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It might be a miracle, but it was his duty to obey. As he galloped, Carter edged Lucretia to the right. Without looking back he could feel Lauzanne creeping up between him and Diablo. Soon the Chestnut's head showed past his elbow, and they were both lapped on the Black. Halfway up the stretch Allis was riding stirrup to stirrup with her father. Porter's weight was telling on Diablo.
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. "The impatient lady is my trainer's sister," he explained in a modulated tone to Allis. "A trainer is quite an autocrat, I assure you, and one must be very careful not to forget any of the obvious courtesies."
After his first burst of aboriginal glee, ecstatically uncouth as it was, Old Bill's joy over the victory of Lauzanne took on a milder form of expression. "Let's line up fer a cash-in," he exclaimed to Mortimer, making a break down the steps to the lawn. On the ground he stopped, his mind working at fever heat, changing its methods quickly.
Here was speed, and with such stride strong, and straight, and true! Low she crouched, and her call to Lauzanne was but a joyous whisper. Her small hands were framed in steel, strength to steady the big Chestnut as he swung round the course glued to the rail. On Lauzanne sped, and to the rhythm of his big heaving quarters the girl's soul sang a song of delight.
There was a long-drawnout baritone, "Oh-h!" then, in the same key, "I knew Lauzanne was a sluggard, and couldn't make out why he was so frisky to-day." "Dick's got it down fine" just audibly from the woman; "Lauzanne'll try right enough this time out." "The mare's actin' as if she'd a cup of tea, too," muttered her companion, Ned. This elicited a dry chuckle from the woman.
His practiced eye had summed up Lauzanne as chicken-hearted; the sweat was running in little streams down the big Chestnut's legs, and dripping from his belly into the drinking earth spit-spit, drip-drip; his head was high held in nervous apprehension; his lips twitched, his flanks trembled like wind-distressed water, and the white of his eye was showing ominously.
His racing is what might be called indiscriminate, and like men of that class he sometimes blunders upon a good horse without knowing it; and I doubt very much but that if he knew all about the other race how bad Lauzanne really is; how the mare, Lucretia well got shut off, and couldn't get through her horses, say of course his own trainer, Smith, would have to tell these things, you understand.
"You had better make a book to beat Lauzanne," Crane said to Jakey Faust, just before business had commenced in the ring that afternoon. The Cherub stared in astonishment; his eyes opened wide. That was nearly the limit of his fat little face's expression, no matter what the occasion. "You don't own him now, do you, sir?" he blurted out, with unthinking candor. "I do not."
Deep-throated howls from full-chested wolves: "Come on you, Lauzanne! On, Westley, on! The Bay wins! The Dutchman The Dutchman for a thousand!" "I'll take " But the new voice was stilled into nothingness by the shrill, reawakening falsetto. "Go on, Westley! Lauzanne wins wins wins!" it seemed to repeat. Allis sank back into her seat. She knew it was all over.
She's in a couple of stakes at Gravesend and Sheepshead, and we'll just fit her into the softest spot." "What about Lauzanne?" asked the Trainer, "I'm afraid he's a bad horse." "How is he doing?" "He's stale. He's a bad doer doesn't clean up his oats, an' mopes." "I guess that killing finish with The Dutchman took the life out of him.
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