“Let's line up fer a cash-in,” he exclaimed to Mortimer, making a break down the steps to the lawn. On the ground he stopped, his mind working at fever heat, changing its methods quickly.
“Let's wait till de kid's passed de scales; dere's no hurry. Dere won't be many drawin' down money over Larcen; he's an outsider.”
They were still waiting when the rumor of an objection floated like an impalpable shadow of evil through the enclosure. Old Bill's seamed face shed its mask of juvenile hilarity, and furrowed back into its normal condition of disgruntled bitterness. He had seen the slight mix-up when the Indian swerved in the straight. The objection must have to do with that, he thought. “What th' 'ell's th, difference,” he said in fierce, imprecating anger; “de kid on Larcen didn't do no interferin', he jes come t'rough de openin' an' won-dey can't disqualify him.”
“What does it mean?” asked Mortimer; “what's wrong?”
“De push's tryin' to steal de race; de favorite's beat, an' it's win, tie, or wrangle wit' 'em. If dey take de race away from Larcen we don't get de goods, see? Our t'ou's up de spout. Dere he goes, dere he goes; look at de knocker,” as Langdon came down from the Stewards.
Mortimer's heart sank. An exultation such as he had never experienced in his life had flushed his breast hot; the back of his scalp had tickled in a creepy way as Lauzanne flashed first past the winning post. He had felt pride in the horse, in the boy on his back, in himself at having overcome his scruples; he would be able to save Alan Porter from dishonor. His heart had warmed to the tattered outcast at his side, who had been the means to this glorious end. It had been all over, accomplished; now it was again thrust back into the scales, where it dangled as insecure as ever. It wasn't the money alone that teetered in the balance, but the honor of Allis Porter's brother.
He gave a sharp cry of astonishment, for going up the steps in front of them was the boy himself, Alan. Presently he came down again, his face looking drawn and perplexed. In his ignorance of everything pertaining to racing Mortimer feared for an instant the theft of the thousand dollars had been discovered, and the present inquiry had something to do with that, else why was Alan mixed up in it.
As the boy came through the little gate Mortimer accosted him. “Hello, Alan!” he exclaimed, very gently, “what's the trouble?”
“Just a silly mistake,” answered Porter, a weak laugh following his words; “Langdon has claimed that I rode Lauzanne.”
“Is dat it?” interposed Old Bill; “an' did you tell dem dey was wrong-de stiffs! Dere's cutt'roat Langdon up again; here he comes back, looking as tough he'd been fired fer splint—de crook! Hello! it's all right Hoo-ray! Lauzanne gits de race!” For already the cry of “All right!” was ringing through the betting ring. “Come on, pard,” called Old Bill, eagerly, to Mortimer; “let's go an' rake down de dough.”