Читать книгу Thoroughbreds - William Alexander Fraser - Страница 3
I
ОглавлениеLess than a hundred miles from the city of Gotham, across broad green fields, dotted into squares and oblong valleys by full-leafed maple, and elm, and mulberry, was the village of Brookfield. A hundred years of expansion in the surrounding land had acted inversely with the little hamlet, and had pinched it into a hermitical isolation.
The Brookfieldians had discovered a huge beetle in the amber of their serene existence; it was really the Reverend Dolman who had unearthed the monster. The beetle in the amber was horse racing, and the prime offender, practically the sole culprit, was John Porter.
By an inconsistent twist of fate he was known as Honest John. His father before him had raced in old Kentucky to considerable purpose, and with the full vigor of a man who races for sport; and so to the son John, in consequence, had come little beyond a not-to-be-eradicated love of thoroughbreds. To race squarely, honestly, and to the glory of high-couraged horses was to him as much a matter of religion as the consistent guardianship of parish morals was to the Reverend George Dolman. Therefore, two men of strong beliefs were set on opposite sides of the fence.
Even in the Porter household, which was at Ringwood Farm, was divided allegiance. Mrs. Porter was possessed of an abhorrent detestation of horse racing; also an assertive Christianity. The daughter, Allison, had inherited the horse taint. The swinging gallop of a striving horse was to her the obliteration of everything but sunshine, and the smile of fields, and the blur of swift-gliding hedges, and the driving perfume of clover-laden winds that passed strong into spread nostrils. For Alan Porter, the son, there were columns of figures and musty-smelling bundles of tattered paper money where he clerked in the bank. There had been great unison in the Porter household over the placing of Alan. In addition to horse lore, John Porter was a fair judge of human nature, and, beyond doubt, there was a streak of velvet in Alan which would have twisted easily in the compressive grip of the race course.
The Porter family were not the only dwellers of Brookfield who took part in racing. Philip Crane, the banker, wandering from the respectable highway of finance, had allowed himself to become interested in race horses. But this fact was all but unknown in Brookfield, so the full resentment of the place was effusively tendered to John Porter.
In his younger days some money had come to Philip Crane. The gambler spirit, that was his of inheritance, had an instinctive truth as allied to finance; but, unfortunately for Philip Crane, chance and a speculative restlessness led him amongst men who commenced with the sport of kings. With acute precipitancy he was separated from the currency that had come to him. The process was so rapid that his racing experience was of little avail as an asset, so he committed the first great wise act of his life-turned his back upon the race course and marched into finance, so strongly, so persistently, that at forty he was wealthy and the banker of Brookfield.
Twenty years of deliberate reminiscence convinced him that he could gratify the desire that had been his in those immature days, and possibly work out a paying revenge. Thus it was that he had got together a small stable of useful horses; and, of far greater moment, secured a clever trainer, Dick Langdon.
Crane's latter-day racing had been successful—he made money at it. No man was ever more naturally endowed to succeed on the turf than was Banker Philip Crane. Cold, passionless, more given to deep concentrated thought than expression, holding silence as a golden gift—even as a gift of rare rubies—nothing drew from him an unguarded word, no sudden turmoil quivered his nerve. It was characteristic of the man that he had waited nearly twenty years to resume racing, which really came as near to being a passion with him as was possible for anything to be. There is a saying in England that it takes two years of preparation to win a big handicap; and these were the lines upon which Philip Crane, by instinctive adaptation, worked.
Quite by chance Dick Langdon had come into his hands over a matter of borrowed money. It ended by the banker virtually owning every horse that raced in the trainer's name. In addition, two or three horses ran in Philip Crane's own name. If there had been any distinctive project in the scheme of creation that gave Dick Langdon to the world, it probably was that he might serve as the useful tool of a subtle thinker. Now it did seem that Langdon had come into his own—that he had found his predestined master.
John Porter had not been successful; ill fortune had set in, and there was always something going wrong. Horses would break down, or get beaten by accident—there was always something. The steady financial drain had progressed even to an encumbrance on Ringwood.
Ringwood was simply a training farm, located close to an old disused race course, for there had been no racing in Brookfield for years.
* * * * * *
Inadvertently the Reverend Mr. Dolman had intensified the strained relationship that existed between the good people who frowned upon all racing endeavor and those who saw but little sinfulness in John Porter's way of life.
The church was in debt—everything in Brookfield was, except the town pump. The pastor was a nervous, zealous worker, and it occurred to him that a concert might lighten the financial load. The idea was not alarmingly original, and the carrying out of it was on conventional lines: local volunteer talent, and a strong appeal to the people of Brookfield for their patronage.
The concert in the little old clap-boarded church, it's sides faded and blistered by many seasons of tempest and scorching sun, was an unqualified success up to the fifth number. Nothing could have been more successful, or even evoked greater applause, than the fourth effort, “Anchored,” as rendered by the village pride in the matter of baritone singing; even De Reszke never experienced a more genuine triumph. The applause gradually fell away, and programmes were consulted preparatory to a correct readiness for the fifth offering. The programmes confided that “The Death of Crusader,” by Miss Allis Porter, was the next item.
In the front row of seats a prim little body, full of a severe quaintness in every quirk of dress, tilted her head toward a neighbor, and whispered, “It's that racin' gal of John Porter's.”
The neighbor answered in a creak meant for a whisper: “I'm right glad she's took to religion for onct, an' is givin' us somethin' about them Crusaders. They was in Palestine, you know. She's been away to boardin' school all winter, an' I guess it'll be a high-falutin' account of the war.”
The quaint little old lady jerked her head up and down with decisive bobbiness. On the third upward bob her eyes opened wide in astonishment—a small, slim figure in a glaring red coat stood in the center of the improvised platform.
From beneath the coat fell away in long graceful lines a black riding skirt; a dark oval face, set with large wondrous gray eyes—the Porter eyes—confronted the quaint little old lady.
“That's the Porter gal,” her neighbor squeaked; “I've seen her a-top them race horses more'n a hundred times. My! you'd think butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, she's that prim now.”
“The coat would melt it,” commented the quaint one.
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.
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.”
