“That's why he choked the butcher the night of the concert—I mean—”
“You're talking nonsense, Alan.”
“I'm not, I know when a man's interested. Hello. Blest if the Boss isn't coming this way—there's Crane. See, Allis? I've a notion to tell him that his trainer is a crook.”
“No, you won't, Alan—you're too young to gabble.”
Philip Crane had evidently intended going higher up in the stand, but his eye lighting on the brother and sister, he stopped, and turned in to where they were sitting.
“Good afternoon, Miss Porter.”
Allis started. Was the stand possessed of unpleasant voices? There was a metallic ring in Crane's voice that affected her disagreeably. He was almost a stranger to her; she hardly remembered ever having spoken to him.
He turned and nodded pleasantly to Alan, saying, “May I take this seat? I'm tired. The Cashier let you oft for the day, eh?” he continued. “Came up to see your father's mare run, I suppose—I'm deuced sorry she was beaten.”
“What are they waiting for—why have they taken the horses' numbers down again? Are they trying to steal the race from Lauzanne now?” It was the woman's voice behind them, petulantly exclaiming.
Crane turned in his seat, looked over his shoulder, and raised his hat.