“Yes, dat's it. I jes' heered it, an' I t'ought it was Larcen. You've got it straight, stranger. Say, are you wise to anyt'in'?”
“Not about the horse; but I know the people—the young lady; and they'll win if they can—that's sure.”
“Dere won't be many dead 'uns in de Derby. First money's good enough fer most of de owners. First horse, I see him gallop like a good 'un. An' I'm a piker; I like a bit of odds fer my stuff.”
Mortimer saw the other occupants of the train moving toward the front end.
“I guess we're dere,” said his companion; “perhaps I'll see you on de course. If you make a break to-day, play Larcen; he'll win. Say, I didn't catch your name.”
“Mortimer.”
“Well, take care of yourself, Mr. Morton. See you later.”
* * * * * * * * * *
In his ignorance of a race meet Mortimer had felt sure he would be able to find Alan Porter without trouble. The true difficulty of his quest soon dawned upon him. Wedged into the pushing, shoving, hurrying crowd, in three minutes he had completely lost himself. A dozen times he rearranged his bearings, taking a certain flight of steps leading up to the grand stand as the base of his peregrinations; a dozen times he returned to this point, having accomplished nothing but complete bewilderment.
He asked questions, but the men he addressed were too busy to bother with him; some did not hear, others stared at him in distrust, and many tendered flippant remarks, such as “Ask a policeman;” “You'll find him in the bar;” “He's gone to Europe.”