Thoroughbreds

by William Alexander Fraser

Then a clear, soft girlish voice, with just a tremble of apprehensive nervousness, giving it a lilt like a robin's, said:—

THE RUN OF CRUSADER
I
Full weight they had given the gallant big Black—a hundred
and sixty he carried;
And the run for the “Hunt Cup” was over three miles, with
mud-wall and water-jump studded.
The best racing days of the old horse were past—there'd
never been better nor braver
But now once again he must carry the silk I was needing the
help of Crusader.
Could he win at the weight, I whisperingly asked, as I
cinched up the saddle girt' tight;
He snuggled my hand as I gathered the rein, and I laughed
when they talked of defeat.
To the call of the bugle I swung to his back—like a rock was
the strength of his quarters.
At sight of the people he arched his lean neck, and they,
cheered for my King of all Hunters.
II
Ten horses would strive for the prize—a big field, and the
pace would be killing.
From the West came Sweet Silver, a gray, gallant, and
fearless in jumping.
A rakish old nag who walked over the sticks, had been sent
for the Cup from Kentucky;
On a bay, Little Jack, who was fast, they had put but a
hundred and thirty.
But I knew that North Star, a big brown—even the Black was
no gamer-
With a pull of ten pounds in the weight, was almost a match
for Crusader.
We made a brave troop, long-striding and strong, with the
pick of cross-country riders,
As we filed past the Stand in stately parade, with its
thousands of eager admirers,
And down to the turn on the lower far side, where a red flag
was flicking the sunlight;
For twice we must circle the green-swarded field, and finish
close under the paddock.
III
Just once we lined up; then down cut the flag, and “Go!”
hoarse-voiced the Starter;
And the thunder of hoofs, and the clanking of bits, made
music to me on Crusader.
Quick to the front, like a deer, sped a mare, a chestnut,
making the running;
But I steadied my mount, and took him far back—with his
weight he would need all my nursing.
They took the first hedge like sheep in a bunch, bit to bit,
and stirrups a-jingle;
And so past the Stand to the broad water-jump, where three
went down, in a tangle.
I trailed at the heels of the Silver Gray—but Crusader was
begging for halter
And flew the wide ditch with the swoop of a bird, and on
again, lapped on his quarter.
Then over the Liverpool, racing like mad,—where Sweet
Silver fell fighting for lead,
And his rider lay crushed, white-faced to the sky; and to
miss him Crusader jumped wide.
IV
At the bank something struck, and a cloud of white dust hid
the wall as though it were shrouded;
But the big gallant Black took off with a swing—full thirty
feet ere we had landed.
As we rounded the turn I could see Little Jack go up to the
mare that was leading;
Then I let out a wrap, and quickened my pace, to work clear
of those that were tiring.
Once again past the Stand we drove at the ditch that some
would never get over;
And a cheer shook the air as the Bay landed safe; with the
mare on her back in the water.
Then over went North Star—though he pecked, and nearly
emptied his saddle.
As I lifted the Black at his heels, he frothed the Brown's
flank with his nozzle.
V
Then down the back stretch, o'er hedge and o'er bank, we
three were racing together;
Till at the next rail the Bay jostled the Brown, and
riderless crashed through the timber.
So we rounded the turn, and into the straight—North Star's
lean flank we were lapping
But we shot to the front when I gave the Black head, and I
saw that the other was stopping.
We raced as one horse at the very last hedge—just a nose in
front was Crusader;
I felt the big Brown bump twice at my side, and knew he was
ready to blunder.
With stirrups a-ding, empty-saddled the Bay, stride for
stride, galloped and floundered.
Just missing his swerve, I called on the Black, and drew out
as he bravely responded.
VI
Just the last jump! and Crusader took off twenty feet from
the brush-covered timber.
Then the Bay jumped—too short for his stride—and fell,
with his head on my wither.
Down, down! almost to earth,—brought to his knees in the
struggle,
The Black lost a length, the Brown forged ahead, and I was
half out of the saddle.
How I sat down and rode! how the old horse strove! and the
Brown rolling tired in his gallop.
On, gallant Black! on, my brave pet! We were almost under
the paddock.
Then we nosed the Brown's dank; then we reached to his girt';
neck and neck I rode at his shoulder.
As we flashed past the post I had won by a head. How they
cheered, “Bravo, Crusader!”
VII
But Crusader stopped short; gave a sigh and fell dead; I
stood all alone in the winning.
And a hush came over the clamorous mob; like a babe on his
neck I was sobbing.
He had run his last race; game to the end, his brave heart
broke in the striving.

The girl's voice faltered and died away to a broken whisper as she told of the death of Crusader. For a full minute there was a noiseless hush. The full pathos of the gallant horse's striving had crept into the hearts that were flesh and blood; and, carried away by their feelings, the people had forgotten all about their tortured convictions of the sinfulness of making a horse go faster than a sharp trot. Gradually into their awakening senses stole a conviction that somehow they were countenancing the sin of racing.

Before the complete horror of the situation had mastered the audience, a strong pair of hands, far back in the church, came together with an explosive clap. Like the rat-rat-tat of a quick-firing gun was the appreciative volley of recognition from the solitary applauder. It went rolling and crackling through the church defiantly, derisively, appreciatively. Halfway up the aisle a softer pair of hands touched the rattle with what sounded like a faint echo; then there was sudden silence. The entire audience turned and looked disparagingly, discouragingly, at the man who had figuratively risen as a champion of the scandalous recitation. Resentment had taken hold of the good Christians. That Crusader had enlisted their sympathies for a few minutes showed the dangerous subtlety of this “horseracin' business.”

The rest of the programme might just as well have been eliminated; the concert, as a concert, would be discussed for all time to come as having projected “The Death of Crusader.”

The people flowed from the church full of an expressive contentiousness, seeking by exuberant condemnation of the sacrilege to square themselves somehow with their consciences for the brief backsliding.

Where the church path turned into the road a group of men had drawn together, attracted by the magnet of discussion. They quite blocked the pathway, oblivious to everything but their outraged feelings. Like a great dark blotch in the night the group stood; and presently two slight gray shadows slipping up the path, coming to the human barricade, stopped, wavered, and circled out on the grass to pass. The shadows were Allis Porter and her brother Alan.

One of the men, overfilled with his exceeding wrath, seeing the girl, gave expression to a most unchristian opinion of her modesty. The sharp ears of the boy heard the words of the man of harsh instinct, and his face flushed hot with resentment. He half turned, bitter reproach rising to his lips. How could men be so brutish? How could they be so base? To speak ill of his sister Allis, who was just the purest, sweetest little woman that ever lived—too brave and true to be anything else but good!

As he turned he saw something that checked his futile anger. A tall shadow that had come up the path behind them stretched out an arm, and he heard the vilifier's words gurgle and die away, as one of the strong hands that had beat the tattoo of approbation clutched him by the throat. The boy would have rushed to the assistance of this executive friend if the girl had not clasped his arm in detention.

“It's Mortimer!” he cried, as a voice from the strong-armed figure cut the night air with sharp decision.