—”
Mortimer shivered. He had felt a moral superiority in denying the implied bad habits.
“It's like any of 'em,” continued the ragged philosopher; “a guy starts simply as a kid, an' he gets de t'row-down. He takes a bracer at himself, and swears he'll give it de go-by, but he can't—not on your life.”
Mortimer had read much about confidence men, and half expected that his self-imposed acquaintance would try to borrow money, but he was disillusionized presently.
“But de ring ain't broke Ole Bill yet. I'll clean up a t'ousand to-day—say, I like your mug; you ain't no stiff, or I miss my guess, an' I'll put you, next a good t'ing, damme if I don't, an' you don't need to divvy up, neither. Dere's a chestnut runnin' in de Derby what dey call Larcen, an' I'm goin' to plank down a hun'red chicks on him.”
He detected a look of incredulous unbelief in Mortimer's face, evidently, for he added, “You t'ink I ain't got no dough, eh?” He dug down into the folds of his somewhat voluminous “pants” and drew forth a fair-sized roll. “See? That wad goes to Larcen straight. I see him do a gallop good enough for my stuf; but dey got a stable-boy on him, an' dat's why he'll be ten to one. But dat don't cut no ice wit' me. He'll be out for de goods; it's a gal owns him, an' dere'll be nut'in' doin'. Gal's name's Porter.”
Again Mortimer started. What a little world it was, to be sure! Even here on the ferry boat, crowded with men of unchristian aspect, he heard the name of the woman he loved, and standing symbolical of honesty.
“What's the name of this—this horse?” he asked.
“Larcen.”
“Do you mean Lauzanne?”