A little smothered gasp distracted his momentary thought of success, and, turning quickly, he saw tears in a pair of gray eyes that were set in a smiling face.
“Like a babe on his neck I was sobbing,” came back to Crane out of the poem Allis had recited.
“I congratulate you, Miss Porter,” he said, raising his hat. Then he turned, and held out his hand to her father, saying: “I'm glad you've won, Porter—I thought you would. The Dutchman quit when he was pinched.”
“It wasn't the colt's fault—he was short,” said Porter. “I shouldn't like to have horses in that man's stable—he's too good a trainer for me.”
There was a marked emphasis on Porter's words; he was trying to give Crane a friendly hint.
“You mean it's a case of strawberries?” questioned Crane.
“Well I know it takes a lot of candles to find a lost quarter,” remarked Porter, somewhat ambiguously. Then he added, “I must go down to thank Dixon; I guess this is his annual day for smiling.”
“I'm coming, too, father,” said Allis; “I want to thank Lucretia, and give her a kiss, brave little sweetheart.”
After Allis and her father had left Crane, he sat for a minute or two waiting for the crowd of people that blocked the passageway after each race to filter down on the lawn. The way seemed clearer presently, and Crane fell in behind a knot of loud-talking men. The two of large proportions who had sat behind Allis, were like huge gate posts jammed there in the narrow way. As he moved along slowly he presently had knowledge of a presence at his side—a familiar presence. Raising his eyes from a contemplation of the heels in front of him, he saw Belle Langdon. She nodded with patronizing freedom.
“I lost you,” she said.