Mortimer yielded to the tattered one's command, for without his guidance he never would be able to find the man that held the money.
“I'll be back in a little while,” he said to young Porter; “don't go away.”
There was delay over the cashing in; being late, they found a line of Lauzanne men in front of them at the bookmaker's stand.
When Mortimer returned to the lawn with eleven hundred dollars in his pocket Alan Porter had gone. He had dreaded that perhaps the boy might do something desperate, fearing discovery of the theft; he had thought even of taking Alan back to Brookfield with him; however, he had told him that the money would be replaced, the boy would understand that nothing could happen him and would go back, Mortimer felt sure. He spent a short time searching for Alan, but his former fruitless quest had shown him the hopelessness of trying to find a person in that immense throng. He thought kindly of the enveloping mob that had kept him hidden from Allis, as he thought. He had feared to meet her—something in his presence might cause her to suspect that something was wrong. The whole episode was like a fairy dream. It was a queer twist of Fate's web, his winning enough over Lauzanne—he, a man who had never betted in his life—to replace the money the brother had stolen.
All at once it occurred to him that some reward was due the instigator of his success. The thousand he must keep intact. He had a few loose dollars in his pocket beyond his original hundred, quite sufficient to take him back to Brookfield. Taking the hundred from his pocket and turning to Old Bill, who was still with him, he said: “I'm going home, I've had enough horse racing for one day; you've done me a great kindness—will you take this hundred—I need the thousand badly, so can't spare more than this.”
“Not on yer life, pard. I give you de tip first, but you got de office straight from Irish, an' we're quits, see? I wasn't playin' you fer a sucker, an' yer straight goods. Jes' shove de boodle in yer breast pocket, an' don't show it to no one. Dere's some here as would take it off you quick enough.”
“But—”
“Dere ain't no buts in dis game—it's a straight deal, an' we've split even. If you'd been a crook, well, God knows how we'd a-panned out. But you ain't no geezer of dat sort—yer square, an' Old Bill wishes you good luck till de robins nest again. Yer goin', eh? Say, pard, I'd a-been wearin' diamon's if I could quit when I was 'head of de game. Yer dead onto it. Here's my hand, Mr. Morton.”
“Mortimer—George Mortimer.”
“Well, shake, George. Where do you hang out?”