Then the shadowy forms twisted up grotesquely, weaving in and out. There were voices of expostulation and strong words of anger; but the new serious business that had materialized had most effectually put a stop to reflections upon the innocent girl who had so unwittingly offended.
“It's George Mortimer—he's in our bank,” Alan confided to his sister, as they moved away. “He's all right—he's strong as a horse; and I bet Crandal'll have a kink in his neck to-morrow, where George pinched him.”
“What was it about?” the girl asked.
“Crandal was jawing about people who own race horses,” the boy answered, evasively. “It's Crandal, the butcher.”
II
It was the May meeting at Morris Park, and Morris Park is the most beautiful race course in all America.
John Porter, walking up the steps of the Grand Stand, heard some one call him by name. Turning his head, he saw it was James Danby, an owner, sitting in his private box. Porter turned into the box, and taking the chair the other pushed toward him, sat down.
“What about Lucretia?” asked Danby, with the air of an established friendship which permitted the asking of such questions.
“She's ready to the minute,” replied Porter.