The boy remained silent, thinking over why he was on the Indian. There was a moral obliquity about his present position; the new light of his discovery showed him this strongly. His feelings had been played upon by the owner of the Indian, at Langdon's instigation.
He had been told that the Porters had not given him the mount on Lauzanne because they distrusted him. He had been put on the horse to make running for The Dutchman. There was nothing really patently dishonest about this arrangement, and Redpath's mind had been dulled to fine discrimination by the idea that he was falsely distrusted.
Presently the boy spoke with sharp decision, in quick broken sentences, for they were nearing the Starter. “I'm in to make the running; this crock's got no license to win. Don't you bother about him—he'll come back to the others fast enough when he's done. When you want an opening to get through just come bang into me—I'll be next the rail; yell 'Lauzanne,' an' I'll pull out. I'll give them blasted crooks something to stare at. Don't gallop your mount's head off chasing this sprinter; he'll be beat when we swing into the stretch. Don't go wide at the turn; you can have my place; I'll make it wide for something else though.”
They were at the post. Allis had not spoken; she had listened gratefully to Redpath's string of kindly directions. The presence of a friend in the race cheered her; the discovery she had dreaded had come as a blessing.
XXXVI
Crane's words had started a train of thought in Langdon's mind. All at once he remembered that the face of Lauzanne's rider had a dream-like familiarity. He had not given it much thought before; but his owner's suggestion that the boy was like Alan Porter echoed in his ears. He had wondered where Dixon had got this new boy; why he was putting him up on Lauzanne instead of Redpath; it seemed a foolish thing to give the mount to an apprentice when a good jockey was to be had. Could it be that it really was Alan. The whole family were natural-born jockeys, father and son, even the girl, Allis.
Langdon knew nothing of Alan Porter's movements—had not been interested enough to know. He had heard derogatory remarks about Redpath's riding of Lucretia in the Brooklyn Handicap; the Porters, no doubt dissatisfied—suspicious of the jockey—had put up Alan to insure an honest ride.
Langdon had thought these thoughts as he passed swiftly from the paddock to the stand inclosure, where he stood not far from the rail, trying to get a good look at the lad on Lauzanne. Allis's persistently averted face thwarted this. The boy was inscribed on the jockey board “Al Mayne;” the permit to ride must be under that name. If it were really Alan Porter, why had he been called Mayne? But the boy had retained the name “Al”—that was a contraction of Alan, no doubt.
While Langdon labored over the problem of Mayne's Identity he had watched the horses at the post through his glasses. The Dutchman was behaving well, his trifle of eagerness to break away was even better than Lauzanne's indolent indifference. The other five were acting as three-year-olds are wont to act—with erratic indecision; one minute violent desire, and the next obstinate reluctance characterizing their interminable twistings, backings, and plungings. It was not for long; a neck or a length at the start meant little when a mile and a half stretched its tiring length between them and the finish post.